Chapter Nineteen
Regan
Is it a warning or a threat? Jack is dead. If you don’t stop, you’ll be next. It’s all I can think about since I woke up this morning. Sasha messaged me last night apologizing for standing me up—said
she broke her hand in the car door and had her son pick up Chloe and just blanked on our plans. So she’s picked up Hallie
and is doing the early school drop for me out of guilt, and I’ll take it because I need to get to the Bluebird Café.
I drive on the interstate toward Windsor Locks and the words echo in my mind. Jack is dead. But maybe Patrick Finch is alive. I don’t know what I expect to find at the café, probably nothing, if I’m honest, but whoever
frequents the place and looks exactly like my husband exists somewhere and I want goddamn answers.
When I arrive, I find the café on a charming historic cobblestone street lined with restored old buildings housing restaurants and specialty shop storefronts.
The rain has cleared but it’s still overcast and chilly, and I welcome the warmth of the Bluebird Café after parking and walking the few blocks in the biting wind to find it.
Inside, the scent of roasting coffee beans greets me, and the shop is buzzing with patrons and baristas carrying fancy coffee
drinks with heart shapes drawn into cappuccino foam and overpriced biscotti and pound cakes. I’m not sure what I expected.
I suppose after talking to Beatrice, not something quite so refined. But there she is. Same purple crochet hat she was wearing
in her profile photo, minus the ferret. I stand by the pastry case and wave to her, and she must also recognize me from my
small thumbnail photo, because her eyes widen and she places a slice of lemon pie on the counter. Then she taps the young
woman next to her, who’s wearing an apron and ringing people up, and says something, nodding at the pie and excusing herself.
“Oh, my God, it’s you. He’s not here. I’ve been keeping an eye out all morning.” I feel my heart drop at this but of course
it’s what I expected. If he’s running from me, why would he come back here when someone outed his real name and started asking
questions? I feel a rush of emotion but do not allow myself to cry.
“Did you see him on a train somewhere?” she asks, dreamy-eyed.
“What?” I snap, because I did, in fact, chase him down at a train station and found him here because of the train schedule.
But how does she know that?
“Like in those movies where you lock eyes just before the doors close but you didn’t get his information, just his name, and now he’s gone forever and you’re searching for him. It could be the start to any Hallmark Christmas movie, right?”
“No, I . . .” I don’t know how to respond, and her interest, although innocent, catches me off guard.
“Oh, God. No. You’re a private investigator and you’re trying to catch him cheating maybe. Oh, I hope it’s not that. Apple
Turnover seems real nice,” she says, retying her apron and looking over her shoulder at the line forming. Apple Turnover,
I remember, is what she called him before finding out his real name and scaring him off.
“What should I do if I see him again? Citizen’s arrest?” she asks, and I might burst out laughing at this if I wasn’t so grief-stricken
and confused about it all.
“No. He’s— It’s none of that. He’s just—he’s missing and . . . Please just message me if you see him. I’m just very concerned
is all.” It’s the closest thing to the truth I can offer. I don’t want this woman getting herself even more involved.
“Oh, no!” she gasps, looking again at the long line. “I gotta get back, but I’ll keep my eye out. You pick out anything you
like,” she says, gesturing to the pastry case and pouring a mug of coffee. “It’s on me, poor thing.” She places the coffee
in front of me. I smile and thank her and then spot a couple getting up from a coveted two-top next to the front window, so
I wait for them to leave, then slip into the chair facing the door just before any of the other handful of people eyeing it
can beat me to it.
And then I wait. He always comes between eight and nine, she said, but not since she asked his name.
It seems pretty hopeless, but I’m still shaking and anxious .
. . and praying he’ll walk through the doors.
Even though I would hate him and want to kill him, quite honestly.
I would still do anything to see him again no matter what he’s done or what he’s running from.
But when eight o’clock turns into eight thirty, nine, nine thirty, ten fifteen, I start to feel the weight of how pathetic this all is. Jack is dead. I’m a fool.
By noon, Beatrice gives me a sympathetic look from behind the busy counter, and I pull on my coat and walk out into the frigid
October air. I take my time, looking at the quaint storefront window displays—an antiques store with bits and bobs arranged
on a nest of autumn leaves for the season and an old wagon in front turned flower planter; some café tables under awnings
with checkered tablecloths in front of an Italian restaurant, which are all empty due to the cold; a nail salon with a handful
of women sitting for pedicures, drinking small plastic cups of prosecco. All things that would have brought me joy, back when
I was still alive.
I blink away tears and make my way back to my car. I remind myself to breathe. Shutter Island comes to mind. Maybe I’ve created an imaginary world. Dissociative Identity Disorder. The real world is so frightening that
my brain has decided to create a place where Jack is still alive and we could be together—a family again. It’s created hope
where none exists. Is that possible? Could I be that disconnected from myself?
I think of Sasha and Andi and their encouragement. That was real. Are they placating me? Should I even tell them that I came?
Andi has enough problems and probably isn’t one to be judgy at the moment. Sasha will mask her concern with a supportive comment
but probably secretly thinks I’ve lost the plot. Maybe I have.
I click my key fob and my car beeps and unlocks as I slip inside Jack’s Suburban to drive home. But as I shift the car into Reverse and look into the rearview mirror, I stop cold. I slam the brakes on and the car lurches. I stare into the rearview mirror with both hands cupped over my mouth.
I can’t understand what I’m looking at. It’s so surreal, there is a moment I feel like I have floated away from my body and
I’m looking at myself from a distance—dissociating, yes. That has to be it, because the shock of it can’t be comprehended
by my mind . . . I almost jump out of the car and start running, but I don’t. I stare, stars exploding behind my eyes, my
head light and my heart thumping. Then I scream. It’s all my body allows me to do. I just scream at the man sitting in the
back seat of my car. His car.
Jack is sitting behind me. He seems to be moving in slow motion as he shushes me and tries to shield himself from my hands,
which are involuntarily swiping at him, throwing blows. Beating on his shoulders until I can barely breathe. I just continue
to scream.
“No!”
“Regan, please. We have to drive. Just . . .”
“How? Who are you? I . . . No!” I don’t stop. I’m too traumatized, horrified, but then he halts my wrists inside the strong
hands I was never supposed to feel again and looks me in the eye.
“I know, sweetheart. But just please drive and I’ll tell you everything, okay? Please. It’s not safe here.”