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Thursday

Natalie

“Which hours are you available to work?” asks Cal Baxter, the owner of Docksiders.

“Doesn’t matter,” she admits. Her summer vacation isn’t exactly packed. “I mean, it’s summer break. And I can bike here whenever.”

After two days, Tessa has already bailed on their job hunt. She’s going to take an online college course instead, so she’ll still have something to brag about on college applications. Her parents don’t care that much, and Natalie wishes her mother had the same attitude.

As if.

Mr. Baxter grins. “Working at Docksiders on summer break—it’s practically a family tradition at this point, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she agrees, even though she hasn’t discussed this with her mother yet. Or her father. He’s back in the kitchen right now, prepping for the lunch rush.

That’s how she got this idea. Her dad is always saying how strapped for help Mr. Baxter is, especially in the summer. And the guy hasn’t even asked her to fill out an application. They’re just sitting at the deserted bar drinking seltzer with lemon and talking.

“All right, tell ya what,” he says, smacking his lips. “You’ll come in at four today and learn to be an expediter. Thursdays aren’t as crazy as a weekend night. Then tomorrow, come in at eleven and we’ll also train you to hostess. I’ll look at next week’s schedule and see where the gaps are, okay? And we’ll either put you on the door, or you’ll be running food out of the kitchen. I’m sure I can give you three or four shifts a week, no problem.”

“That’s great, Mr. Baxter,” she says. “I’m in.”

“Marilyn!” he yodels. “Bring me a W-4 and an I-9?”

“What?” a voice calls from somewhere nearby. “Your legs broken? Come and get it yourself. Or send your latest victim in here.”

“I’ll go,” Natalie says, sliding off the stool. “Thank you for giving me a try.”

“You’re gonna do fine, honey. It’s not rocket science. Ask Marilyn for a T-shirt. You got black shorts or a black skirt?”

“I’ll figure something out,” she says.

“Bet you will.” He drains his soda. “How do you tell when you’re old? It’s when your employees’ kids ask you for a job.” He shakes his head. “See you at four, okay? Your dad can help train you.”

“See you then.”

***

She bikes home with two Docksiders T-shirts over the handlebars.

“Are you sure about this? You’re going to smell like fried fish,” her father had warned her when she went back to the kitchen to tell him.

“It’s only for the summer,” she’d pointed out. Embarrassment set in about one second later, because this is his full-time job. But he’d only smiled at her.

Working with him will be nice. And now her mom can’t nag her to find a job anymore, because she found one.

At home, she pulls the bike into the garage. She heads for the kitchen door and is surprised to find it standing open. “Mom?” she calls, nudging the door the rest of the way with her toe. Her mother must have stopped home for lunch.

No answer.

She goes inside and finds the kitchen empty. Something feels off. Her heart begins to pound.

But then Lickie comes through the doorway, tail wagging, and the cat is right on her heels.

“Hi,” she says, sinking down to her knees. “Hi, girls.” She opens her arms and Lickie invades her personal space, snuffling into her hairline and giving her forehead a brief, polite lick. Meanwhile, the cat makes a silent inspection of her knee before slinking away.

Her heart rate drops back into the normal range. After showing Lickie some love, she kicks off her sandals and carries the T-shirts into the living room, dropping them on the couch. “Mom?” she calls again.

Silence.

Okay, that’s weird. So it must have been Natalie herself who left the door open? Big yikes. Luckily, her mom never has to know.

Natalie climbs over the back of the couch because it’s faster than walking around. She plunks down and opens her phone to see what everyone is up to. As she props her feet on the coffee table, she notices something unfamiliar. A wallet in the center of the table. It’s blue and orange and made out of some kind of shiny material like you’d find on a heavy-duty shopping tote.

It must belong to her dad, but it doesn’t look like his style. She sits forward and flips the wallet open. The first thing she sees is a driver’s license. From New York State. The name on the license is Timothy E. Kovak.

She sits back quickly, the wallet flopping closed. She tries to think of a reasonable explanation for why the hell it’s sitting on the coffee table in her living room, but there just isn’t one.

She picks up her phone and calls her mom.

“Natalie?” Her mother answers on the first ring. “Is something wrong?”

“I just got home, and the door was open. Then I found Tim’s wallet on our coffee table.”

“You... what?”

“Tim’s wallet. It’s blue and orange. And it’s sitting on the coffee table. His ID is inside.”

There’s a brief, shocked silence. “Are you home alone?”

“Well, yeah. Dad’s at work.”

“Get out of that house. Leash up the dog, go outside. I’m on my way.”

“Okay?” She’s struggling to catch up. “There’s nobody here.”

Or is there? Natalie springs to her feet and turns around, glancing up the staircase and then into her father’s room. She seems to be alone. But her heart is pounding again.

“Go outside,” her mother repeats. “And hang up, because I have to call the police now.”

“Right,” she says, her voice wavering. Her phone beeps to tell her the call has ended. “Lickie! Let’s go outside.”

The dog is instantly on her feet. Natalie leashes her with shaking hands. And then she walks the dog out the front door so quickly she doesn’t even stop to find her shoes.