Page 36 of Jack

He stilled. “You googled me.”

Her mouth pinched.

So yes.

“You made my point. I’ll call Bront—ah,Boo—if I hear anything.” He turned to go upstairs, where he shared a room with Conrad, who, yes, had been tucked in bed sleeping when Jack arrived back at the house last night after checking on Aggie.

He’d wanted to spend today getting her towed to the inn. Or at least somewhere that wasn’t the market parking lot. But by the looks of the parking lot at the inn last night, as well as at the Grover, the Norbert, and even the smaller Rudolph House, he’d need to find a place at the market, out of the way.

Of course, Harper wouldn’t leave his dismissal there. She scampered up behind him. “She’s my roommate. My friend. And I’m not going to write an article about searching for her?—”

“Or about me?” He glanced at her. “Even if it could get you clicks?”

“Why would I write an article about you?” She met his gaze.

Her eyes stirred something inside him. He drew in a breath. Maybe she didn’t know. Hadn’t read his book.

Wouldn’t make the recent hiccup in his career into a reason for the media to drag up his mistakes. What he’d been thinking back then still eluded him.

So. “No reason. Just . . .” He shook his head. “I move faster on my own.”

“Not this time. You’re on my dime.” She pushed past him. “I’ll meet you out front in five.” She beelined to her room.

“You didn’t hire me—aw.”

He had four minutes to lose her.

He stalked to his room, grabbed his wallet and phone, brushed his teeth, and then headed downstairs for his boots and jacket.

Whoa, she was fast. Dressed in leggings, a white parka, boots, and a hat, her short hair curling out from the back.

He glanced at her, said nothing, and she waited while he put on his work boots and grabbed his jacket.

Then she followed him out to the Geo, and when he unlocked the car, got into the passenger side.

“Fine. Don’t get in the way. People get jumpy when they see a reporter.”

“I’m her best friend. Not a reporter.”

He sighed and nodded and pulled out into the blue-skied, white-scaped day. “We’ll start at the Moonlight Supperclub. Talk to the manager, maybe any valets that might have been on duty.”

“What about contacting Uber and seeing who might have picked her up?”

“We’d need a warrant. Although, if this turns out to be an actual kidnapping, we’llhaveto contact the police.”

“If?” She looked at him, but he didn’t meet her gaze.

“If.” He turned out of the inn’s drive, down the street, past her parents’ little yellow house. Yes, he knew where she’d lived—had cringed every time he’d driven past it for a couple years after that spring. “You said she’d done this before. A stunt. I was listening to the podcast on the drive up. I know she’s about to announce who she thinks is the killer in the Sarah Livingston case.”

“So?”

“So, what if this is just publicity, to get more attention on the podcast before the big reveal?”

“C’mon. She has a half million listeners. I doubt?—”

“Or a stall technique? What if she doesn’t know . . . and is buying time?”

“She wouldn’t do that.”