Chapter 7

SEVEN

If they could find Ty Bowman, Jack could stop overreacting.

He sat nursing his coffee at the table in Doyle’s kitchen in dawn’s early light, trying to get his brain to stop whirring on the what-ifs. Most of them about Penelope.

No, most of them about Harper. Like, what if he’d kissed her, last night on the dance floor? That one took up most of the room in his brain, forbidden, delicious, terrifying?—

And too easily, he could find himself dragging up the past, the kiss on the beach so long ago, her long hair woven through his fingers, the smell of the ocean on her skin.

He’d spent years tucking away that memory, and yet it roused, unblemished and vivid in his brain, as if it had been waiting to ambush him.

Better to focus on her quiet disappointment at seeing the dark Bowman house last night. Mrs. Bowman had vanished. Maybe she’d gone to the store, although they’d sat outside for a good hour waiting for her before giving up and returning to Doyle’s to grab pizza with the rest of the wedding party.

Harper had said nearly nothing, and he hadn’t known what to say except a lame “We’ll find her” as she escaped upstairs.

The others stayed up late to play a game of Mexican Train.

He’d retired, too, to the bedroom he shared with Steinbeck, and had lain on the bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the Penny for Your Thoughts podcast.

He’d fallen asleep too early, halfway through the third installment.

Now, he put his earbuds back in and pushed play on his phone, trying to catch up, hating the way his gut tightened with each episode. Mostly listening to the callers who added their “pennies” at the end of each episode. He thought maybe she taped the callers and played out the armchair detectives’ theories later instead of taking live callers.

Everybody had a thought, each one wilder than the next, and that brought him around to the fact that maybe he was overthinking all of this. What was Occam’s razor? The simplest answer is usually right?

What was the simple answer?

Dawn scattered gold and rose hues over the oak kitchen table, the wooden floor, the white quartz island. Doyle—or rather his dad—had done a decent job of remodeling the old Victorian’s kitchen.

Made a guy nearly want to sell the old bus and settle down in his own planted-in-one-place house.

“You’re up early.”

The words were spoken by Boo—he was finally getting it—coming into the kitchen. She wore flannel pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt, her dark hair crazy around her head.

“Yeah,” he said, lifting his coffee and pressing stop on the podcast on his phone. “Just . . . looking for ideas.”

She opened the fridge and pulled out orange juice. “On Penelope’s podcast?”

He glanced at his phone. Oh, she must have seen his screen. “It’s a place to start.”

She closed the fridge door. “Harper said that she’d gone shopping in Minneapolis. Or maybe to Conrad’s game.” Taking out a glass, she filled it, then braced a hip against the counter. “She told me when she agreed to be a bridesmaid that she would be in and out and not to expect her at all the events. She’s a big-deal podcaster, so . . .” She turned to him. “Should I be worried?”

He had finished his coffee, so he picked up his phone, pocketed it, then walked over and put his coffee mug in the dishwasher. “I’m not sure. Harper says that she contacted her security and that she’s in Minneapolis. And if she told you that she’d be in and out . . . so maybe not.” But he wanted to circle back to Bowman’s this morning, with or without Harper.

Boo stopped him from walking past her with a hand to his arm. “For the record, I never thought you didn’t care.”

Her words made his throat thicken. He nodded. “The last thing I want is for you to get hurt, Boo.”

“I’ve known that my entire life,” she said quietly, the past in her gaze.

His hand covered hers. “Don’t worry. Just focus on your wedding. It’s going to be perfect, I promise.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You don’t have to promise, Jack. But I do appreciate you enacting your super tracking skills on my behalf.”

“Always.” He winked, and she nodded, the word settling, eliciting a smile.

She let go of his arm. “Don’t forget the bachelor party tonight.”

“Right. Where is it?”

“I don’t know—that’s Shep’s deal. But my bridesmaids and I are going to the Lumberjack’s Table for karaoke.”

“I’d rather have toothpicks shoved under my fingernails.”

“That’s a nice word picture.” She added her glass to the dishwasher, grinning. “I’ll need Harper back for spa day this afternoon.”

He had started out of the kitchen, now turned. “What? Harper back?”

She laughed. “Whatever. She’s up, taking a shower. Also listening to Penny for Your Thoughts, by the way.” She gestured to his phone app.

