Chapter 2
Chapter Two
My phone vibrated with a text message just as I stumbled into Mug+Shots, still only half awake.
I checked my notifications only to find a text from Noah.
In lieu of actual words he had sent a cryptic series of emojis.
A smiley face wearing the fake nose and glasses combo, a row of three martini glasses, and a thumbs up emoji followed by a question mark.
I wasn’t certain if he was asking how my fake ID had held up to the test at the liquor store or if he was checking in on how my new job was going, but in either case, I sent a thumbs up in return.
Then I made my way to the counter that also served as the bar I would be working behind later that night.
The seats along the bar were bolted down for the safety of the patrons and the mirrored wall behind it was lined with shelves of liquor that were more likely to be poured later in the evening, though I knew that the morning menu did contain both an Irish coffee and a Bloody Mary.
The glimpse I caught of my own reflection startled me, the pile of dark hair at the top of my head unfamiliar, a reminder of what I’d done to make myself less recognizable.
If I wasn’t looking at a reflection of myself, I usually forgot that my long strawberry-blonde hair was now dark and shoulder length.
Uncomfortable, I quickly looked away and scanned the space around me instead.
Mid-morning appeared to be a slow time for the cafe, as there were no waitresses out on the floor.
The only other customer was an older Black gentleman seated at one of the back booths with a coffee, a plate of food, and a newspaper in front of him.
All the other booths that lined the back and far walls were empty, as were the half-dozen tables in the middle of the room.
The two massive farm tables that took up the back third of the room were great for large groups. They were even better when they were converted into pool tables in the evenings once the family-friendly diner switched over to become an adults-only space.
And the double doors that led to the kitchen squeaked when they opened, just like they always did.
“Hastings, your shift said PM, not AM!” Trick Cavanaugh called as he made his way out of the kitchen and headed my way with a huge grin. Despite his teasing words, my boss and the owner of Mug+Shots was quick to clock the grumpy expression on my face. “Whoa, are you alright?”
“Coffee, stat,” I said, dramatically stretching my arms across the counter and making grabby hands in the direction of the coffee pot.
He snorted before getting to work, grabbing me a steaming mug of coffee with the same bulls-eye logo on it as my mug at home, along with cream, sugar, and a menu I already knew by heart.
I gave him a nod of appreciation and began mixing the cream and sugar into the coffee before the situation caught up to me and I realized neither of the waitresses who were supposed to be on shift were anywhere to be seen.
“Didn’t I see you on the schedule with me tonight?
You’re not working open-to-close again, are you? ”
“Nah,” Trick replied, leaning against the counter with his forearms holding him up.
His full-sleeve tattoos and tanned muscles gave him the appearance of someone who might run a motorcycle club or make his living as a bouncer, but instead he’d opened what he liked to call a ‘bar and breakfast’.
“Melody just had a mid-day exam and Erin’s out sick so I’m covering until Mel gets in and then I’ll go take a nap. ”
I sipped my coffee, a little jealous at how confidently he spoke about his ability to nap.
I suspected it came with years of running a bar that doubled as a breakfast joint in the mornings.
That, and not being in the habit of drinking caffeine like it was the only supplement and nutrient a person could need.
“That’s good,” I said, both about his odd work hours and the coffee. For a man who didn’t drink the stuff, he still made sure that his business served a decent cup of joe.
“Breakfast?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow as if he could tempt me with a single look.
I bit my lip as I considered. The trouble with Trick was that he knew more about my situation than I was comfortable with and if he was asking about breakfast then I suspected he didn’t plan to charge me for it.
And while that was kind it also felt a lot like charity.
“Come on, Hale, I can’t have you passing out from starvation halfway through your shift. ”
“I’m hardly starving,” I retorted, scowling at him.
But I could feel the ache of hunger in my stomach and going home to eat the cheese sticks and orange slices that made up the majority of my fridge contents wasn’t exactly appealing.
“Fine, I’ll take a plate of French toast and two sausages, and you’ll charge me for them. ”
“I will not,” Trick replied even as he headed back towards the kitchen.
“Take it out of my pay at least!” I called after him, but I knew he wouldn’t. I’d just have to find some other way to pay him back. Maybe I could slip the difference into the till at the end of the night when he wasn’t looking.
A few minutes later my coffee was half gone and the sound of the newspaper rustling in the back of the room was overtaken by the sound of the bell above the door.
I glanced back to find an older woman dressed in cotton pants and a sky-blue blouse had entered, followed by a man and two women who looked like they were at least half her age.
Which wasn’t saying much considering the woman’s white hair and careful steps as she headed towards one of the farmhouse tables.
“You’re sure you don’t want a booth?” the man asked as she ignored the empty booths entirely. “Your back?—”
“My back is just fine,” the woman told him, and I could already tell she was a spitfire from the look she sent his way. “And I can walk on my own as well. Stop hovering, Michael.”
“Mom, the doctors said—” one of the women began but cut herself off at the loud scoff and dismissive wave from her mother.
“The doctors said it’s good for me to get out, move around.
Use my muscles,” she informed them even as she settled onto the long bench seat at the table she had selected.
“Let an old woman be, would you? I’ve taken care of enough people to know when someone needs taking care of and I’ll ask for help if I need it. Understood?”
“Yes, Mom,” the trio called out as they all settled down at the table around her.
I glanced over at the kitchen doors, wondering just how long it would take Trick to put the order in and come back out.
Unless the morning line cook had also called out today and he was pulling double duty there as well. I wouldn’t put it past him.
After another thirty seconds passed and Trick hadn’t returned, I stood up and made my way around the back of the bar.
I gathered up the breakfast menus, silverware bundles, and a pitcher of water before I even realized what I was doing.
