Finding Tessa

by Unknown

  “Yes, please, and add a toasted bagel with cream cheese today.”

  “Rough night?” she asked with a chuckle.

  Good Lord, how was he supposed to answer that question?

  “You could say that.”

  He stepped away and gazed out the window, minimizing the possibility of being pressed further for details. Hannah took the hint as she focused on his order. Taking in the moment of normalcy, Jace spaced out, peering through the glass. A few old men sat on the benches that lined Main Street, probably up for hours already, reading newspapers, Bean Addiction cups in their hands. Were their lives going according to plan? Who were they? Widowers? Bachelors by choice? Or were their wives just missing?

  Things weren’t all roses with him and Tessa of late. It could be his fault. But the detective’s discovery of who she was, or wasn’t for that matter, rattled him.

  “Here you go,” Hannah called, and set his coffee and a small paper bag with their logo on the counter.

  “Great. Keep the change,” Jace said as he plunked down a ten.

  He didn’t usually leave double for a tip. He and Tessa weren’t exactly flush with cash. If he was able to land VistaBuild, there’d be a sizable bump in his bonus come Christmas, but until then, they had to stay on budget.

  They. Was that even real now? Or was it just him?

  He careened his car onto Main Street and he made an illegal U-turn to go back to the bank. When he pulled into the lot, there were no other cars there. Where had Rosita gone?

  Coffee in hand, he opened the front door with a passcode and secured it behind him—they didn’t open for walk-ins for another forty minutes. He flipped on the lights with his free hand and the fluorescents overhead stuttered for a moment as the bank buzzed to life, room by room. He swiveled his head left to right—it was definitely empty, yet he felt like someone was here. Was he being watched? Of course he was. The bank cameras were always watching. But it was something else. What?

  Tessa being gone was making him uneasy. That must be it. Settling into his office, a twelve-by-twelve space with a big window facing east, he set down his coffee and bagel and dropped his wallet and money clip into his center drawer, looking at the chairs on the other side of his desk, reserved for clients, with a wistful glance. Tessa had decorated his office. He told her what type of look he wanted, and he let her “vibe out,” as she called it, in Home Goods. She’d returned with those two chairs, navy, sturdy, and comfortable, with rounded backs and black legs. The pictures on his wall were sloppy paint splatters in shades of blue, and he started to notice the little things. How the light-blue in the paint complemented the navy fabric on the chairs. How the penholder and his mainstay ceramic mug, both also blue, now fit the space. The fake palm tree in the corner of the room sat in a blue planter. Tessa’s mark was everywhere.

  Wait.

  The blue leather picture frame that held their wedding photo on the desk was missing.

  Jace ducked beneath the desk to search the floor. Nothing. Yanked open his drawers, his discomfort growing with each empty space. It was nowhere. A tear stung behind his eyelid, but he blinked it back. He felt like a shit—he’d only noticed it now because she was gone, but how long was the picture missing? It wasn’t like he stared at it every day. And he knew it was there earlier in the week, because one of the guys from VistaBuild, Andy, commented on its simplicity when he was in the office earlier in the week and complained about how his wife forced him into all these elaborate shots.

  But why would it disappear? Why now?

  It was like Tessa was being erased from his life.

  Jace turned on his computer and waited for Trey—he was going to have to tell him that he was taking a half day to try to sort this out, so he wanted to get a head start on his work.

  Twenty minutes later, the door opened, and Rosita blew in wearing a fitted flower-patterned dress and another pair of what she privately called her “fuck me” pumps. Her huge emerald earrings didn’t match her outfit, but she never took them off. He looked away, but she stopped at Jace’s door.

  “I thought you were coming in late?” she said. “Anything from the detectives?”

  Jace looked up from the computer. “Nope.” He wasn’t going to divulge that they knew about Tessa’s fake Social Security number. How would that look for him? He knew it was fake too.

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Hey, were you here earlier? I passed to get coffee at Bean Addiction, and I swore I saw your car in the lot.”