Really. And just like that, a spark lit inside him, that moment last night on the dance floor when she’d tripped. Gotcha.

Sheesh .

It was like one part of his brain simply deleted all the warning sirens blaring in the back of his head to set the other side free to party.

Boo’s smile at him, the shake of her head, lingered as he headed upstairs to shower. Twenty minutes later, he found Harper in the kitchen, finishing off her coffee and a bagel. Of course she smelled fresh and clean, floral, her short hair curly. Her blue eyes sparked with something he couldn’t place as she saw him. She wore a pair of leggings and a white flannel shirt, and he had the craziest urge to call off this morning’s house call and just . . .

What? Hang out by a cozy fire, playing a game of gin rummy?

Yeah, that would be good idea, and would not at all send him back where everything had gone south.

She might not be way too young for him anymore, but she was still Boo’s best friend. And like a sister to the rest of the family.

Besides, three more days and she’d be heading back to Nashville. And he and Aggie had a date with a wrench and his grandfather’s barn and then, maybe, the road.

“Ready to head back to the Bowman place?” She’d gotten up, tossed her remaining coffee into the sink, then loaded her mug into the dishwasher.

“Have you tried calling Penelope again?” He followed Harper as she headed out to the entryway for her jacket.

“Yes. Voicemail.”

Shoot. Still. “Conrad isn’t back yet. Maybe she met him after the game and they went out.”

“Did you call him?” she said, pulling on her UGGs, then winding a scarf around her neck.

“Left a voicemail.” He shrugged on his jacket. “But Steinbeck got in touch with our cousin. He works on a tactical team and they put me in touch with a white-hat hacker named Coco. Ranger texted that Coco said we could drop the phone off with her today—she’d see if she could get into it.”

Harper pulled on her white puffer jacket, then grabbed a hat. “Maybe we should go to the police.”

He had his hand on the door, now glanced at her.

“If Mrs. Bowman isn’t there.”

He sighed. Nodded.

The Geo fought awakening but finally turned over, and he slid the heater on full. The sun had started to thaw the frost gathered on his window. “I should check on Aggie. I was able to limp her into the market’s side lot last night, but I should probably swing by and make sure there are no vandals.”

“Why a schoolie?”

He glanced at her and read her real question in her eyes. “Because I needed something to consume my brain after Sabrina’s death. Fixing up Aggie worked. As did writing the book. And then I answered my first reward posting, and I guess that’s when I dove in. It felt right.”

“Looking for missing people?”

He’d pulled out of the driveway. “Not just missing people. I once answered an ad to find a missing pet goat.”

“A goat.”

“She was the school mascot. Turned out an opposing team had kidnapped her. I was the town hero.”

“The goat rescuer.”

He laughed. Oh boy.

“But I follow up on rewards for information on burglaries and murders, and even hit-and-runs. Things the police are too busy for or have lost leads on.”

“Professional problem solver too.”

“I need to hire you as my PR person.”

“Maybe. But if you do, you’ll have to smile every once in a while. Lose the grump.”

“I’m not a grump. I’m just . . . driven.”

“By what?”

He hadn’t meant to go here. He let her question sit as he turned down Bowman’s road, back through the sleepy cottages under the towering oak trees.

“Jack?”

“Helplessness.” Oh . He hadn’t meant to bark it. But she didn’t recoil.

She nodded, as if she understood.

He glanced at her.

“I’m onto you, Jack. Just so you know.”

What —

“I know that your interest in being a tracker didn’t start after Sabrina.”

“Oh?”

“My dad was on the callout volunteer team when Boo got lost. He said you refused to quit, even when the other searchers had worn themselves out.”

“She’s my sister.”

“Mm-hmm.”

He had pulled up to the Bowman home, with the dark windows. Not a good sign.

“Fine.” He gave her a hard look. “Dad told me to stick with her on the portage. But I didn’t, and she took a wrong turn, and . . . anyway, yes. I couldn’t let go.”

“Just like you couldn’t let Sabrina go.”

He glanced at the dark house. No movement. “It sits inside me, an ember, getting hotter and hotter until I do something.”

“And now?” She, too, looked at the house.

