Clare stands inside the gate of the Roy Mason Correctional Facility. Beyond her, two tall fences snared with barbed wire stretch between the parking lot and the prison yard. A group of men in jumpsuits hover at the far end of the yard. Though they are at quite a distance, Clare is certain they are watching her, that even with these fences between them she is still plainly in their sights. Only thirty minutes inland from Lune Bay, but this might as well be another planet. It’s a regular field trip for me, Austin said of his frequent trips here to see Jack Westman’s business partner, Donovan Hughes.

Somers must have called ahead, because Clare is waved through despite visiting hours being almost over. In the prison’s stark reception area Clare must surrender her bag and empty her pockets, the gun left in the car’s glove compartment. She drops everything into a bin, then slides it through a trapdoor in the plexiglass that separates her from the guard. The woman who pats Clare down is humorless and makes no eye contact. Clare follows a male officer as he advances them through three sets of heavy doors, each one buzzing sharply as it opens. When they reach the waiting room, the guard gestures for Clare to take a seat at a table in the center of the room.

“Hughes?”

“Yes,” Clare says. “Donovan Hughes.”

Clare sits at the tip of the chair, her hands in a tight ball on her lap. After a few minutes the guard returns. The man trailing him wears a beige work shirt and jeans. Donovan Hughes is not much changed from the photographs taken before he was arrested. He may be thinner, his hair grayer, but he stands tall and stoic. He lowers himself to a seat across from Clare slowly to account for the shackles on his ankles and wrists.

“Only my lawyer visits these days,” Donovan Hughes says. “Even my wife has stopped coming.”

He is soft-spoken in a way Clare was not anticipating. He smiles at her, expectant.

“Mr. Hughes,” Clare says. “My name is Clare O’Kearney. I’m a private investigator. I’d offer you a card, but I wasn’t allowed to bring anything to this part of the facility. I’ve been working on a case related to the disappearance of Zoe Westman.”

“You don’t say.” He grins. “Clare. Call me Donovan. Or Don. Whichever you prefer.”

“I appreciate your willingness to see me.”

Donovan laughs. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I imagine a rat could come through those doors, literally vermin, and I’d come out here for the visit. Anything for a break in the day.” He pauses, scrutinizing her. “You look a lot like Zoe.”

“I’ve been told that before,” she says.

“Really. You could be her twin.”

“I’ve never met her. My focus is actually on Malcolm. Zoe’s husband. I’m sure you know him.”

Donovan looks to the guard in the corner and shrugs at him, as if he were part of their conversation too.

“I knew him.”

“Past tense?” Clare asks.

“Well, he’s gone, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Clare says. “Gone. But not necessarily dead.”

“Honestly? I never thought much of him. But I understand why Zoe married him.”

“Why’d she marry him?” Clare asks.

Donovan pinches his thumb to his finger and rubs them together in a gesture. Money. Clare knows that Malcolm’s parents were rich, that he was the beneficiary of a vast inheritance once he came of age. She leans forward.

“From what I can glean,” Clare says, “you and Zoe were quite close. You worked together after her father died. Before you got arrested. She was like a daughter to you, maybe. I know she was trying to keep the business afloat.”

“A daughter,” Donovan says. “No. She was most definitely not like a daughter to me.”

He is well-spoken, articulate, and poised, despite the uniform and the setting. Clare notices the guard’s eyes upon her. There isn’t much time, and she needs to make headway. She will backtrack with Donovan. Find his beginning.

“I’ve read a bit about your family,” Clare says. “Your mother. Lune Bay was her life.”

Donovan nods. “She used to say it was called Lune Bay because of the moon. On a clear night it would bounce off the ocean and light up the sky like a muted sun. My mother and Jack Westman’s mother were best friends. They moved down the coast together after high school. Got work as secretaries. And by sheer luck, they both married rich.” He leans back in his chair. “Both had firstborn sons. Are you following?”

“Yes,” Clare says. “You and Jack Westman.”