  Her eyes popped for a half a second before she forced out an answer. “Nope. Must’ve been someone turning around. Or using the ATM.”

  He’d thought that for a minute too. “Did you speak to Solomon?”

  “Left a message. Waiting for him to call me back.”

  “Good,” Jace squared his shoulders toward the screen again.

  Rosita hovered for a few beats, then turned to go to her smaller, windowless office.

  That’s when it hit him. The smell. Her perfume.

  That’s what was familiar to him in the entryway when he first got to the office. Rosita was there, and she lied.

  “Hey, Rosita. Come back a second.”

  She turned toward him, her lips pursed seductively. “Yes?”

  “My wedding picture is missing.”

  She shrugged. “And that has to do with me because . . . because why?”

  His eyes narrowed. “No reason. I thought maybe you’d seen it. Are you sure you weren’t here earlier?”

  Her expression was of a six-year-old caught with her hand in the candy jar. “I said I wasn’t. I—I have work to do.” She turned and left. Quickly.

  Jace smelled that perfume this morning. She lied. Why? He was going to find out.

  6

  TESSA

  It’s still light out after securing my ID card, so I walk to Walmart and buy a towel, a fitted sheet, a small pillow, and a large blanket. All together they cost less than forty bucks—gotta watch that bottom line—but I want to make sure I don’t have to touch anything in that hotel room when I’m sleeping, and I need a nap before I figure out what to do with the rest of the night.

  The rest of my night. My time. My own time.

  A skinny white man-boy with a greasy ponytail who stinks like his last shower was four days ago offers to assist carrying my packages into my room. I decline, and he curses at me. He has meth mouth and the shakes, and probably wants to rob me for a fix. When I get inside, I lock the door and grab one of the burner phones and google my ex.

  Nothing is out yet about him or me being missing. Maybe he didn’t call the cops at all. I honestly never knew from one minute to the next how he’d react to any situation. Maybe he’s glad I’m gone.

  No. Too controlling. He’d never let me be the one to leave.

  I strip the bed and lay out the sheet, then wrap myself in my new blanket and dream of my future. Of finally being loved.

  When I wake, it’s past dinnertime, even for me. My ex liked to eat early, as soon as he was home from work, and his dinner better have been ready, or else. I prefer my meals in the seven-thirty range, but who was I to argue with someone who controlled every last move I made? Now it’s dark, and I remember that the only thing I’ve had all day was an energy bar I packed in my purse. I have two boxes of them with me. That’s it. Energy bars and clothes. They’re cheap and get the job done, and I learned as a preteen in Foster Home Number Whatever that sometimes, it was find yourself an energy bar or don’t eat.

  I’ve hoarded them my entire adult life. Asshole didn’t try to starve me like Foster Mother Number Whatever, or that one ex-boyfriend from senior year of high school, before I ran off. (Why are you so fat? I’m getting pizza, you ain’t getting shit!) That was said when I was a petite size four. The last Asshole and I ate quite well, actually. I mean, I could order the sixty-dollar New York strip, I just wasn’t allowed to finish all of it, no matter how famished I was. There was something left in my subconscious that always needed a
secret hiding place full of energy bars. Just in case. I’m like a dog with a bone, hiding the damn things in clandestine corners in case I never eat again. My favorite is strawberry granola, or chocolate with frosting if I’m feeling wicked.

  This morning, I ate the chocolate one.

  Looking out the window, the groups of people downstairs have doubled in size and male versus female ratio. Competing car stereos blast, one playing Jay-Z and another playing 50 Cent. Everyone talks above the sound, which makes everyone shout. It’s like a garbage-people block party in the parking lot.

  Thinking of the only person I trust right now, I take the card I got earlier and call Hobart, who agrees to pick me up in fifteen minutes. I spend the rest of the time covering my bruise and applying makeup that complements my bone structure. A contour brush can really go a long way. My eye makeup, overdone because of the bruise, looks harsh under the bathroom lighting, and I overcompensate with more eyeliner, which now that I step back and admire, looks good surrounding my gray eyes. Sultry. It should look better under the low lights of a bar.