“Now the ember in my gut says we need to go to the cops. But let’s check one more time.” He got out and headed to the door. She followed him.

They stood on the cold step for a good five minutes, leaning on the doorbell.

The police station smelled of burnt coffee and small-town business, with BOLO posters on the bulletin board. BOLO for Daisy, the lost goldendoodle. BOLO for a 1998 Ford Bronco, gone missing from Mattson’s Motors, right off the lot. BOLO for a set of keys with a boat float on them, missing from Echoes Vinyl Café.

Which reminded him. They needed a chat with the barista.

He recognized the deputy who retrieved them from the waiting area. “Jenna Hayes. Since when did you become a cop?” She wore her dark curly hair short, her brown eyes warm as she shook his hand.

He noticed, however, the way the warmth died, a chill entering, as she looked at Harper. Nodded.

“Jenna,” Harper said, her mouth pinched.

Interesting .

They followed Jenna into an open room, to her desk. She pulled up a folding chair and set it beside a straight chair next to her desk. Harper took it as he sat in the other one.

“We’re here because we’re looking for Ty Bowman. He might be missing,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow, folded her arms, leaned back. “Ty Bowman has a history of getting himself in over his head. Some petty theft a few years ago, and then he ran drag races out in the country, Grease style. It became a ring—until a teenager got hurt. And Fish and Game found him night hunting a few years ago. Recently, he was caught fishing out of season. And of course, there’s the drugs.”

“Drugs?”

“We’ve suspected for a while that he uses his Uber operation to transport drugs. We just can’t catch him. He’s probably lying low after grifting someone. What makes you think he’s in trouble?”

“We found—” Harper started.

“Him on camera picking up a friend of ours,” Jack said, glancing at her. Ixnay on the onephay . “But we also can’t get ahold of our friend.”

Jenna glanced at Harper, back to Jack. “Who is this friend?”

“Penelope Pepper.”

“From the Pepper family? Why is she in town?”

“She runs a podcast—she’s here for Bront?’s wedding.”

This seemed to perk Jenna up. “Is Oaken Fox at your place? I love?—”

“Yes,” Harper said. “But he’s not missing.”

Jenna’s mouth made a tight line. Apparently to match Harper’s.

Huh .

“How long has she been gone?”

“Since Tuesday.”

“You should have come to us sooner.” Jenna wiggled her mouse to wake up her computer.

“We weren’t sure she was in trouble. Still aren’t.” He had lowered his voice, but it came out sharper than he wanted.

Jenna considered him. He offered a smile. She sighed. “Let me take some notes.” She pulled up a blank page on her computer. “Okay, so you said Bowman picked her up? When?”

“Tuesday night. Around nine p.m. at the Moonlight Supperclub,” Harper said.

Jack ran down the details of her disappearance, with Harper interjecting as Jenna typed.

“We went to Bowman’s house last night and this morning, but no one is there.”

“Of course not.” A voice sounded behind him, and he looked over to see Sheriff Davidson. He carried a cup of coffee.

Jack stood, extended a hand. Harper smiled at him.

Portly and bald, he was stern and fair. And had been one of the few adults who’d believed a sixteen-year-old kid when he’d given his theory about where a lost Cub Scout might be.

Harper stood and the sheriff nodded to her. “Good to see you, Harper.”

“Sir.”

“How’s your father?”

She seemed to pale at that. “Um. Last I checked, fine.”

Jack frowned, but he turned to the sheriff. “Why ‘of course not’?”

“Ty Bowman is in critical care at the Waconia hospital. Was found in his car, shot in the head, last night. I personally brought his mother to the hospital.”

“Holy cats,” Harper said quietly.

What she said . He turned back to Jenna. “Now can we put a BOLO out on Penelope?”

“Is there any reason to think that she might be in danger?”

He stared at her. “Gunshot to the head?”

“Twenty-four hours after she was picked up. I don’t see the connection, Jack.”

He stared at her, back at Harper.

The sheriff lifted a hand. “Yes. We can put a BOLO out for her. Do you have a picture and a description?”

“I’ve got one,” Harper said and pulled up her phone, handing it to Jenna.

Ten minutes later, they walked out of the station into the blue-skied, frigid day.

