by Sarina Bowen
“Want it,” the toddler on Benito’s chest says.
“You already got yours,” Zara says. “Skylar?”
“The, uh, pumpkin muffin, please. And a large coffee. Thank you.”
“Double that order,” Benito says, taking out his wallet.
Zara waves his money away. “Special occasion.”
“Wait, what?” Benito gasps. I assume he’s just kidding around until I get a look at his face. “Who are you, and what have you done with Zara? Or is there something wrong with the muffins? Bad batch?”
“No! Jesus.” She bites her lip. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“Thank you,” he says. “You’re my favorite sister.”
And his only sister. She moves away to pour our coffee without comment.
“Usually you pay, huh?” I ask, still finding her behavior strange.
“Sure. If you have four brothers who really like baked goods, you kinda have to put your foot down. Between Zara and Audrey they’re related to half the county.”
“Good point.” I look around again. “This place is great. And that baby is seriously cute.”
“Not baby.” The little girl pouts. She doesn’t think much of me. It must be genetic.
“I know you’re a big girl,” Benito says. Then he pretends to stagger under her weight, which only makes her giggle. My ovaries start twerking again. Even when Benito was a teen-aged motorcycle-riding bad boy, he was still sweet. Picturing him with kids was never that hard.
I’m in deep, deep trouble here.
Zara sets two full mugs and two plates down on the counter. “Trade you,” she says, holding out her arms for her daughter. “I have to run upstairs and hand her off to Alec.”
“Mom’s not babysitting today?”
“Not ’til later. She’s getting her hair done.” Zara takes her daughter and leaves the shop.
I watch her go, a million questions in my mind. Like—how is she still so beautiful? What redheaded man is her baby’s father? And how did everyone grow up to be functional adults, owning coffee shops and bars, while I’m still struggling with my first job out of college?
Revisiting my past is trippy.
Benito somehow carries all our goodies over to a cute little sofa facing a marble-topped table. On my way to join him I pass a support beam that functions as a blackboard. Some amusing person has chalked the following sentiment up there: If you love someone, set him free. If he returns with a cup of coffee, he’s a keeper.
Benito sits down and pats the sofa cushion beside him. When I sit, he puts an arm around me. “You good?”
“Yep. Just taking it all in.”
He grins, and then hands me a mug of coffee. “Must be weird seeing all of us again. And if you’d asked me nine months ago who Nicole’s daddy was, I couldn’t have told you.”
“I wouldn’t have asked,” I say quickly. “I’m not nosy.”
Lies, lies, lies! I’m totally nosy.
He smiles, as if he can hear my thoughts. “No—I meant I couldn’t have told you because I didn’t know. Zara had a fling with a professional athlete. Then they went their separate ways for two years. It was all kinds of drama. But then he came back this past summer and now they’re going strong together.”
“Wow.” I take a big bite of the muffin and then moan. “Oh my God. This is so good.”
Benito chuckles. “I can tell.”
“No really.” I take another bite, and it’s just as amazing.
“Jesus, honey.” Benito shifts in his seat. “I’m getting all riled up over here. You keep making that noise, we’re going to have to finish breakfast naked.”
“What? Oh.” I suppress a shiver when I realize what he means, and on the next bite I manage not to moan again.
“Look.” Benito watches me with warm eyes. “I’m sad to say I have to go to work for a couple of hours. You can hang out here or at my place.” He puts a set of keys down next to my phone on the coffee table.
“Okay,” I say around a bite of muffin. “You don’t have to do that, I could, uh…” I try to think of somewhere else I could go and come up blank.
“Please. Take my keys. The front door code is May Shipley’s birthday.” He rattles off a date. “Six digits. And will you let me know if you hear anything from Raye? If she texts you, try to ask questions. If I could find her and question her, this whole situation could be cleared up.”
“But she doesn’t want that,” I argue. “And anyway, I know she's not into drugs.” Is she? Are there yoga instructors who do drugs? “Is it pot?”
He shrugs, unreadable.
“Ben!”
“You don't want to know. I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”
“Yes.” I always have before. “But if Rayanne is somehow involved, please remember that it might not be her choice.”
“I get that. I really do. Let me do my job and find her again.” He eats the last bite of his muffin, drains his coffee and stands up. “Text me when she makes contact with you.”
