Page 10
Chapter
Ten
B y the time I’ve convinced the cops that everything is fine and whoever had called them had been mistaken, it’s almost three in the morning and I want to perish on my front porch. I’m too tired to wonder who called the cops, and why, though part of me wants to believe Cassian isn’t as skilled at breaking and entering as he thinks.
But I eventually manage to get a few more hours of sleep before my alarm screeches through my questionable dreams, forcing me back to the world of the living against my will to get ready for my next shift at the diner.
“You can’t quit your job,” I mutter as I tug open the back door that leads to the kitchen. “You cannot quit your job.” But it’s harder to convince myself of that when all I want to do is take a nap on the counter. Mom doesn’t charge me rent, no matter how many times I’ve offered to pay it, and even though I chip in for groceries, bills, and streaming services, I always feel like I’m not doing enough.
It’s fine, Winnie, my mom is always quick to tell me while waving off my concerns. This is just a jumping off point until you find your path in life.
Path in life, she says, like I’ll find it on a map. With a degree that’s not that particularly useful and zero ability to keep a relationship going for more than seventy-two hours, my path in life is shaping up to be questionably employed cat lady.
“You can’t quit your job,” I sigh, tossing my keys into my little cubby that’s marked with my name in the back of the diner. Martha can’t let go of a few old-fashioned practices, like cubbies, but I can’t complain. Not when I think it’s adorable and pretty heartfelt that she insists on doing it for everyone, no matter who they are or how long they stay working here.
“I mean, you could.” Jeremy drops his keys in the cubby next to mine with a huff. “No one is stopping you. Unlike me. I can’t quit my job.” He grimaces, freckles standing stark against his skin that looks a little paler today.
“You need to go to the tanning bed,” I observe. “You’re looking a little anemic there, Jer-bear.” He shudders at the nickname an old girlfriend had insisted on using. She may be long gone, but I will never let the nickname die. “And yeah, you’re right. Your mom would end you if you tried to quit.”
“Death is better than Friday night shifts,” Jeremy is quick to reply, turning to look at me sullenly. “How’s your hand, by the way?” He gestures to it, and eyes the new bandage taped to my palm.
“Achey,” I admit, flexing my fingers. “Doesn’t exactly feel great when I wiggle my fingers.” To illustrate my words I curl and uncurl my pinky and ring finger, even though it makes my stitched up palm sting.
“Okay then, maybe don’t ?” Jeremy recommends. “Maybe—” He’s cut off when Martha comes out of the back office quickly, her face pale and expression reminding me of someone who’s just seen a plane crash.
Not that I have personally ever met someone who’s seen a plane crashing, or seen one crash myself. Both of us watch as she nearly runs out the back door, phone clutched in her hand.
“What’s wrong with your mom?” I ask, puzzled. I’ve never seen Martha look so shaken, and I’ve watched her sit with a customer with a shattered cup stuck in his leg and burns on his hands.
Jeremy shrugs his bony shoulders just as our cook, a middle-aged veteran called Gio, rounds the corner. “She’s just runnin’ out for a bit,” the older man says in his slow drawl. “Come on, you two. Just because Martha’s not here doesn’t mean the diner isn’t opening.”
His voice is a wake-up call and I grin at him, a little embarrassed at having to be told to do my job. “Sorry, Gio,” I say, and Jeremy echoes the sentiment while Gio just rolls his shoulders in a shrug.
To my surprise, Martha isn’t back by the time we open for breakfast at seven am. Normally, her favorite part of the day is chatting with the regulars that always come in for coffee and a place to read the paper while they gossip. But today, it seems…empty. I note that a few of our regulars also aren’t here, including the woman who helped Martha clean up on Friday when I’d sliced my hand open dramatically.
From what I know of her, she’s one of Martha’s oldest customers by far. And she grew up with the diner owner. I’ve never learned her last name, no matter how many credit card receipts I’ve looked at, but I do know her first name starts with an L.
Or a C.
Maybe an A.
I shrug off the thoughts, figuring it doesn’t matter if I know her name or not, as long as I can continue to get her coffee order right.