Jack couldn’t stop himself. “What’s with the chill between you and Jenna?”

Harper looked at him. “Really?” She reached for the door handle of his Geo. “Jenna is the reason my parents are divorced. She completely wrecked my life.”

* * *

Please don’t ask. Please don’t ask.

But what was the man going to do when she made a statement like that, let it fall between them like an unpulled grenade?

Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut?

She looked out the window as Jack drove them to Waconia, some thirty miles down the road. He made no comment.

“I didn’t realize you were friends,” she said. Whoops .

“We’re not, really. She and Doyle went out for a little while, in college. I saw them on campus at the U a few times. She was pursuing a law degree.”

Oh . She shook her head against her stupid overactive imagination. And really, she had no claim on the man, despite what her heart said.

“How old were you when your parents got divorced?”

“Twelve, but they had years of separations before that. First one was when I was eight.”

“That’s young.”

“Third grade. I still remember watching out my attic window as he drove away.” She sighed. “That time, it was my fault.”

He glanced at her. “It’s never the fault of an eight-year-old child, Harper.”

She said nothing, the words roping inside her.

“What happened? And what does it have to do with Jenna?”

She made a wry face. “Okay, that might have been an oversimplification of the truth. But it felt real at the time.”

“Still does, it seems.”

“Caught that, huh?”

“Hard to miss the cold front. I’m still shivering.” He winked. “For whatever it’s worth, I remember Jenna being a little demanding, according to Doyle.”

“We were never friends. But one day on the school playground?—”

“Oh no. This is a school-playground story?”

“It is, so hold tight and picture in your mind’s eye two eight-year-old girls having a brawl. Over a swing, mind you. I took her swing; she wanted it back.”

“High crimes and misdemeanors.”

“No statute of limitations on that. I might have been a little stubborn. She had small gang with her, and they surrounded me and demanded the swing back. I said no way, and she said she’d punch me in the stomach. And I stared right at her and said, ‘Do it.’”

“I can see that.” He looked over, winked again.

What—? Oh, if he wanted her heart to stop holding on to him, he needed to stop the winking, pronto. And maybe he could tame those curls a little, shave, and stop smelling like some sun-dappled forest.

Made a girl want to get lost just so he’d find her.

Enough.

“Don’t think I was too tough. I was crying at the time. But I refused to move. And I was so scared she’d actually punch me that I got angrier and angrier. I’m not sure who made the first move, me or Jenna, but we were suddenly pulling hair and kicking and pushing and slapping—it was an ugly girl fight.”

“Drama at Duck Lake Elementary.”

“It got worse. They dragged us into the principal’s office and called our parents. Her mom was freshly divorced and my dad came in as my representative, and instead of standing up for me, he said that we both probably needed anger-management counseling.”

“Oh no.”

“Ten weeks of after-school, once-a-week meetings with Jenna as we talked through our feelings and learned how to manage our anger.”

“It didn’t take, I see.”

She laughed. “We didn’t get into any more fights. At least on campus.”

“So, Rocky Balboa, how does your dad leaving fit into this story?”

The way he said it, with the nickname, softened the blow of the question.

Along the highway, the fields glistened under the bright sunlight, the sky a wispy blue. A perfect January day.

Penny, where are you?

“While we met in one room, my dad and Jenna’s mom met in another to learn techniques on how to help us. It turned into coffee, and then one-on-one chats to discuss their wild children. Although I’m not sure they talked at all about us.”

He’d gone quiet, all teasing gone. “I’m so sorry.”

“My mom found out and kicked him out.”

“That’s not on you.” He looked at her. “Or Jenna, really.”

“I know.” She leaned back. “But I was scared. I thought maybe he wanted a different daughter. Jenna was prettier and had better grades—Dad liked good grades—and I thought maybe if I did something amazing, he’d choose me.”

He’d turned off the highway, toward the town of Waconia.

“I don’t love where this is going.”

“All the way to seventh grade when I entered a book-writing contest. First ever in our community, and oh, I wanted to win. Badly.” She drew in a breath. “So I plagiarized a book I’d gotten from the library.”

“That, I didn’t see coming.”

“It got worse when I won. That’s when my mother read the book. She realized quickly that I couldn’t have written the story, got the librarian involved, and they sleuthed it out.”

