Silent Fall

would find him. Still, luring him out to the woods and leaving him there half-drugged didn’t seem like a complete plan to him. There had to be more.
    He realized what that more was when he saw two police cars in front of the lodge. Something had happened. Picking up the pace, he jogged up the front steps, a multitude of fears running through his head. He’d lost a dozen hours or more, and he had no idea whether Jake and Sarah had gotten off on their honeymoon. Had they wondered where he’d gone? Had they worried about him, called the cops? Or, God forbid, had something happened to them? Was that why the police were here?
    As he entered the lobby he saw a uniformed police officer and a man in a dark gray suit standing by the reception desk. They were talking to the manager of the lodge while half a dozen employees looked on. One of those employees was the bartender who’d served him drinks the night before. When their gazes met, the bartender lifted his hand, pointing to Dylan.
    "That’s him," the bartender said. "That’s the guy I saw leaving the bar with her last night."
    Erica. This had to do with Erica .
    "What’s happened?" Dylan asked.
    The man wearing the suit walked toward him. He appeared to be in his early forties, with light brown hair and a receding hairline. His tie hung loose around his neck, as if he spent a lot of time tugging on it, and his ruddy complexion bore testament to a man who lived outside as much as in. At the flash of his badge, Dylan’s gut tightened.
    "I’m Detective Richardson with the Washoe County Sheriff’s Department," he said. "And you are...?"
    "Dylan Sanders. What’s going on?"
    "We’re checking on the welfare of one of the guests, Ms. Erica Layton. Do you know her?"
    His heart skipped a beat. "Yes. I know her. What happened to her?"
    "That’s what we’re trying to find out. The bartender who worked the wedding reception last night said he saw Ms. Layton at the bar with you, and that you left together. Is that correct?"
    The detective’s gaze ran down his body, and Dylan was suddenly very aware of his appearance, the dirt on his shirt, the pine needles sticking to his sleeves. He resisted the urge to draw more attention to himself by shaking them off. "That’s right," he muttered.
    "When did you last see Ms. Layton?" the detective asked.
    "Last night about seven thirty."
    "Where were you?"
    "In the woods. Erica and I took a walk. She said she wanted to speak to me."
    "About what? Do you have a relationship with Ms. Layton?"
    "Not exactly." Dylan hesitated, his brain beginning to work again. He didn’t like the speculative gleam in the detective’s eyes or the direction of his questions. "Why are you asking?"
    "As I said, we’re concerned about Ms. Layton’s whereabouts. Did you accompany her to her cabin last night?"
    "No. The last time I saw her was in the woods."
    "Where she wanted to speak to you about what?"
    "We worked together on a story I did several months ago. I’m a news reporter for KTSF Channel Three in San Francisco. I assumed she wanted to talk to me about that," Dylan replied. He had no intention of discussing his personal relationship with Erica until the detective told him what was going on.
    "So Ms. Layton was a guest at your brother’s wedding?"
    "No, she wasn’t a guest. She apparently came to Tahoe to speak to me."
    "You said you assumed she wanted to talk about the story you did together, but that wasn’t her purpose, was it?"
    "I’m not sure. We never actually got around to having a conversation."
    "Why not?"
    "She left."
    "Did you argue? Was Ms. Layton upset?"
    Dylan frowned. He didn’t know what the hell had happened to Erica, but there must be some evidence of something, or the police wouldn’t have been called and the detective wouldn’t be interrogating him as if he were the prime suspect in a murder investigation. His pulse jumped at the thought. Was Erica dead?
    No, the detective had said he was concerned about her welfare. That meant she was missing, not dead.
    "Where did you go after Ms. Layton left you?" Detective Richardson continued.
    As a reporter, Dylan had worked with the police on several occasions, and he knew it would be best to tell the truth, but his mind jerked ahead to what his explanation would sound like, and he knew it wouldn’t be good. But what choice did he have? Lying would only delay the inevitable revelation of