Chapter Twenty-Two
On the walk from the Metro to the coffee shop near Breakneck, I check Tyler’s Instagram no less than five hundred times.
Still at the top of his grid is the picture he posted this morning of him and his little sister in Brooklyn.
The post is a couple hours old, but even if Tyler left seconds after it was taken, it would be at least five hours before he got back to DC.
Still, I refresh his grid at least four times before sliding my phone back in my pocket.
Even though I’ve been to Breakneck a bunch of times to catch glimpses of Tyler, I’ve never been to the coffee shop a few doors down.
It’s pretty small, with only a couple tables crowded atop a large, shaggy red rug.
Plants hang from hooks above the front window and white twinkle lights criss-cross the ceiling.
At the back is the counter, where there’s enough room for an ancient cash register covered in band stickers, a huge coffee machine, and a glass case filled with the day’s sugary pastries.
The shop’s lone barista stands behind it, talking to Max.
They’re laughing when I reach them. Max usually wears button-downs at F’resh, clearly marking the divide between him and the rest of us.
Today, though, he’s in olive-green corduroy pants, a black-and-white-striped T-shirt and a camel-coloured cardigan, his hair a mess of curls he keeps trying (and failing) to flatten down with his palm.
It makes him look less like a corporate drone. Softer.
When he turns around, Max smiles. ‘Hey,’ he says brightly. He throws a thumb at the barista. ‘Indie, this is Jake. We went to high school together.’
I lift a hand to wave. With his long black hair and swirling tattoos ringing either wrist, Jake isn’t someone I would’ve pictured coming out of Arlington Prep, home of future politicians and baby CEOs.
As if reading my mind, Max says, ‘Jake is one of the only cool people I knew there.’
‘It was a really low bar,’ Jake says.
I snort. ‘But I thought Arlington Prep was like, a chill-dude factory.’
The moment the words leave my mouth, I know they’re a mistake. Max has never told me he went to Arlington Prep. I only know it because I stalked him on the internet.
Heat floods my cheeks as the corners of Max’s mouth twitch.
‘Good detective work,’ he says appreciatively.
‘What d’you guys want?’ Jake drums his hands against the counter and takes a step back. No small feat, considering the area between it and the matching counter behind is criminally tiny. ‘It’s on Max, so go crazy.’
I swallow. My throat feels like a Slip ’n Slide without water.
‘I’ll just have a mocha,’ I say quietly.
Another customer comes in behind us as Max orders, so once he pays, I mumble my thanks and we sit at one of the tables while Jake makes our drinks.
I take in a deep lungful of air, try to breathe out the burn of embarrassment in my chest. Only my best game face will work here if I’m going to convince Max that I actually want to sneak into Breakneck’s back office.
‘Okay,’ I say with an impressive amount of determination. ‘We know there should only be one person we have to avoid. Breakneck’s super small, which usually means only one staff member works at a time.’
‘Got it.’ Max folds his arms on the table, which is covered in more scuffed band stickers.
If he was weirded out by my admission of stalking, he doesn’t show it.
‘I’ll distract whoever’s working while you go in the back and look around.
You said the office is at the back of the store, so if I keep the clerk at the front, no one should see you. ’
‘And if there are other people shopping?’ I ask.
‘We wait until they leave.’
I nod. Fewer witnesses. And luckily, Breakneck isn’t exactly the type of booming business that usually has a revolving door of customers.
‘Do you know what you’re looking for?’ Max asks.
No, because I’m not actually looking.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Voodoo dolls, I guess? Or a spell book?’ If Max thinks the idea of an actual spell book is weird, he doesn’t say anything, or so much as react. ‘Have you ever seen one before?’ I say tentatively.
‘Only in movies,’ he says.
I lean back in my chair, shrinking slightly. Although, it’s not a total dead end. Max might’ve seen a spell book at his house, he just didn’t know what it was.
‘I’ll try to buy you as much time as I can.
’ Max fishes around for something in his pocket.
He displays his upturned palm, in which sit what look like the little plastic soy sauce pods you get in grocery store sushi, except the liquid inside these is brown-red.
At my uncomprehending frown, Max says, ‘I brought fake blood capsules so I can really sell it when I faint.’
I lurch away from him. ‘You brought—’
Max stares at me, his eyes shining, and my stomach does that stupid swoop thing again. Except this time, it’s from guilt. He brought fake blood capsules?
