was at home?” She was scribbling notes as she talked. “Where’s his house?”
“On the north side of the island, not far from the lighthouse,” Southby said. “He lives right off the beach.”
“What time was he last seen?”
“Just after two in the morning,” he said.
Harper’s pen stopped moving.
“That was the same time people reported gunshots,” she said. “Do you think that’s connected?”
“Now, hold on.” Southby’s voice grew stern. “Don’t go writing anything about that. We’ve got no evidence that there even were gunshots. We’ve also got no crime scene. No blood was found. No sign of an altercation. All we’ve got is a missing person. His housemates are clear that they saw no intruders and heard nothing suspicious. They didn’t even notice he hadn’t come home until this morning.”
“And they say he walked down to the beach alone at two in the morning?” Harper’s tone was doubtful. “The storm was coming in around then. The winds were pretty high.”
“His friends say he does it all the time. They say he likes to ‘connect to the ocean.’” He sounded more bemused than concerned.
“Does it seem suspicious to you?” Harper pressed. “Rayne’s been getting a lot of press lately. Could it be a kidnapping?”
There was a telltale pause before he responded. “I wouldn’t go on the record with any theories right now. But I will say this much—currents are unpredictable on the north side of the island, especially at this time of year. His friends say he’d been drinking. Drunks make bad swimmers. But, right now, we don’t know if he ever went in the water. The wind blew the sand around all night, leaving no footprints, and then there’s the rain.” She could almost hear him scratching his head. “Basically, we don’t have much to work with. At the moment, he’s a missing person. And we need to spread the word in case anyone out there knows where he is. That’s why I’m calling.”
“I’ll do whatever I can to help,” Harper said. “Let me know if he turns up. And thanks for the tip. I owe you one.”
As soon as she set the phone down, she typed “Xavier Rayne” into a search engine. Dozens of headlines opened—many of them in national newspapers and online magazines. As she scanned them, Harper’s eyes widened.
Here’s your front-page story, Baxter, she thought.
The editor was no longer talking to Lasterson. Nor was she in her office. She must have finally made it outside for that cigarette.
Putting her notebook and scanner in her bag, she grabbed her jacket, still damp from the rain, and sped across the newsroom and raced down the stairs. At the bottom, she hit the green button to unlock the door.
Baxter stood on the front steps under an overhang that shielded her from the rain. Her back was to the whitewashed wall, a Marlboro Gold was between her lips. Her eyes were closed as she absorbed the smoke like oxygen. Her blazer hung loose on her bony shoulders. She wasn’t yet fifty, but right now she looked ten years older than that.
As if she sensed someone watching her, Baxter opened her eyes.
“Missing-person case,” Harper began.
“Oh terrific.” She blew out a long stream of disinterested smoke.
“The missing guy is a musician named Xavier Rayne,” Harper continued, undaunted.
The cigarette, which had been swooping back toward the editor’s mouth, stopped in midair. “You’re kidding.”
“I just looked him up.” Harper could barely contain her excitement. “His album came out this week and it’s in the top ten already. He’s supposed to go on tour in three days. And, as of right now, no one knows where the hell he is.”
The editor’s exhaustion seemed to evaporate. She stood straighter, her eyes sharpening. “How much have you got?”
Harper recapped what Southby had told her. When she finished, Baxter dropped the remains of her cigarette on the sidewalk and ground it down with the toe of her low-heeled shoe.
“Get out there right now,” she ordered. “Get your hands on the missing-persons report. Take Miles. Talk to Rayne’s friends, find out what they have to say. I’ll leave space on the front page.”
“On it.” Leaving her there, Harper ran around the building to the back lot, boots splashing in the puddles. By the time she reached the Camaro, she was soaked but she barely noticed.
She pulled out her phone and dialed Miles’s number. It only rang once.
“Nothing’s happening,” the photographer said, instead of hello.
“I’m in the city,” she told him, starting the engine. “How would you feel about a trip to the