“Your mother ? Ouch.”

“She wasn’t wrong, but my father was not on board when she went to the principal. They took away the award, gave it to the second-place winner?—”

“Please tell me it wasn’t Jenna.”

“No. Thankfully. But oh, that was the fight that finally ended it. My dad said that Mom should have had more loyalty and grace, and she said he was impossible to trust, and both of them blamed each other for my lack of ethics, and . . . anyway, six months later, they were divorced. My father moved to Minneapolis, then to Arizona with Jenna’s mom, and I really haven’t seen him since.”

Silence beside her. Finally, “So he just . . . ghosted you?”

“Walked away without a word.”

He swallowed, then looked over at her. Another beat, and he turned his gaze back to the road. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

She blinked at him.

“After . . .”

“I know when.”

“Yeah. Well.” He stopped at a light, sighed. “I might have overreacted. At the time . . . I was mortified.”

“I know.” She gave him a sad smile. “I should have told you I was Bee.”

“No. You weren’t Bee. Bee was a twelve-year-old girl who used to camp out in the backyard with Boo and made cookies with my mom and was sort of like a kid sister. You showed up at spring break with your long blonde hair, tan and smart, and any hope of me seeing Bee vanished.” He offered a small, wry smile. “I liked what I saw.”

Everything inside her stilled—her breath, her heart, her regrets. He met her eyes then, something in them that she hadn’t seen . . . well, since that spring break, maybe. A glimpse into the man behind the persona.

The look he’d given her right before he’d kissed her. Desire, curiosity?—

Wait. “Liked.” Past tense .

“Which made finding out you were actually Bee, my kid sister’s best friend, that much worse, of course.”

Of course .

He blinked, and the look vanished. “I never meant to hurt you. I just didn’t know what to do. So I panicked. But I’m . . . I’m sorry I hurt you.”

He just might be breaking her heart all over again. But she wasn’t eighteen with a head full of fairy tales anymore. Somehow she managed to nod.

The light turned green and he turned, the hospital in sight.

Good thing, because she might need resuscitation. Mostly because her brain was caught on . . . liked.

He’d liked her. And sure, his kiss could have told her that, but . . .

But maybe it hadn’t been just a spring fling. Maybe . . .

Oh, no, no. Pay attention to the grammar!

“So, you still went into journalism, despite the debacle?”

Right . They were still catching up. Her heart thumped, finally. “Yeah. Turns out I can write a pretty good story. Without copying it. I entered the contest the next year, under a pen name, and won.”

“Attagirl.”

Aw, and now he’d lit a full-out fire inside her.

“I got a part-time job at the Duck Lake Currents, and that seeded in me a love for story.”

He pulled into the lot and parked. “Here goes nothing.”

Bowman . Girl, get your head in the game.

She followed him into the hospital, and at the desk, they asked about Ty. The receptionist gave them passes to the second-floor ICU waiting room.

Mrs. Bowman sat on a vinyl chair, her eyes closed, clutching her purse, wearing jeans and her boots, a jacket over her like a blanket. Fatigue lined her face.

She roused at their footsteps, blinked and sat up. Her red eyes suggested she’d been crying.

Harper sank into the chair beside her. “Mrs. Bowman. We heard about Ty.”

The woman glanced up at Jack, then at Harper, and her eyes filled. “Oh, he’ll be so glad you’re here.”

Harper looked at Jack, not sure?—

Jack crouched in front of her, his voice soft. “Ma’am. We . . . we found this.” He pulled out the cell phone. Held it up to her.

“That’s Ty’s phone.”

“Yes. And there’s a text frozen on the screen. From you.” He raised an eyebrow.

Her eyes widened. “I didn’t . . . he is . . . I . . .”

“It’s okay,” Harper said. “You’re not in trouble, but we are looking?—”

“Working with the investigation into the shooting,” Jack said. “And we need to ask a few questions in order to find the shooter.”

“I already gave a statement to Sheriff Davidson.”

“I know,” Jack said, nodding. “Would you mind terribly if I asked some follow-up questions? Just to help our search.”

Oh, he was good at this. Not lying, but not letting her think they were rogue, either. She should take notes.

“I guess not.”

