JOSIE
Givens hollers a good morning to me when I come in, but I quickly sneak into my office, take off my parka, and pick up the morning newspaper. With all that happened, I forgot to pick it up from our porch. The diner gets several every morning, and one is always left in the office.
KIDNAPPED WOMAN IS FOUND IN RENTED HOUSE IN BURNVILLE
I scan the article. It has less information than the TV news or what I already knew from the night before.
No mention of my or the kidnapped woman’s name.
No mention of the man’s name either—the newspaper didn’t have enough information when it was printed.
Now, the stranger’s name is everywhere on TV and online.
I toss the newspaper aside and make my way into the main area.
Less than a dozen people sit at the tables, and Rika is at the counter again, drinking coffee, casually holding the newspaper as she reads.
She’s wearing a black woolen coat, not bothering to take it off, and an orange sweater underneath it, in stark contrast with her blue braids.
This girl is a walking exclamation point.
I wonder how invested she is in the article when she raises her eyes and locks them with mine. No “hi.” Just a quick nod, and her eyes drop to the newspaper again.
I check the orders at the serving window, then wipe the counter, though it looks clean.
“You got into some adventure last night, huh?” she asks when I wipe the counter in front of her.
“What are you talking about?” I ask with a straight face, fixing the sugar and condiment caddies in front of her.
“The kidnapped woman.” Rika scans the diner over her shoulder, then turns to me with a knowing look. “You are the one who found her.”
I cringe. How would she know that? My poker face probably sucks, but I try to keep it up. “What are you talking about?”
She shrugs. “My neighbor, Trevor, he’s a little on the weird side. Has a police scanner. Boredom, I guess.” She shrugs. “Boredom” is a keyword in this town. “And he’s friends with some girl who’s in the response unit for the local precinct. That’s how I got the deets.”
I don’t confirm this information, don’t give any details.
“Anyway,” she says. “I’m not cornering you. I’m just saying I know what happened.” She leans in closer. “I’m not telling anyone either,” she says in a half whisper, “until it’s official. So you can stop biting the inside of your cheek.”
I didn’t realize I was doing that. This girl is perceptive.
She’s everywhere too. If she were a local and much older, I wouldn’t be surprised.
In small towns, the locals know everyone and everything, every nook and cranny, all the secrets, addresses, and family histories going four generations back.
Rika is not a local, which makes her insider knowledge that much more peculiar.
“How did you get involved?” she asks.
“Nosy much? I’m not supposed to talk about it.” There, I confirmed it without actually saying much. But she knew it already.
Rika doesn’t respond or look away from me.
“What are you, an amateur sleuth or something?” I snort in contempt.
“Or something.” A little smile curves the corner of her lips. “That guy, the kidnapper, was part of the investigation years ago, with your grandma and all that.”
“How”—I look around and lean over, irritated but astonished—“how in the world would you know that?”
“I know quite a bit about this town’s history. You’d be surprised. Small towns are full of crazy stories.”
“Why?”
“Boredom.” She grins. “Trevor is a crime junkie. When we hang, he tells me all about it. Useful stuff, you know? Who is a creep. Who is dangerous. Who is worth rubbing shoulders with. Like Bjorn. You know Bjorn? The older guy who comes to Carrigan’s?
Sits for hours by himself and drinks brandy?
He’s built a bunker, a nuclear shelter of sorts on his farm.
In case our world goes nuclear on each other, I know who to run to. They all come to my bar, you know.”
“Yeah? I’m not building a nuclear shelter.”
“But your family has the most bizarre past around here.”
“You are a little too interested in my past. What’s your deal?”
“Again, there’s nothing much to do in this town. Maybe I’ll write a book one day.” Rika wiggles her eyebrows. “So that guy, on the news, the one they are looking for, he was in town right before the fire and the murder twenty-five years ago.”
Huh.
Rika is clearly roping me in for something. More information? She doesn’t realize I probably know less than local amateur sleuths. And now all my attention is on what exactly she knows.
“He’s had some bad run-ins with the locals,” she says. “Your grandmother, especially.”
That’s the part I don’t know much about, and it makes me burn with curiosity as much as it bothers me that this girl knows more about my grandmother than I do.
Her eyes shift to the TV screen hanging above the milkshake machines. My eyes follow—it’s a news update about the Burnville kidnapping. The TV is on silent, but the picture of the stranger fills the screen, and when I turn to Rika, I run right into her stare.
She taps her palm on the counter. “I’ll take the check. Hey, wanna come hang at my place tonight? We can have drinks, whatever you’re into. Smoke some. I’ll get Trevor to come over. Maybe he’ll have new intel from the precinct. The cops don’t tell you much, do they?”
I hate to admit it, but she’s right about everything.
This might be a trap. And I’m so tired of traps and secrets.
But then, it’s a weekday. There’s nothing to do after work.
Though I don’t know Rika well, barely actually, I do want to hang out with her, see where she lives, how she lives.
Maybe meet that Trevor guy. Anticipation starts to rise inside me, the excitement when you meet a person who right away feels like an old friend.
It’s unexplainable. It’s rare. A person you can’t stop thinking about. Can’t wait to see again.
Without hesitation, I pass Rika my phone. “Put your number in,” I prompt and wait till she does.
“I sent a text to my number so I have yours. My check?”
That’s for one coffee. “On the house,” I say.
She chuckles. “Sure, Bootsie. Thanks.”
I’m about to tell her to watch her mouth, but she’s already walking away. I hate the nickname Bootsie. They used to tease me with it at school. Especially high school, when everyone was old enough to judge, to gossip, to inflict pain, bring up my family’s past.
But Rika is out the door, and in a minute, I get a text with her address.
Too many strangers have invited me to their homes this week, promising to tell me about my past. But I bite again.
At least maybe tonight, I’ll learn more about the guy who’s become breaking news.