Page 55

TRIPP

The sun is barely cresting above the pine-draped ridge when Boone, Knox, and I pile into Boone’s matte black Audi.

The interior is thick with anticipation, silence pulsing between us heavier than words.

Boone’s hands are tight on the wheel, his jaw set.

Knox sits in the back, a steady warmth behind us, his gaze locked on the road ahead, unreadable.

Sip-A-Brew's neon sign flickers against the early morning haze as we pull into the gravel lot. The familiar jangle of the bell above the door feels ominous this time, a warning rather than a welcome. The aroma of coffee—usually comforting—does nothing to ease the tension threading through my veins.

Who I know as Charlene is behind the counter, her back to us as she fusses with the espresso machine. When she turns, her eyes widen, darting from Boone to Knox, finally settling on me. I can see the calculation in her expression, the moment she realizes this isn’t an ordinary morning coffee run.

Boone’s voice is firm, cutting through the awkward quiet. “We need to talk to Al. Now.”

Knox moves a fraction closer, his presence a silent promise: this time, none of us will back down. I meet Charlene’s gaze head-on, my own voice steadier than I expect. “We know what he did to Remi.”

Charlene looks confused for a moment, but continues to smile. The three of us stand united, refusing to let her dodge or deflect—Boone’s anger simmering just under the surface, Knox’s restraint a coiled threat, and me, finding strength in their solidarity.

For the first time, Charlene’s smile falters. As Boone lays out every detail, Remi’s pain hanging heavy in the air, I see Charlene’s defenses crumbling. Knox’s voice is low, edged with warning, “He’s not walking away from this, Charlene. Not after what he did.”

“Mr. Hastings, I know this may come as a surprise, but I really don’t know what you’re talking about. I was here yesterday, yes, but the only thing I saw was Remi run out of here like her butt was on fire.”

“That didn’t give you pause? It didn’t make you question why someone like Remi would run out of here when she’s never done so before?” Knox asks.

Her eyes flick between all three of us. “It did, yes. I just figured she would call me later and fill me in since she left me here by myself during the night rush.”

“You thought wrong,” I say, taking a step forward until I rest my forearms on the counter. I’m still three heads taller than her, so she has to look up to keep eye contact.

“Um, well, Al isn’t here. I had to open up the shop by myself this morning and call in Marcia. Remi never showed up for her shift.”

“And she won’t ever again,” Knox growls through clenched teeth.

My fingers drum restlessly against the laminate, tension sparking along my spine.

Every muscle is taut, primed—if Boone’s next words don’t land, I’ll be over this counter in a heartbeat, decorum be damned.

It takes everything I have to root my feet to the ground, to smother the urge to vault the barrier separating us from the truth.

The edge of the countertop pushes into my forearms, biting a silent warning: not yet.

But if Charlene tries to dodge again, I’m not sure I’ll be able to hold back.

“Okay, so this is how it’s going to go. You’re going to move aside and allow us to go to his office.

You’re going to pretend that nothing is wrong, and we’re just having a meeting with Al.

You see nothing. You hear nothing. You do nothing ,” Boone says, leaning toward the counter in a threatening manner.

He's the least threatening of all of us. I’m heavily tattooed all over my body, with a nose ring and tongue ring, yet the professor is the one acting like a bad ass. It’s laughable if the situation weren’t so dire.

“O—Of course,” she stammers.

Charlene sidesteps, her hands trembling as she retreats just enough for us to pass.

I move first, never letting my gaze waver from her.

My stare pins her in place—sharp, unblinking, a silent promise that any sudden move won’t go unnoticed.

Even as I round the counter and push open the swinging kitchen door, I keep her in my peripheral vision, tracking every anxious twitch and shallow breath.

Only when the door swings closed behind us, separating her world from ours, do I finally let my focus shift, the imprint of her nervous posture still etched behind my eyes.

The hush of the hallway presses in, our footsteps muffled on the worn checkered tiles as we move in a tight knot.

Tension lingers, a palpable thread tugging us toward the end of the corridor where Al’s office waits like a sealed vault.

The fluorescent lights overhead flicker, casting our shadows long and feverish against pale walls lined with faded flyers and the occasional scuff mark—silent witnesses to quieter days.