I’d worked enough customer service jobs to know this song and dance, though, and it was the least I could do after everything Trick had done for me.
“Welcome to Mug+Shots,” I said as I approached the table and passed out the menus, pouring the waters as I went. “The special today is a mug of oatmeal with a side of toast. Or if you want something more traditional, I recommend the waffle.”
“Thank you, dear,” the older woman said and then she tilted her head as she looked at me. I fought not to fidget, fully aware that I was dressed in a plain t-shirt, a flannel, and pajama bottoms. “You’re not our usual waitress.”
“No, ma’am,” I replied, “I’m just helping out the owner this morning.”
“That’s good of you,” she said, and then turned to look at her menu, seemingly happy with my answer.
“Would any of you like coffee?” I asked, and they all shook their heads. “Alright, I’ll give you folks a minute to look at the menu and someone will be back around to take your order.”
After that, I grabbed my cup of coffee off the counter and stood behind the bar, looking out at the rest of the room.
I liked it better that way, my back to a wall with the whole room in my field of vision.
The man in the booth at the back was still eating, perusing his newspaper, but his coffee was low.
Deciding I couldn’t let a fellow coffee enjoyer go without, I headed over there with the pot to top him off.
“Thank you,” he said, looking up at me for only a moment before going back to his meal.
As I returned to the bar, I caught the tail end of the elderly woman’s conversation with her children and nearly tripped as I passed them, the coffee sloshing dangerously in the pot.
“—girl was already dead, Evelyn. It wasn’t like I was in any real danger, and besides it was only a hand!
” she said, waving her own right hand around the table like that might emphasize her point.
“The Gamblers are a perfectly safe group, and they’re my friends.
You can’t keep me from going. Besides, that was three years ago, what are the chances?—”
I returned to my spot at the counter, refilling my own coffee and mixing more cream in as those words repeated in my mind like an alarm system designed specifically for me.
Already dead. Only a hand. Three years ago.
I shook my head, pushing my instincts down. Nothing the woman had said gave any indication that there was a mystery to be solved, and, in any case, it sounded like they knew who the hand belonged to, which probably meant they knew what had happened to whoever it belonged to.
Still, it never hurt to stay informed.
I pulled out my phone and began by searching for anything in the area related to a missing hand.
The results came up right away, pages and pages of news articles about a dismembered hand found by local institution Vera Carver out near the Big River campground.
I glanced over at the woman, who was listening intently to something one of her daughters was saying.
There was no doubt in my mind that was Vera Carver. And she had found a dismembered hand in the woods.
Clicking through to the top article I narrowed my eyes as I scanned it for vital information.
Hand discovered south of Bend. DNA confirmed identity.
Missing local Alexandra Tate. No other remains found.
The location of the hand did not change the search parameters as Ms. Tate’s phone had been found a week after she went missing, just off the Benham Falls trail several miles north of the campground.
The article was three years old.
As I pulled up a map of the area to get a visual on where the hand had been found, I felt the weight of Noah’s warnings to stay out of trouble, to keep my head down.
If he were here, if he knew what I was doing, he would remind me that I wasn’t an FBI agent.
I wasn’t supposed to be searching up missing persons articles and obituaries.
Part of laying low was keeping my nose out of other people’s business so they didn’t have a reason to look into mine. But I’d kept my head down for six weeks now and I was crawling out of my skin with the need for something to do, something to succeed at. Momentum.
And it wasn’t like I was trying to solve a case. I was doing a little bit of harmless research.
The kitchen doors squeaked open again, and I glanced up to find Trick coming out with a plate of French toast, sausages, and a mountain of scrambled eggs I hadn’t even asked for.
Looking back down at my phone, I continued to read the article I had found.
It confirmed that the hand had been identified as Alexandra ‘Lexi’ Tate, a recent medical school graduate who had gone missing four years before, and that the discovery would renew searches for Lexi’s remains.
Which meant that the rest of those remains hadn’t been found, if the top search result was from three years ago. Lexi Tate was an avid and experienced hiker, but according to the article she hadn’t told anyone where she was going the day she disappeared.
There had to be more to the story. I hit the back button, planning to look into?—
“That’s not your job,” Trick said, and I froze, looking up at him with a guilty expression before realizing there was no way he could know that I’d naturally fallen into investigating the death and disappearance of Lexi Tate like that’s what I was paid to do.
He glanced between the spot at the bar where I’d been sitting and where I stood now, an eyebrow raised. I shrugged.
“Just trying to earn my breakfast,” I replied, circling the bar to return to my stool. Trick set my plate of food in front of me before crossing his arms. “I just refreshed the coffee for the gentleman in the back and brought out menus for Vera Carver and her kids.”
“You—” he started to say, and then paused, glancing between me and the quartet at the farmhouse table. He narrowed his eyes at me and looked like he was doing some kind of advanced calculations before he started again, sighing and shaking his head. “She mentioned the hand, didn’t she?”
“Only in passing,” I replied, digging into my breakfast with gusto before looking up at him as I realized I had the perfect resource right in front of me. I didn’t have to rely on web searches if I had a witness to interview. “Did they ever find the rest of the remains?”
“No,” Trick said, a dark look crossing his features. Then he turned away from me, headed to the farmhouse table to take their orders, leaving no room for me to ask any further questions. I frowned, watching him go.
It seemed that whoever this Alexandra Tate was, she was a sore subject for Trick. I wanted to pull out my phone again, to keep digging until I knew everything about her case; how Trick was connected, why they only ever found her phone and—four years later—a single hand.
Instead, I tucked my phone in my pocket and focused on the food in front of me. I wasn’t supposed to be investigating anything, after all, and I had enough on my plate as it was.