Chapter 13 Emma
THIRTEEN
Emma
If libraries were supposed to save you, this one had failed its final exam.
Beth and I stepped out onto the sidewalk with empty hands and even emptier heads, or at least that’s how it seemed.
The wind found every chink in my jacket, snuck right up under my collar, and worked itself into the sore spot at the base of my neck.
I hunched my shoulders, the morning’s chill trying to sandpaper away whatever stubbornness I had left. Even my coffee had gone cold.
Nothing about this case was easy. Alice had, in fact, been to the library, but no one she spoke to had seen anything strange about her or her behavior. Apparently, she’d hung out in her usual section, picking out some new mystery books to devour, and had left in a seemingly good mood.
Did someone who planned to disappear stop to pick up books first? If a woman was frightened of someone or something, would she be cheerily picking out her next read? I really didn’t know, but nothing was making sense.
Beth slammed the library door behind us, the sound echoing down Main Street with a finality I didn’t appreciate.
“Well, that was a waste of three hours,” she said. “My e-reader’s got more answers than this building.”
She had her phone out before the door even shut, scrolling like maybe the next text could cough up Alice’s location. Her bright eyes never stopped moving, cataloguing every person and car between us and the horizon.
“We’re running out of places to look,” I said through my teeth.
We started down the sidewalk, shoes crunching on the sidewalk. I pulled my jacket closer, trying to convince myself the shivers were only from the cold.
“Henry’s…” I hunted for the right words. “He’s shutting down. I’m scared for him. I thought he’d be okay, but it’s like all of Alice’s weird little habits kept him running, and now—”
“He looks wrecked,” Beth agreed. “You said he barely eats.”
I nodded. “He won’t leave the couch unless I drag him. Doesn’t even bother with his games. Just sits there all night and stares at the water. It’s like he’s afraid if he goes to sleep, she’ll vanish even more.”
Beth’s hand hovered over her phone a second, then settled. “And Deva and Carol are both at work today, so that means this is on us.”
“Yeah. Guess we’re the A-Team.”
The air tasted like winter, and seagulls circled above Main Street as if they were hoping for something more interesting than the leftovers tumbling from the bakery’s bins. I watched them and tried to wrangle my own thoughts into something useful.
We passed Deva’s place, Deva’s Delights, with its windows steamed up and a couple of town regulars hunched over their breakfasts inside.
My stomach growled with the kind of rage that only three hours of library disappointment could generate.
Remembering that Deva’s pancakes could drop a grown man in his tracks with happiness only made things worse.
But Alice never went to Deva’s. Not unless Henry dragged her. She liked Cedar Cup, the coffee shop with too many plants and vegan poetry slams. That’s where she went to read, to sit in the window and watch Mystic Hollow go about its business.
The sign for Cedar Cup came into view, painted with a minimalist logo that probably cost hundreds of dollars. Through the glass I could see the blue-haired barista already ruling the counter with a kind of hipster authority.
Inside, the place was a fever dream of design school mistakes.
Exposed brick walls met hanging ferns and spider plants, the ceiling was all ductwork and Edison bulbs, and every table had a different set of chairs.
I counted at least three units of seating that had probably come out of someone’s attic.
There was even a beanbag, which looked like it’d seen action in the disco era and had the stains to prove it.
The smell of coffee and sugar didn’t make me feel better, but it did make me want to order one of everything. Not that I could let myself. Stress-eating only worked when the sugar high lasted more than five minutes.
Blue-Haired Barista waved us over to the register, lanyard jangling with enamel pins. She had a look that said she could write a dissertation on indie bands no one had heard of. Behind her, two more baristas orchestrated orders with the precision of a Broadway cast.
Beth started in before we even sat down. “Morning,” she said, sliding into Detective Mode. “Can I ask you something before you do our drinks?”
The barista blinked, eyebrows an unnatural shade of teal. “Sure.”
“We’re looking for someone,” I said. “Alice Brennan. She comes in a lot. Short, red-brown hair, glasses, always reading.”
The barista didn’t have much of a reaction. “Doesn’t really talk, right?”
“That’s the one,” said Beth.
“She’s here all the time. Usually sits over there.” Blue Hair pointed at a corner by the windows, where a mismatched wooden chair and a squishy armchair stood close to a battered side table.
Beth’s gaze did a full sweep of the shop, cataloguing every detail like she was planning a sting operation.
“Did you see her recently?” Beth asked.
The barista thought about it, tongue poking at her lip ring. “Maybe a couple of days ago? She just read her book, maybe ordered a muffin. Didn’t say much. That’s normal, though. She’d read, then go.”
I tried to keep the hope in my voice, but it ended up sounding thin. “Did she seem weird? Worried? Like she was looking for someone?”
Blue Hair shook her head. “Not really. She’s always quiet. Not unfriendly, just not talkative.” Behind her, the grinder howled, and for a second I wondered if my skull would split from the noise.
Beth ordered her usual, something dark with no room for foam, and I impulse-bought a caramel latte, because if you can’t get answers, you get sugar.
We paid, shuffled toward Alice’s favorite spot, and started the waiting game. Beth never shut off her internal radar. She eyed the line at the counter, the other staff, even the shadowy corners where someone creepy might hang out and watch customers leave.
I, on the other hand, just wanted to curl up in Alice’s armchair and wait for her to materialize.
The fabric was printed with yellow flowers, faded almost to beige.
One of the armrests sagged, like it had weathered a hundred hours of someone’s fretting.
I didn’t want to think about the days ahead without her in that chair, but the more I tried to picture her, the more she slipped through my fingers.
Beth gave me a sidelong look. “You okay?”
