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“Dale, I had a husband. Who shaved. And cut himself, sometimes. I don’t consider that to be all that gross. Maybe try vinegar to get it out of the fabric.”
“Thanks,” he says, making his way toward the sink across the kitchen.
I finally head over to Simon, trying to muster a friendly, non-awkward smile. “Hey, Simon, what can I get ya?”
“I just want to start out by saying I’m sorry. For asking you out.”
“You don’t have to apologize for that.”
“You lost your husband. It was … too soon. I admire that in you.”
That’s not the only reason, but I nod, anyway. “It’s been rough for Oli and me.”
“I don’t … do that often. I just want you to know.”
“I understand. You took a chance. Nothing wrong with that.”
“It is, though. It’s wrong to take advantage of a grieving woman.”
“Really, Simon. You’re beating yourself up over nothing.” At the flinch of his brows, I clear my throat. “I don’t mean nothing. I just mean, I don’t think bad of you for asking. So, how ‘bout we start over. What can I get ya?”
“Usual. Grilled cheese. No crust. Fries. Ketchup on the side, and a glass of milk.”
“Got it.” I jot his order down and stuff the pad and pen into my apron. “You haven’t heard from Beth, or Harv, have you?”
Lips pursed, he shakes his head. “My guess? Those two probably hooked up with the wrong person.”
Perhaps it’s a disturbed look on my face that has Simon’s eyes widening, and he lurches in the booth. “Oh, I didn’t mean that. It was … a joke.”
I can’t lie. I’ve sometimes wondered the same thing, as often as they take in strangers, but hearing someone else say it aloud is like giving life to a forbidden thought.
I’m more inclined to believe the two of them packed up and skipped town, but Beth is such a braggart, I can’t imagine her not telling anyone. I can’t imagine her skipping work, either, as often as they bitch about money.
“Let’s hope you’re wrong.”
15
Voss
Parked across from Duli’s Diner, I have the perfect view of Nola’s rental vehicle parked off to the side. And after an hour of watching it, I’ve come to the realization that I’d never make it as a full-on stalker. Staking someone out has to be the most boring fucking job in the world. In this case, Nola makes it worth the suffering, as good as she looks in her little waitress uniform, but as a general rule, sitting idle is enough to make me want to stab my eyeballs out with a toothpick. I don’t mind hunting someone down, it’s the long hours of watching, waiting to catch a glimpse of prey, that whittles at my patience. I’m convinced, wherever she is, though, I’ll find my quarry.
It’s been an hour, and I’ve witnessed about two dozen people come and go. The white van is nowhere in sight, and neither is anyone who looks remotely like Carl.
Not that I’d necessarily recognize him nowadays. It’s been nearly twenty years since the night I took off. My mind swirls with memories of his face in what few details come to mind, but all I can see is a vague image, a mask of indifference. The face of a kid who’d been bred not to care about anyone, or anything.
“Boo!” Carl leaps out in front of me on my way to my bedroom.
I fall back against the wall behind me, eyes locked on what looks to be an expressionless mask, though it’s hardly discernible in the surrounding darkness of the corridor. “What the hell is that?”
He snickers, tipping his head to the side. “What’s the matter? Scared?”
Not wanting to admit every bone in my body is shaking, I frown and push off the wall. “No. But what’s it for?”
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
Through the holes in the mask that’s made from papier-mâché, I’d guess, I can see his eyes, focused on me. “Better make sure grandfather doesn’t see you. He’ll be pissed you used all his newspaper for that.”
“What makes you think it’s newspaper?”