  I’m wearing jeans and a black silky tank and heels when Hobart texts me that he’s waiting at the light right before the shithole and will be there in less than two minutes. He didn’t want me waiting outside alone in the dark. Which is great really, because I’m used to feeling unsafe, but this situation outside right now is, in a word, hazardous. But it’s only for tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll find a place that’s safer. I needed to be here, local to the shady places, until I secured my ID in case I was being watched as soon as I took off. I wouldn’t want the ex to think I had money. His money. I’ve been swiping twenties off the grocery cash almost since the beginning.

  This time around, I’m not going to hook up with the first loser I come across. Usually, I’ll find someone who sweet talks me right out of my pants, and I’ll believe that this time it’s different.

  It never is, though. My mother was a product of three straight generations of white trash, and it showed. She got pregnant with the twins at fourteen—by someone who worked construction with her father. A grown man. Gave birth when she was fifteen. Jumped from loser to loser, had babies with all of them—learned behavior from her own mother, who I don’t even remember.

  At least I did the right thing both times I got pregnant. My body, my choice. I really did try to break the cycle, and not popping out multiple children with no way to care for them was a start.

  The TV was the unofficial babysitter in my house when I was little. The twins liked reality TV. Christopher and Kenny liked violent movies. I was raised by romantic comedies, and Reese Witherspoon was my favorite actress. I dreamed of being Elle Woods in Legally Blonde or Melanie in Sweet Home Alabama. Boss babes. Girls who get it done and are still able to find someone to love them, flaws and all.

  A horn beeps. Hobart. I grab my denim jacket and open the door. Chants from the derelicts in the parking lot grow louder as I descend the stairs. Same vulgar shit as earlier in the day. One guy calls me Mami and says something about my concha. His girl slaps him across the face, then threatens to cut me, like it’s my fault that her man is staring. Hobart’s cab is just beyond her and she feels vindicated as I get into the back seat. Like her Yeah, keep walking, ho threat has anything to do with me leaving.

  The cab still stinks, but I’m grateful for potbellied Hobart and his good sense.

  “Thanks for coming,” I say as he attempts to pull away from the melee.

  “I knew you were gonna need me, in a place like this,” he says as one of the men outside pounds his fist onto the trunk of the cab, prompting more Ooohhhhh! chants from everyone outside. “So, where you headed, lady?”

  “Call me Tessa. We’ll probably be great friends for a few weeks,” I say with a laugh. “And where are we going? I don’t know, Hobart. I’m new to the area. I’m in the mood for a good meal. Take me someplace nice.”

  “There ain’t nothing nice ’round here, but the next town over has a nice little area. Lotsa bars and restaurants. How far are you willing to go?”

  “Well, how far is it? I don’t want to be an hour away from my fantastic living situation. But take me anywhere that a girl can sit at the bar alone and have a nice meal with a glass of wine and not be considered a prostitute.”

  He chuckles. “Nah, not in that area. And you’re lookin’ at ten minutes. This side of town has the bus depot, so it gets the colorful people—I mean the real colorful people. The runaways, the whack jobs, the druggies—” He looks at me in his rearview mirror. “—the people hiding stuff.”

  Ahhhh, Hobart, you crafty devil, you. He knows I don’t belong here. I’m quiet the rest of the ride, if only to appear mysterious now. Take that, Hobart.

  Hobart assures me he’ll be available for a ride later if I need one, my own personal Uber and bodyguard. The restaurant he recommends and drops me in front of looks like a classy wine bar from the outside. Asshole used to take me to a similar place in town. I open the door and survey the area as I step out of the cab. The place isn’t very busy for a Friday night, which I welcome. Behind the bar, there are violet lights, amethyst if you will, uplighting the bottles against the mirrored wall, giving the place a jazzy vibe. I take my place on a leather bar stool, the kind that has a small spot you can lean back on, and I slip out of my denim jacket, laying it across the stool beside me.

  I’m hungry. I’m thirsty. I’m in dire need of—

  “Welcome to Wine Loft.”