“Just taking inventory.” My laugh was brittle. “Remind me, why do people always say, ‘it’s always the quiet ones’ like that’s supposed to make us feel better?”
“Probably because it’s almost always the loud ones. But nobody wants to admit it.”
I almost smiled. Almost.
Our drinks showed up, names scrawled in loopy marker across the cups. Mine was spelled “Emmah,” which might have made Alice laugh, had she been here.
Beth started in on the next round of interrogation, working her way through the staff like a career interviewer.
At the espresso station, she buttonholed a guy in an ironic wolf T-shirt.
By the pastry case, she caught a woman in bright red lipstick.
Their answers echoed each other like a broken record.
Alice? Nice girl, quiet, never says much.
Likes her books. Sometimes ordered the blueberry scone, but not every visit.
No drama, no fights, not even a fussy customer moment.
Each time the story repeated, something inside my chest sank a little lower.
She’d been invisible here, as easily missed as a library book with no due date.
I wanted someone to say she’d thrown a fit, called for help, or at least made a scene.
Instead, no one even remembered what book she’d been reading when she was last in.
Apparently, the only distinguishing feature Alice had in this place was her routine.
By the second muffin and the third “Sorry, can’t help you,” I was ready to ask the barista to just hit me over the head with a French press and get it over with.
Beth took a sip of coffee, scanning the room again. “It’s a pattern,” she said. “Either she really didn’t want attention, or someone made damn sure she didn’t stand out. What do you think?”
“I think being unmemorable is worse, sometimes. Means you can vanish, and no one notices.”
Beth didn’t argue.
We loitered by the window for a few minutes, staring out at the street.
The table was littered with coffee rings and a single drooping plant which had seen better days.
Through the glass, Mystic Hollow chugged along, people carrying groceries, a mail carrier wrestling a package into submission, and a dog walker who had more canines than should be legally allowed.
I tried to picture Alice here, with her purple backpack at her feet and her hands cupping a mug against the cold. She’d never been loud, but she radiated a kind of safety that made you want to sit down beside her and pretend you had all the time in the world.
I was about to suggest we cut our losses and head out, maybe try badgering the librarians again, when a guy at the table behind us cleared his throat.
He had thick glasses, and a laptop with at least six random stickers plastered to the lid. He didn’t look up from the screen, but his tone carried across the space.
“You’re asking about Alice? The quiet girl with the purple backpack?”
Beth’s head whipped around so fast she nearly launched her drink across the room. “Yeah. You know her?”
“Kinda.” The guy shrugged, still typing. “We had some classes together at community college. She reads here a lot. Not really a talker, but she was cool.”
“Did you see her recently?” I leaned in, desperate not to scare him off. “Like maybe this week?”
He squinted at me over the frame of his glasses. “Yeah. Maybe a day or two ago. She was sitting right there.” He pointed at Alice’s spot.
My pulse tried to jackhammer out of my neck. “Did she talk to anyone? Did someone approach her?”
He shook his head. “Not that I saw. She was reading. Kinda zoned out, actually. Until, well, that’s what was weird.”
“Weird how?” Beth prompted.
Laptop Guy chewed his lip, thinking. “So she’s sitting there, and it’s like any other day.
Then suddenly she just snaps to attention.
Looks out the window. Stares for a good five seconds, maybe more.
Then she grabs her stuff and splits. Fast. Like she remembered she left the oven on at home, but more freaked out. ”
“Did you see what she was looking at?” I asked.
Another head shake. “I couldn’t see from my angle. She didn’t say a thing, she just packed everything and left.”
Beth scribbled furiously, then glanced at me. “Did you notice if anyone followed her?”
“Nope,” he said. “But I do know she had a book club thing that night. She told the barista she’d be back tomorrow, but…”
He trailed off, and I wanted to pound my forehead against the table with frustration.
Beth thanked him, businesslike, and closed her notebook with a snap that made the nearest plant jump in its pot.
We left Cedar Cup with more questions than answers, but at least we had something, a blip, a crack where panic had slipped through.
Outside, the cold bit a new angle into my bones, but this time I embraced it.
Beth turned to me, already walking fast enough to make me scuttle to keep up. “You’re not going to believe this, but I managed to get hold of Alice’s book club. They had plans to hang out at the park today and agreed to stop by the psych office beforehand.”
I didn’t bother hiding my hope. “Maybe someone from the club knows what or who she saw. Alice went right to her meeting after leaving the coffee shop. Could be that whatever got to her, she told them about it.”
“Exactly.”
Beth’s hands were already texting, probably running background checks on every bookworm in a ten-mile radius, but I was too busy replaying Laptop Guy’s story in my head. Alice, staring through the window. Alice, running for the door.
Alice, scared.
We wound our way through Mystic Hollow’s streets.
At the bakery, Deva’s staff lined up to take boxes of cinnamon rolls to the police station.
In front of the fabric store, Carol’s window display featured a scarf so violently colorful it blinded me for a half second.
Even the air seemed frazzled with expectation.
As the psychology office came into view, Beth slowed, her eyes sweeping the building, probably checking for sniper nests or whatever it was private detectives did in their spare time.
“Here’s the plan,” she said, pausing near the door. “We go in nice. No threats, no drama. If someone there knows anything, we keep them talking. Last thing we want is to spook them.”
“Fine by me. I’m fresh out of threats, anyway.”
Beth grinned, and for a second, it was almost like the world hadn’t gone completely sideways.
But then I saw Henry’s face in my memory. Drawn, haunted, expecting bad news. This wasn’t a game. We had to find Alice. No matter what it took.
I glanced at Beth, squared my shoulders, and got ready to believe this was the clue that would crack the case wide open. Because if it wasn’t, we only had her friend Krissy left to talk to, and then… well, we had no case.