We don’t speak; there’s no need. Every stride carries the same urgency, every glance exchanged a silent communion of dread and resolve.

My pulse thrums in my ears, an insistent drumbeat that matches the measured pace of our group.

Boone’s jaw is set, Knox rigid at my side.

As we near the door, an icy current sweeps through me—the kind that precedes a storm.

And then, as one, we stop.

The door is wide open, gaping into darkness, as though someone—something—has wrenched the lid off a secret best left undisturbed.

For a breathless moment, none of us moves.

The unnatural stillness feels like the inhale before a scream, all of us suspended on the threshold of discovery.

My heart stutters, and I sense the others beside me doing the same—an unspoken understanding, a single collective pause before the unknown.

“Charlene was telling the truth,” Knox states, stepping closer to the dark and empty room.

Collectively, we push the door wider and flip on the light.

A cold, metallic tang lingers in the air as we edge forward, drawn like moths to the carnage.

Papers avalanche from filing cabinets, fanning across the floor in frantic, windblown drifts.

A battered chair lies overturned, one wheel hanging off at an awkward angle.

The desk—usually straight as a fortress—has been knocked askew, its drawers yanked out and upended, their contents spilled in a chaotic sprawl of pens, wrinkled receipts, and coffee-stained memos. Somewhere, a shattered mug crunches beneath my boot, releasing the bitter ghost of stale espresso.

Shelves have been ransacked, books torn from their spines and hurled into wild piles; one volume gapes open on the carpet, its pages splayed like broken wings.

The lamp is toppled, its shade split in two.

Scuff marks and dark smears mar the linoleum, evidence of desperate struggle.

Even the framed photograph on the wall hangs at a drunken tilt, glass cracked, the smiling faces inside fractured by impact.

Everywhere, the room vibrates with the aftershock of violence—an office transfigured into the aftermath of a storm, the story of its undoing written on every battered surface and scattered belonging.

“Wonder what happened in here?” Boone asks, stepping further into the room. He goes to an open book and picks it up, closes it, and looks at the front of the cover. He then tosses it back onto the ground where he found it before looking elsewhere.

“How could Charlene miss something like this?” I ask, craning my neck to get a good view of the entire room.

Boone and Knox meet my eyes. At the same time, they come to the same conclusion as I do.

We turn back toward the doorway. Adrenaline pumps through my veins as I make my way through the hallway and back toward the entrance.

We slam through the door that leads to the back, emerging to the front where the customers are.

And there’s no sign of Charlene anywhere.

She’s gone.

The sudden hush of the coffee shop is almost surreal after the turmoil behind us.

Customers murmur in small, uncertain clusters—some glancing up with startled eyes, others hunched over half-finished pastries, their faces pinched with confusion.

My gaze sweeps the café, searching for any sign of Charlene’s familiar silhouette: her crisp apron, the flash of her easy smile.

However, the space brims with strangers, each one studiously attending to their own business.

I scan the tables in a slow, deliberate arc, heart thudding as if I might spot her hiding in plain sight.

Instead, my attention snags on someone I don’t recognize—a new face, moving with a brisk, unsettling competence.

They pour black coffee into heavy mugs, weaving around tables with unsettling ease, pausing here and there to deliver a word or a smile that feels rehearsed, out of place.

Their hair is slicked back, nametag conspicuously blank, and their eyes flit up just long enough to meet mine before darting away.

I watch as they set down a steaming cup at a corner table, check an order slip, and move on, blending into the rhythm of the café as if they’ve always belonged. But I know every employee in this place—and I have never seen this person before.

“Who are you?” I ask, stomping toward her.

Her eyes widen as she comes to a stop, coffee pot dangling from her fingers. “I’m Marcia. I’m the new hire here at Sip-A-Brew.”

“New hire, huh?” I ask, looking her over. “Pretty convenient.”

She nods. “Al called me last night and said I was hired if I still needed a job. Told me to come in and get right started. I’ve worked in a coffee shop before, so I know my way around pretty easily.”

“Again. Pretty convenient.”

She scrunches her brows. “Can I help you?”

“We’re looking for Charlene, the lady who was just at the counter a few moments ago. We need to speak to her again.”

She looks between us, trying to figure us out. “Can I ask why?”