Chapter 6

6

DECLAN

“ D etective, you’ve got a visitor,” Deputy Stotland says, passing by my desk.

I look up from the photos of a singed patch of earth in the woods behind the Castillos’ shop. “Who is it?”

Across from me, Bas lets out a low whistle that has me moving my gaze toward him with an arched brow. “That would be Camila.”

I turned in my chair to see the younger Castillo sister talking to the officer at the front desk. She bears a striking resemblance to her sister, but there’s a lightness about her. Camila Castillo appeared delicate and ethereal compared to her sister despite their similar sharp features. She’s wearing a white sweater and jeans, and her hair is pulled back from her face. Where Carolina bore what seemed like a permanent smirk, Camila’s face was lit with a smile.

Camila looked up in my direction as if she could sense my gaze. Holding it for a second longer, she looked back at the officer and pointed in my direction.

I look back at Bas, but he’s busied himself with something on his computer. The heels of her boots click against the floor as she makes her way over to me .

I’m not looking at her as she approaches. Instead, I note how the officers at their desks stare as she passes. Their gazes locked on her movements, but not in admiration. Contempt was the best word to describe their expressions. It was one thing to hear about how much the town despised their presence, but it was another to see it. In any other place, the Castillo sisters might even be coveted for their beauty— and sharp tongue— but not in Grove Meadow. The sisters had the town scared of their shadows.

“Detective Blackwell.” Camila nods, her smile widening ever so slightly. “Nice to see you again.” When Bas doesn’t respond, she looks at me, holding out her hand. “Detective O’Reilly, I’m Camila Castillo. My sister said you stopped by the shop.”

I stand and take her hand in mine. With all the gasps around me, I expect to feel some sort of instantaneous pain, but I don’t feel so much as a static shock.

“I did. Thank you for coming in, Miss Castillo,” I say, sitting back down in my chair and gesturing for her to take a seat.

“Camila, please.” She rifles through the bag tucked under her left arm. “I brought you some samples of our shop’s pastries. Carolina said you didn’t order anything when you came by,” Camila says, pulling out a box and placing it on the edge of my desk. “I hope you like banana bread; it’s our specialty.”

I blink at her. “Miss Castillo–”

“Camila,” she says, pushing the box of sweets toward me.

“Miss Castillo,” I reiterate and move the box to the floor, eliciting a frown from her. “I was at your shop earlier to ask you and your sister a few questions about the disappearances.”

Camila regains her smile as she drops into the seat beside my desk and presses the palms of her hands against her jeans. “ Of course, Detective. That’s why I’m here. I want to help however I can, though I’m not sure how useful I’ll be.”

“I’m so glad to hear that.” I lean forward to pull a file from the corner of my desk and flip it open. “Miss Castillo, how well did you know the victims? Were you friends with any of them?”

She shakes her head slowly. “No, I can’t say I was. When Gemma got back to town, Carolina and I offered for her to host some of her art classes at the shop until she found a studio space.”

Gemma Dawson , 25 . Gemma had recently come back to Grove Meadow after art school and opened a studio in town. She went into her space late one night and never came out. She rents the studio from Hazel Whitman, 42 , who owns a bed-and-breakfast on the outskirts of the town.

“Were you friends with Gemma before she left?” I ask, jotting down Camila’s mention of Gemma in the file’s notes.

“No, Gemma is a few years younger than me. I was the same year as her older sister, Winnie. We didn’t keep in touch once Winnie went to college.”

I nod as I continue writing. “So other than Gemma, no real contact with the other victims: Owen, Miles, Vivian, or Felix?”

Owen Donovan, 32 , town librarian. Miles Kensington, 28, works at the bookstore. Vivian Monroe, 35, event planner. Felix Hayes, 45 , owns the hardware store. They’re all different ages and have no obvious overlap in victimology other than their place of residence.

“No, Detective. I don’t spend a lot of time with the other people in town. Just Carolina.”