“Exactly. When a downturn hit, our families bought up as much land around here as we could. I hated Jack Westman. God, did I ever. I was bookish. He was a jock and a bully. But we were forced together, and really, it worked out quite well. Our sensibilities around what Lune Bay should be were well aligned. We wanted it to feel both remote and well appointed. Like a village. A close-knit community with all the amenities but none of the crowding. The development needed to be managed, distilled. I think we did very well. Lune Bay grew to be quite the destination. People wanted to live here. If you were brave you could even commute into the bigger cities. Jack and I were good at listening to each other. Certainly after he died, Zoe and I had different visions. My vision died when I was arrested. And while I was winding my way through the courts, she drove the real estate business into the ground. Had her eye on other ventures.”

“So maybe you weren’t heartbroken when she disappeared,” Clare suggests.

“No.” Donovan offers Clare a surprisingly jovial smile. “I wasn’t.”

“What was she doing to drive the business into the ground?”

Donovan pulls his wrists apart until the shackles grow taut. “It’s probably better to keep my mouth closed on that,” he says. “I’m awaiting an appeal. But tell me, how do you know Malcolm?”

“I’m looking for him. That’s all. It’s my job.”

“Right. But you use his first name only. Malcolm. You didn’t say Hayes. You just said Malcolm. You know him.”

Donovan’s gaze is so direct that Clare feels herself withering under it. This room is hot, the lights buzzing and bright.

“You’re right,” Clare says. “I do know him. After he left Lune Bay, Malcolm Hayes took up looking for missing women. He was… an investigator of sorts. We met, and I started working with him. I won’t get into the details beyond that. But I’m charged with looking for him now. I used his first name because I figured you know him.”

“I like that you’re telling me the truth,” Donovan says.

“I’ve got nothing to hide,” Clare says, crossing her arms.

“Do you believe that Malcolm is guilty of murdering his wife?” Donovan asks.

“I don’t believe anything yet,” Clare says. “I’m just trying to do my job. Speaking to you is part of that.”

“I was at Zoe and Malcolm’s wedding, you know.”

“I’m sure it was quite the event in Lune Bay.”

“Oh, it was. I was a guest of honor at Zoe’s parents’ table. It was a picture book affair. At a winery with views halfway to Japan. Zoe’s dress was magnificent. And there was a good feeling in the room. But I found myself spending the whole night watching Malcolm. He was a fascinating case study.”

“Why?”

“He never smiled. I like to think I’m good at reading people. And I remember wondering to myself: Is this man a sociopath? And then Charlotte caught my eye. Dear Charlotte. I always loved her. What a sweetheart she was. And funny, she was watching Malcolm too. Charlotte seemed onto him as well.”

“Onto what?” Clare asks. “Be more specific.”

“I spend a lot of time thinking these days. I interact with people I never would have crossed paths with on the outside. The same men I’d read about in the papers. And they aren’t bad. Not all of them, anyway. Maybe some of us here at the Roy Mason are good men who did bad things in the name of someone we love. Maybe some of us were framed, or wrongly convicted. Put in here for things we didn’t do. Who decides between bad and good? What’s that saying? History is written by the victors?”

“You’re losing me,” Clare says.

“Malcolm?” he says. “He’s not one of the good guys. I don’t think he was capable of feeling any real emotion.”

A long stretch of silence passes between them. Clare draws a deep breath. She would like to think she has the same ability to detect good from bad, but her history, her experiences with men and even with this line of work, tells her that she’s got a long way to go yet. It’s too hard to know who means well and who doesn’t. Of course, she knows that Donovan may be trying to throw her off. She will not allow it.

“I don’t know what you did, Mr. Hughes. I know nothing about you. But a lot of terrible things have happened in Lune Bay in the past five years. Your partner’s murder, his daughter’s disappearance. Other women missing too. Women with ties to the Westmans. Maybe you didn’t kill anyone, but I imagine you’re not innocent.”

Donovan smiles. “No one is.”

“Time’s up,” the guard says.

“Can we have five more minutes?” Clare pleads with the guard, her hands in prayer position. “Please?”

“You’re lucky to be here at all,” the guard says. “My shift ended ten minutes ago. You’re done.”

“I’d like to come back,” Clare says, standing. “I’ll have more questions. If you’ll see me again.”

“Anytime,” he says. “It’s been a pleasure.”

The guard takes Donovan by the elbow to support him as he hoists to his feet. Clare watches as he shuffles through the door. Donovan looks back to Clare as the guard bends to remove his shackles. She is grateful for the metal door between them.