Always Watching

worked on Finn’s case before the commune moved. But if he even remembered one small thing … They couldn’t get Aaron on the sexual-abuse charges, but perhaps there was something else relating to Finn’s death that would make them take a closer look at the center.
    I also couldn’t stop thinking about that image I’d had of Aaron burying something behind the barn. When I had mentioned it to Corporal Cruikshank on the phone, she’d promised they’d check into it, but I was sure that was said just to pacify me. They weren’t going to search the woods because I thought I remembered Aaron burying something forty years ago. But this officer, Steve, he’d seen and talked to Aaron, and he might have a different impression of him. I also wondered if he’d ever run into any of the members in town, namely Willow.
    That was another thing Corporal Cruikshank, or Amy, as she’d asked me to call her, had said. They had no record of any missing women by the name of Willow. In case that wasn’t her real name, they had checked missing women fitting her description and still hadn’t come up with anything. I hadn’t had a chance to ask Robbie whether he had more information about Willow that might help us find out if she was alive. And I knew he’d want to know why this all mattered so much. Why now, after all these years?
    Obviously, I wanted to make sure that there weren’t other victims, but there was also still a feeling that I’d let Willow down. I didn’t know if the feeling came from my argument with her at the river or from walking away that last day, but I feared what else my memory had blocked. Maybe by solving some of these other mysteries, I’d find out what happened to me all those years ago.
    Just to be sure, I slept on it overnight, but first thing the next morning I woke up clearheaded—and resolute. I was going back to Shawnigan. I made myself eat a healthy breakfast, taking it easy on the caffeine so I wouldn’t add to my already jangled nerves. Then I made the drive up to Shawnigan, feeling calm and centered. I was just going to talk to the retired officer and visit my brother—if he was home. I’d called his cell but only got voice mail. There was no harm in asking a few questions. But I reminded myself that if this trip still didn’t shed any light on the situation, I was going to have to accept it and move on with my life.
    *   *   *
    This time, when I pulled into Steve Phillips’s driveway, there was a blue Ford truck parked near the camper and a man was unloading some fishing gear into his garage. When he heard tires on his gravel driveway, he turned around. I climbed out of my car and walked over. He was tall, a little stooped in the shoulders and gray-haired, but he still sported the short hair of the RCMP and a thick mustache. He was also wearing a windbreaker with the RCMP logo on it. He might be retired, but he hadn’t stopped being an officer.
    As I got closer, he said, “Can I help you?”
    “I’m hoping so. My name is Nadine Lavoie, and I grew up in Shawnigan.”
    “Okay…?”
    “I was wondering if you could help me. I have some questions about a little boy who died in the mountains in the late sixties. His name was Finn.”
    He eased himself down onto his bumper, like all the energy had just left his body. “Yeah, I remember the case. It’s not one I’ll probably ever forget. Why you asking?”
    “I was living at the commune when he died.”
    His eyes narrowed as he gave me an appraising look. “You don’t look familiar. Did you stay in Shawnigan?”
    “I was only thirteen at the time. My mother and my brother, Robbie Jaeger, were there as well—Robbie still lives in town. But I moved away.”
    I wondered if he might know Robbie, but he gave no indication, just said, “So what can I help you with?”
    As I talked, he finished unpacking his truck. He stopped when I described how Aaron took me down to the river and what he made me do, giving only the basic facts, which was hard enough without adding details. He motioned for me to keep talking while he rinsed out his coolers and hung up fishing rods. His face was contemplative as he listened. Finally, I was finished, and so was he.
    He said, “Let’s go into the house. It’s getting cold out here.”
    His home was neat and clean, but it was clear a bachelor lived there, with the rugged masculine energy of brown leather chairs and a stainless-steel kitchen. In the living room, he threw another log on the