Bas lets out a snort from his desk to my left, and I turn to glare at him.

“It’s okay, Detective. Bas is just upset that I know a secret about him.” Camila’s voice carries a teasing lilt, and Bas turns a gnarly shade of green.

As I turn back to Camila, my mouth tips up in an amused half-smile. “Care to share?”

“Oh, no, Detective. That’s between Bas and me.” Her eyes don’t leave his, as if she’s looking at something deeper than the surface.

I hear Bas stand from his chair abruptly. “It’s Detective Blackwell, Castillo . We’re not friends.”

Something akin to satisfaction purses her mouth as she watches Bas storm away.

“Sorry about my partner, Miss Castillo,” I say, leaning back in my chair and tenting my fingers together.

“Camila,” she corrects, directing her gaze back to me.

“Just one last question, Camila.” She nods, encouraging me to continue.

I lean forward again to flip the case file to the back and open it to a series of printed crime scene photos. “If you didn’t talk to Vivian Monroe, why did she have your necklace in her belongings?” I ask, placing the photo of the gold necklace that reads Camila in a scripted font.

Camila’s gaze moves to the photo in the file, and her lips part. Her brows furrow and her hand absently reaches for her neck, which is very clearly missing a necklace.

“I—” she shakes her head slowly, eyes narrowing at the photo. “I don’t know. I didn’t even know it was missing.”

I close the file, and she leans back in her chair, seeming like she just had all the air knocked out of her. Her eyes remain on where the photo had been.

“You didn’t know it was gone?” I ask, my pen hovering over my notepad, poised and ready to take notes…or write down a confession.

“Detective, I don’t know how or why Vivian had that. I…I ke ep that in a jewelry box on my dresser. My grandparents gave that to me, and I haven’t worn it since they passed. I have no idea how long it’s been gone.” Camila’s ever-present smile was no longer on her face. In fact, her baffled frown appeared to be so deeply set into her skin that I wasn’t sure if it would ever reappear.

I set my pen down. “Miss Castillo, I want to believe you. I want to believe that you and your sister have nothing to do with these disappearances, but I need a better answer than ‘I don’t know.’”

She finally looks back at me, her eyes showing nothing but a confused sincerity. “I’m sorry, Detective, but I don’t have one. I truly don’t know why Vivian would have it. She doesn’t come into the shop at all, let alone into our apartment above.”

I stare at her for a beat longer, searching for some sign that she’s hiding something. If she is, it’s not about this. Not from what I can tell.

“Okay, Miss Castillo. If you can think of anything, anything at all,” I grab a business card from the drawer beside me. “Give me a call. Any time of day,” I tell her, passing her the card.

Her fingers shake as she pulls it from my hand. “Sure thing, Detective.” She gives me a tight smile as she stands and turns away from me.

“Oh, Camila?” I say, and I know I’ll regret it later. “Tell your sister I look forward to seeing her again real soon, would you?”

Camila’s lips pull into a thin line, just like her sister’s had earlier when I’d said something she didn’t like. But unlike the elder Castillo sister, she merely nods at me and walks out of the precinct.

Despite the necklace that had been found after my visit to the shop, I didn’t like the sisters for this. It was too coincidental. The necklace had been sitting on Vivian Monroe’s dresser for anyone to see. Her husband hadn’t remembered seeing it there before today, and he didn’t know where she’d gotten it. The clasp hadn’t been broken or replaced because it had the same coloring as the chain, so it wasn’t forcibly removed. The color was beginning to tarnish as if it hadn’t been worn for as long as Camila had implied.

Raking a hand through my hair, I pull up the photos of the scorch marks on my computer again. It was as if something had been in the center, and whatever had happened occurred around it. I’d never seen anything quite like it—a perfect untouched circle.

The disappearances were becoming too frequent, and we didn’t have a single lead. No matter how much the Captain, Bas, and the rest of this town wanted it to be the Castillos, there had to be something we were missing. Something I was missing.