When Martha’s car finally pulls back into the parking lot close to noon, it’s followed by a cop car that slides into the parking spot beside her; the car is sleek and newer than most of the others in front of the diner. It’s not uncommon for the local cops to eat here, but this is a state trooper, not even a county cop. Jeremy and I trade looks from across the front of the diner, and the confusion on his face shows me he doesn’t have any idea what’s going on either. We watch, both of us slowing at our tasks as Martha comes in the front way, her face pinched and drawn and tear stains on her cheeks.
“Mom?” Jeremy gravitates toward her as soon as the door opens, concern heavy in his voice. He sets down the tray he’d been carrying to reach for her, as if worried she’s going to fall over at any moment.
The officer comes in a moment later. Sunglasses obscure his eyes, even though the day is a cloudy one. He’s more in shape than half of our town police, with a mouth not made for smiling and brown hair cut in a buzz against his head. He’s the definition of cop , and his picture could be in the dictionary for how cliche he looks.
His boots even shine in the bad light.
“I need both of you to come with me for a few minutes,” Martha tells us quietly, beckoning me over as she does. My heart flips in my chest, though I don’t know why. It’s not like I’ve done anything wrong.
Except lying to the cops about an intruder in my house last night.
“Actually…” The officer looks between Jeremy and me. “I just need to talk to her, ma’am.” He nods in my direction and this time I jerk my chin upward like I need to deny some accusation that he hasn’t made.
The look Martha throws my way is worried, and she hesitates. “You can use my office, if that’s all right,” she says finally, nodding at me to set down the tray I’m still holding. “I’ll take your tables, Winnie.”
“Okay.” I have no idea what’s going on, or why this cop is here. I don’t know what I could’ve done, but my brain keeps going back to Cass being in my house the night before.
Does this officer know? Worse—does he think I’m a killer’s accomplice?
I needed you to know I didn’t kill her. Cassian’s soft voice seems to sound in my ears again, but staring into the cop’s face, my confidence waivers. Somehow, for some reason, I believed him when he was in my room last night.
And I still believe him.
The cop follows Martha to her office, where she leaves us with a worried frown in my direction. She puts a comforting hand on my shoulder as the officer walks in to sit at her desk, taking up the only chair in the room and leaving me to stand awkwardly in front of the desk.
“You can close the door,” he invites almost lazily, taking off his sunglasses to look at me with small, dark eyes.
Dislike settles in my chest as I do what he says, leaning back on the door once it’s closed. I don’t like being in a small space with a man I don’t know, and my racing heart is proof of that. He doesn’t speak right away. The officer seems content to stare me down, like I might suddenly break and confess all of my sins to him.
Joke’s on him, though. My sins have been on public record for years. The thought makes my lips twitch in amusement, but naturally he notices and leans forward to rest his arms on Martha’s desk.
“I’m Officer Trudeau,” he says at last. “You’re Winnifred Campbell.”
I don’t like when people tell me my name like it’s something they can lord over me, but I force myself to remain neutral. I only nod, not saying anything out loud. It’s not like he’s asking me anything. Or accused me of anything, I suppose.
“I was surprised when I looked you up in the system,” Trudeau continues. “You had a rough time of it when you were young, huh?”
“Guess so,” I reply, forcing myself not to fidget or move like I’m hiding something. I don’t cross my arms or shove my hands in my pockets. I don’t even move except to readjust my weight against the door behind me. “Do you need something from me, officer?”
Please don’t ask about last night , I beg silently.
“The police were called to your house last night by a concerned neighbor. They said they heard a struggle and saw someone in your room around one am. But then you told the police that wasn’t true, and that you’d been asleep.” His eyes never leave mine as he talks, and he drones on flatly in a voice that would put my math teacher to shame, with how lifeless he sounds.
“That’s true. Do you need me to say it again? Or elaborate?” I ask, my words bolder than I feel.
He chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “Calm down, Winnifred. You’re not in trouble here, I’m sure.” I don’t like the way he adds on the words I’m sure , like there’s still a possibility. “You know Edith Baker, yes?”
I blink owlishly at him, running the name through my head over and over to see if I can recognize it. “No?”
“She’s one of your regulars. A good friend of Martha’s?” Officer Trudeau prods.