Harper got up and went to a vending machine, put in a couple dollars, and returned with coffee.

Jack had taken her chair after swiping the tissue box from a nearby table. He handed Mrs. Bowman a tissue. She blew her nose into it, then took the coffee from Harper.

“We just need to know what you were referring to when you said you weren’t going to lie for him anymore.”

She wiped her eyes with the wadded tissue. “He sometimes does airport runs.”

A beat, and Jack frowned. “What?”

Harper had also expected something more epic.

“Yeah. Airport runs. All the way into Minneapolis.” She shook her head like What a disappointment.

“I don’t understand,” Harper said.

“He’s on probation,” Mrs. Bowman whispered.

“Oh,” Jack said. “I see.”

Harper didn’t see. “What does that have to do with?—”

“He’s not allowed to leave the area without permission.” Mrs. Bowman’s voice contained an edge. Then she held up her hand. “Sorry. He turns off the location on his cell, and that’s usually when he’s out of the area.”

“How do you know he turns off his location?” Jack asked.

“I have a family finder app on my phone. He’s connected. Unless he turns off his location. I saw that he did it on Tuesday night, and I just knew . . . airport run.”

Harper glanced at Jack, whose mouth made a grim line. She could almost read his Dollars to donuts, it wasn’t an airport run he was making to the cities , but she also said nothing.

“This was Tuesday night? What time?”

“About six p.m. I called him a couple times after that, but no answer, so I started to text.” She covered her mouth, shaking. “I had no idea that he was . . . he was . . .”

Jack put his arm around her. Professional nice guy .

“I’m sorry I lied to you.” Mrs. Bowman blew her nose again.

Now Harper crouched in front of her. “When did they find him?”

“Yesterday, maybe around noon? It took them a while to identify him. He didn’t have his wallet. But they ran his plates, and Sheriff Davidson came to get me about five, I think. He was just out of surgery. They have him in a medical coma because he keeps having seizures.” Her eyes filled again.

“Where did they find him?” Jack asked softly.

“Oh. At the Duck Lake boat ramp.”

“What would he have been doing there?” Harper asked.

“He likes to ice-fish and sometimes spends the night out at our fish house, but . . . it’s not on Duck Lake.”

“Your fish house isn’t on Duck Lake?”

“Oh no. We have land on Loon Lake. Used to spend our summers there, at a cabin, when his dad was alive. But the cabin was destroyed in the tornado a few years back and I never rebuilt. He stores the fish house at a boatyard there.” She wiped her eyes. “He so loves to fish.”

Jack nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Bowman.”

“Marjorie.”

He repeated the name, and it elicited a smile. “Can I get your number, in case I have any more questions?”

She rattled it off to him, and he typed it into his phone.

Then he rose. “Can we get you anything?”

Her face hardened. “Just find the person who shot my son.”

Jack nodded, then reached out and pressed a hand to Harper’s shoulder as they walked away. He wore a hint of urgency in his expression.

“What?”

“What she doesn’t know is that you can track a phone’s location even if location services are turned off. Cell phone providers are required by law to track for emergency services. Which means the phone still communicates with nearby towers.”

“Which also means that we’ll be able to figure out where Ty was before he picked up Penelope and the other person in the car.”

“And if he might have picked up someone from the airport.” He got off the lift. “We need to get this to Stein’s hacker friend, Coco. And then we need to start asking—who would want to hurt Penelope?”

The question chilled her through.

He pushed out of the hospital and his phone rang. He pulled it out, answered. “Conrad.” Stopped walking. “What?”

Another pause, and he looked at Harper, held up his hand. “Where are you?”

He started walking—no, jogging—for his Geo. “Okay, stay there. I’m on my way.”

She caught up to him as he unlocked the door. “Where are we going?”

“Sammy’s Bar and Grill, downtown St. Paul.”

“Um, why?” She slid into the car.

He turned the car over, flicked up the heat. “Because Conrad got a voicemail from Penelope. And he needs us to hear it.”

“Can’t he forward it to us?”

“He can. But my cousin Ranger texted me, and he’s set up a meet with this hacker, Coco, in St. Paul.” He turned to her. “Which we need to do ASAP.”

“Why?”

He pulled out. “Conrad thinks she’s in trouble.”