‘Okay, no fainting,’ I say quickly. ‘No fake blood, no illnesses. Nothing that would require calling the paramedics. You promise?’
His jaw drops slightly. ‘I promise,’ he stretches the words, eyes darting around the room as though to avoid mine, ‘not to do anything I don’t have to.’
When our drinks are ready, Max scoops them up and we wave goodbye to Jake. Max passes me my drink as we head outside and walk the few seconds to Breakneck.
Only one other customer is inside, looking through the crate of reggae records near the back. At the front, the clerk stands behind a counter, staring at his phone. As expected, he’s alone.
Tables line the two longest walls of Breakneck, each stacked full with crates of records.
The main section is at the front, alphabetised, with the general sort of everyday albums. At the back is where the more specific genres are: reggae, hip-hop, classical and punk.
Each wall is covered so completely in band posters, not an inch of the plaster beneath is exposed.
All four corners of the store are empty of video cameras, probably with the reasoning that the place is too small to need them.
Every sign of Tyler’s turning is gone: the smashed front windows, the broken crates, the gouges in the walls.
Without a word, Max and I move towards the general albums. He begins skimming through their covers one by one, coffee cup clutched in his free hand.
Both hands wrapped around my drink, I just stand beside him awkwardly, watching.
Above us plays a hard rap song I’ve never heard before.
I bring the cup to my lips, let a little of the still-too-hot liquid slip down my throat.
The chocolate flavour is deepened by the tinge of bitter coffee, a perfect blend of warmth as the jitters of embarrassment still ricochet up and down my arms. Letting the fact that I’d done research on Max slip was a rookie mistake; the internet is very steadfast in its assertion that one of the key elements of a successful undercover operation is to never let on that you know more about your target than you’re supposed to.
It’s an immediate indicator that you’re not who you say you are.
I manoeuvre around Max to the crates of records on his right, surreptitiously watching him for signs that his guard is up around me. But he looks exactly the same as before, his eyes trained on the records, his head bobbing almost imperceptibly to the beat overhead.
‘I had to make sure I didn’t give my number to an axe murderer,’ I blurt.
Max’s fingers still on the albums as he turns his eyes towards mine, amused. ‘Is that right?’
‘Yeah.’ Looking at him feels like opening my eyes underwater. I glance away, take a long sip of my drink. It’s the perfect temperature now. ‘I mean, I’m trusting you with a big secret with the whole—’ I wave my hand in a circle, indicating the store, Tyler – ‘so I needed to do some research.’
He nods, flicking through the records again. ‘What else did you find out?’
I turn towards the crates of records and use one hand to flip past the slice of cardboard marking the K section. There’s a surprisingly large collection of albums by some band called the Kinks.
‘Just that you’re planning the gala, where you went to school,’ I say, attempting to sound nonchalant. Not like a stalker. ‘Boring stuff.’
‘So, nothing about all the people I’ve murdered?’
He says it so coolly, I can’t help but laugh. ‘No,’ I say, disregarding the way his face breaks into an easy smile. His teeth are so straight. ‘Surprisingly little about the murder spree.’
Max scoffs. ‘That’s sprees, plural.’
My fingers land on an album with a black-and-white cover.
On it are two people, a man and a woman; the camera is zoomed in far enough that the picture is just of their faces.
Their eyes are closed as they lean in for a kiss, their lips just barely touching, the man pulling the woman in with one arm.
For just a half breath, I can imagine what it would feel like, the weight of Max’s arm around my shoulder as he pulled me close.
At just the thought of it, shivers zip down my spine.
He would probably say something stupid and I would laugh, so that I would be smiling as he kissed—
Max’s mouth is suddenly close to the side of my face as he whispers, ‘It’s on.’
My whole body jolts, the records I’ve been holding at bay slumping backwards to cover the album with the kissing couple.
The spot on my cheek where I felt his words fizzles, but I scrape it with the back of my hand until the sensation goes away.
Against his chest, Max clutches a single album. He steps backwards, away from me.
‘Remember the signal,’ he mouths.
I give him a thumbs up. The signal. Max and I agreed that once his distraction has run its course, he’ll start coughing loudly. That’s when I’ll have to emerge from the back room, hopefully unnoticed.