“Oh!” So it hadn’t been an A or C or L like I’d thought. Apparently my memory for names is worse than the average person’s, judging by how I hadn’t even realized who he meant upon hearing her name. “Yeah, I know her. She’s here every morning. Except this morning. Did, uh, did something happen?”
If this is about her, then I really can’t be in trouble. I haven’t seen her since she hugged me on Friday and told me I’d be fine before Martha bustled me into Jeremy’s care to head for the urgent care center.
“She’s dead.” He doesn’t hesitate or soften the blow in any way. And considering the way he watches me for a reaction, I can’t help but wonder if he thinks I’m going to give something away by my reaction.
And then, belatedly, I wonder what he thinks there is for me to give away.
“Holy shit,” I murmur, sagging against the door behind me. “Dead? What happened? She wasn’t sick, right?” To my knowledge, she hadn’t been older than sixty or so. That would make sense, anyway, if she really had grown up with Martha. “Was there an accident?”
“No, Winnifred.” I hate the way he says my name. It grates on my ears like a poorly tuned instrument. “There was no accident. She was found this morning around four am.”
“I was dead ass asleep,” I reply before I can think better of it.
“And you were home alone, right? Your mom is out of town?” God, it’s creepy that he just knows that without referencing anything.
“Yeah. She does it a lot.”
“So you’re alone a lot.”
For a moment, I don’t reply. I don’t understand what he’s getting at, but I remind myself I have nothing to hide. “I’m alone a lot,” I agree at last, my skin prickling with anxiety.
“And where were you the night before? When Lacey Clarke was killed? I’ve heard you were at the crime scene that morning. Did you know about it beforehand somehow? You don’t live in that area.”
I’m already shaking my head before he’s done talking. “I was babysitting my nephew,” I say slowly, like he’s an idiot and I’m trying to explain things in simple terms. “Scott. His mother is my half sister, Louisa. I babysit for her all the time.”
“So it was just you and your nephew?” His eyes never leave mine, but he isn’t taking notes.
“Yes—wait. No.” I grimace apologetically. “My friend showed up and stayed the night, too. She was there when my sister got home as well.” I expect him to ask why, or something equally probing. “My friend’s name is Reagan Darcelle.” Maybe she can be my alibi, and I can be hers. Just in case Officer Trudeau has a grudge against babysitters.
“All right.” He gets up unexpectedly, levering himself up with his hands. With a sigh, he heads for the door, and I sidestep it so he can rest his hand on the knob. “Just one more question.” He turns to look at me, blocking the door and holding it shut.
My lungs seem to constrict in my chest, and I have to remind myself this isn’t the same situation as when my dad trapped me in his office.
If I scream, someone will hear me.
If I scream, the people around me won’t ignore me and hope that things work themselves out.
“You were the girl in the house when Cassian Byers killed his sister, right?” Officer Trudeau asks quietly without looking away for even a moment.
I blink and meet his eyes, unflinching. “Does it matter?” I ask finally, my words slow and hesitant. “Does it have something to do with what’s going on now?”
Suddenly Officer Trudeau smiles, and his hand twists the knob until he can push the door open. “Probably not.” He chuckles, slipping his mirrored sunglasses back on. “Probably just a coincidence, you know?”
“What’s a coincidence? That someone died in Hayden Fields and I was breathing a few houses down the street?” I can’t help the derision in my tone, or how much I want him to leave.
His grin widens and he shakes his head in a way that makes it seem like he’s watching a child playing at being an adult. “No need to be so defensive, Winnifred.” I will never not hate how he says my name. “Just thinking out loud. You have a good day, all right?” He nods his head and brushes past Martha, who stands by the cubbies with a napkin twisted to shreds in her fingers. The officer nods to her as well and disappears into the front of the restaurant, and even when he’s gone I stare after him, considering.
“Winnie?” Martha steps closer to me, pulling my attention to her. “Is everything okay?”
“Is Edith really dead?” I ask instead of answering. “Was he telling the truth about it not being…an accident?”
Martha’s face twists, but she forces herself to nod. “They said she was stabbed. The same way that girl, Lacey Clarke, was stabbed. It was just like…” but she trails off when she looks at me, and I don’t need her to finish to know what she was going to say.
It was just like what happened before with Cassian.