  His tag says Damon, and he playfully slings a cardboard coaster with the restaurant’s name and logo in front of me, then smiles when it lands just so at the tip of my fingers.

  I’ve had bartenders before. Usually from the local watering holes that serve dollar beers and host dollar wing nights. Those from the past wore beer-logo T-shirts, cargo shorts, and flip-flops, and we’d do a shot or two, flirt, another shot, and I’d be counting ceiling tiles. Most of them were nice, until you did something without their permission, then the jealous rages always came out. Plus, they were alcoholics for the most part. Violent, small-town, trailer-living alcoholics.

  Damon wears a long-sleeved black button down, with the wrists folded back, and I see the outline of a tattoo on his left arm peeking out of the cuff. His black pants and belt fit exactly right, and there’s no ring on his finger. His dark hair is swooped off his forehead, making my stomach flutter. Dark hair is my thing. Every last Asshole had dark hair.

  “What do you suggest, Damon?” I ask.

  He looks at me funny, then at his own name tag. “Ahhh, yes. I’m Damon. You’ve robbed me of the opportunity to introduce myself.” His smile is killer. Clean. Straight, white teeth. “What can I get for you?”

  An open-ended question if I ever heard one.

  7

  JACE

  Jace waited as Trey walked across the beige bank floor, past Jace’s office where he tipped his head as a good morning, and headed into his own office. The best course of action was to get it over with. He waited until he heard the regular morning sounds—Trey’s plastic coffee mug he came in with every morning hitting the desk, the squeak of the chair spinning, and a few buttons being tapped on the keyboard indicating Trey logging into the system. Jace stood and flattened his pants, then walked over.

  Trey’s door was open, and he had just taken his seat when Jace stood under the doorframe and knocked on the wall outside the entrance, even though his head was already poking in.

  “Got a minute?”

  Trey’s dark eyes peered through his glasses. He looked the same as he always did—pants, collared shirt, sweater vest. Those damn sweater vests, even in the summer. Tall and dark-skinned, he gave off a Carlton Banks vibe. Probably danced the same too. His frown indicated frustration at Jace’s presence. Things had been weird between them for the last couple of months. Since the incident.

  He flung open a folder and scattered papers around, using the George Costanza method of look-annoyed-and-they’ll-think-you’re-busy, but Trey probably was annoyed.
r />   “Right now?” he said, grabbing a pen.

  “It’s important.”

  Jace entered the office, bigger than his own and with two windows. A corner office, naturally. He shut the door behind him and took a seat on one of the big leather chairs in front of his desk. Trey’s office was decorated differently than Jace’s. He’d offered up Tessa’s expertise, but Trey was clearly afraid of color. The beige surrounding didn’t stand out from the rest of the bank. There were no plants, no knickknacks. One photo of him and his wife, Aleesha, and not even a wedding photo—one of them on a boat, on one of the annual vacations they took back to the Bahamas to visit her family. On one wall, he had an American flag, and on the other, a picture of the current president. Politics aside, he thought it was good for business to show unity.

  “I need to talk to you about something,” Jace said.

  Trey took off his glasses and pinched the top of his nose. “This again?”

  “No. Not that.” Jace should’ve known it was going to be about Rosita and the—inappropriateness that went on. That had already been addressed, and even though it didn’t stop, Jace knew better than to get Trey involved again. “Listen, I’m only going to be here for a few hours today. I have to get home. Tessa. She’s—” She’s what? Jace still struggled. “She’s missing. She wasn’t there when I got home last night after Jupiter’s and there was broken glass and blood. I called the cops. They’re looking into it.”

  “Missing?” Trey’s eyebrow lines appeared, showing his midforties age even though he didn’t normally look it. “Well, where the hell is she?”

  “I don’t know. The cops are suspicious. They took DNA and—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold up, Jace. Is this a murder investigation?” His eyes went wide, and he gritted his teeth. “We’re about to land the VistaBuild financing. If you’re implicated in a missing-persons case, then—”