Chapter 12 Above
Above
Being in my thirties means three drinks isn’t enough for a hangover, but I’m not exactly one hundred percent, either.
By mid--morning, I’m limping by on terrible office coffee and sheer determination, when all I want to do is curl up and take a nap.
I haven’t seen Dev yet. My mind insists on concocting a parade of reasons he might have decided he hates me now, picking apart every verb I uttered at dinner for a misstep.
Instead, he appears at lunch, my order in hand. “I can’t stay,” he says. “But I thought you might be hungry, and slightly averse to the bright light of the outdoors.”
“You’re a prince among men,” I tell him.
“That bodes well for my chances of a second date,” he remarks.
“It does.”
He sets the bag on the desk, and we make vague promises to check our schedules before he flees. I find myself smiling as I open my little cup of salsa—-and try hard to keep my promise and not think at all of missing girls.
Tuesday night, Len finally drags me over for dinner.
Kenny cooks, both Len and I having been declared menaces in the kitchen years before.
Len cracks a beer for me and we clink bottles, sitting to either side of the dining room table.
Len looks tired, which he usually does. Less from hard work and more from managing an increasingly cantankerous boss who should have retired a decade ago.
“How’s work? Bust any international smuggling rings?” I ask him.
“Ha ha.”
“Tell her about the raccoons,” Kenny says, leaning in from the kitchen.
He’s wearing an apron that declares i love tits and -boobies over an illustration of the relevant birds.
Len got it for him early in their courtship as a gag gift, not realizing the depth of Kenny’s commitment to a bit.
Now, every time he wears it, Len heaves a regretful sigh.
“I am not going to—-fine, they were breaking into trash cans. An old man thought they were Mexican cartel,” Len says, rolling his eyes. “God, I need a new job.”
“Take Chief Wagner’s job, he’s not using it,” I suggest, which only elicits another groan. I roll the beer bottle between my hands, bite the corner of my lip. “So. About Meghan Vale’s file.”
Len gives me a warning look. “Audrey . . .”
“I promise I’m not obsessed. Just curious,” I tell him. He doesn’t look like he believes me.
“I pulled the file. There’s not much in it you didn’t already know,” Len says. “Blake was the one who did most of the follow--up—-talked to the dad and the friends and everything. Did you know it wasn’t the first time she ran away?”
I shake my head. “I hadn’t heard that.”
“Couple years ago. She was gone for two weeks. Dad never bothered to report it,” Len says. “Eventually, she showed up at the Hope’s Hands shelter. They mediated contact with the father and Meghan agreed to go home. The family was offered counseling services, but they never showed.”
A little jolt goes through me. Hope’s Hands was founded by Elizabeth Hill, the siblings’ mother.
It was her life’s work. Even after her death, it limped along, providing services to homeless and at--risk youth and young adults.
Then it received two windfalls: Andrew’s football money and Melinda’s management skills.
Since the end of her political career—-or the pause in it, at least—-Melinda has been running the place personally. “That’s a weird coincidence, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” Len asks, challenging me with a raised eyebrow.
“Just—-she was on the Hills’ land, and at their shelter.”
“She’s not there now. We’ve checked,” Len says.
“Terry Butler saw her,” I say. “He said he chased her off. But the look in his eyes—-”
“When the hell did you talk to Terry Butler?” Len asks sharply.
My face flushes. “I dropped by the hospital. Just to ask him a couple questions.”
“Jesus, Audrey. This obsession—-”
“It’s not an obsession,” I insist.
Len heaves a sigh. “I’m just worried, that’s all. And saying maybe it’s not a complete coincidence that you’re throwing yourself into this right as a cute guy starts showing some interest.”
Kenny’s head pops back out of the kitchen. “Are we talking about the date? You promised you wouldn’t talk about it without me.”
“Then sit your ass down and stop babying the lasagna. It’s in the oven, it cooks, the end,” Len says.
“I like to watch it bubble,” Kenny says archly, but sweeps out of the kitchen with a glass of pinot in hand, joining us at the table. He crosses an ankle over his knee and regards me. “So. Spill.”
“That’s not actually what we were talking about,” Len says. “We were talking about Audrey’s unbroken streak of sabotaging every relationship she gets near.”
“I do not,” I object. “I haven’t sabotaged my relationship with you.”
“Mm. That’s because you’re trauma--bonded to each other. Different beast,” Kenny says. “Len’s right. You’re a disaster. But Dev can fix you. I have faith.”
I snort. “Seems like a lot to put on the guy.”
“You don’t need fixing,” Len says, sounding frustrated. “You just need to stop pushing people away as soon as they get close.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Not yet. But every time you get into a relationship, you start getting that look. Like you’re desperately searching for an escape route.”
I set my jaw. He’s not wrong. Last time, it was Jordan, and it was a man who’d gone missing a county over, out on a hike. Searches turned up nothing, but I knew the area. I knew that if I kept varying my path, I’d find him eventually. And so every spare minute, I was out there with Barry.
We did find him, in the end. What was left of him. And when I got home, Jordan was already packed.
“It’s not going to be like that this time,” I tell Len.
“Prove it,” he says.
“How?” I ask.
He takes a sip of his beer, locking eyes with me. “Go on another date with the hot teacher. And let me deal with Meghan Vale.”
“I was already going to go on another date with Dev, so no problem,” I say.
“And Meghan?”
I work my jaw, but relent. “I’ll let you handle it,” I say.
“Good,” he says.
We extend our bottles and clink them. “Now can we please change the subject?”
The conversation shifts to biology department drama. Every once in a while, I catch Len watching me, worry and skepticism dark clouds in his eyes. I tell myself that I’m going to do as I promised. I’m going to enjoy myself with Dev, and I’m not going to go any deeper down this rabbit hole.
I believe it all the way up until I’m leaving. I get on my coat and head out to the sidewalk, and right then my phone chimes. It’s an email. From the host of the Darker Half podcast, in reply to one I sent days ago and had almost forgotten.
I’d be happy to chat. I’m free tomorrow, if you’d like to give me a call.