“Okay.”
“I probably can’t answer you right away if I’m on the job. But text me if you need anything at all. The Wi-Fi password in the coffee shop is busybean. In my apartment it’s on a sticker on the bottom of the modem. If you have any questions about my place, ask Zara. She lived there last summer.”
“Thank you. I will.” It’s a lie, though. If I was drowning I wouldn’t ask Zara for a lifeboat. She’d probably run me over with it.
Benito kisses me on top of the head. “Be well. I’ll be back in time for a late lunch. I hope.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say, and give him an awkward wave. Then I stare at his butt as he walks away. He really fills out a pair of jeans.
Good lord. Even if sex is not my thing, I can still enjoy the view.
I finish my excellent coffee. Zara may be a bitch but she makes a nice cup of joe. The coffee table has a daily edition of The Colebury Standard. Since I’ve got little else to do but worry, I pick it up, sit back on the sofa and scan it.
For a local rag, it’s not bad. I’m something of a newspaper connoisseur at this point. This year I’ve sent résumés to every news outlet in New York and New Jersey, hoping to land a better job. I’d love to work for a struggling local paper as long as they let me do some real reporting.
Let’s face it—I hate doing the traffic and weather in low-cut tops. But jobs are scarce, and I don’t have great bylines to prove my worth. Every time I apply for an opening, the job is always filled internally. I am rarely even interviewed.
This week’s local news is pretty grim. The lead story is: “Twelve Overdoses in One Month: New Vermont Record.” There’s a photo of a smiling farm boy who died just last week. He was found on the floor of his parents bathroom after shooting up. There was fentanyl as well as heroin in his bloodstream.
“Fentanyl is really lethal,” the local drug-awareness counselor says in a quote. “Even experienced drug users have a high risk of accidental overdose.”
Sadly, it’s not the first time I’ve read this story. It’s a national pattern. First-time users get hooked on prescription painkillers. When those get too expensive, they switch to street drugs like heroin and fentanyl—a synthetic drug that’s made in a lab, so it’s super strong. Pure fentanyl is so potent that a dose the size of a peppercorn is enough to kill several people.
I skim the article again before letting the newspaper slide off my lap. Is this what Benito is working on? Is this what Jimmy Gage is doing these days?
The burner phone chimes from inside my bag, and I actually jump, because the sound is unfamiliar.
Checking in. Nothing to report, Rayanne has written.
Well that’s just underwhelming. I could sit here for days at this rate. You need to tell me what you’re doing, I text back. Benito thinks maybe you’re involved with something bad. So if you’d just explain yourself he won’t keep thinking up ways to find you.
Nice try, she replies immediately. But we’re doing
this my way. I don’t trust anyone.
Not even me? I ask. That’s low.
I trust that you care about me. But you think I’m a screw-up just like everyone else. If I told you the whole story you’d tell Hot Cop, and that would get me killed. I know what I’m doing and I don’t have time to listen to your arguments.
Well, darn it. For once I don’t have a comeback. I hate this. Be safe.
I will. Raffie?
Yes?
Did you do him yet? Was it hot?
And now I’m mortified, because Benito will see this message. And even if he wouldn’t, I still wouldn’t know how to answer. Because the truth is that I came close and then bailed. I don’t know what you’re talking about, I reply.
She sends me an eggplant emoji. And then a laughing emoji. Rayanne is the worst. But she’s all I have.
I’m grumpy now, and grumpiness requires a second cup of coffee. I pull a five out of my wallet, but leave my handbag on the sofa. That’s something I’d never do in New York, but the seven other customers in the Busy Bean are too busy with their own conversations to steal my Kate Spade.
The cute guy is minding the counter. “Can I help you?”
“Could I have a cup of coffee?” I slide my five toward him.
“Sure.” He pushes the money back. “But Zara said your money is no good here.”
“Why?” That makes no sense.
He shrugs. “Enjoy it, because I never heard her say that before.” He refills my cup with a smile.
I can’t imagine why Zara suddenly wants to buy me coffee. It’s the weirdest thing.
But I have bigger mysteries to solve. So I go back to my seat and drink my coffee while pondering Jimmy Gage. From a comfortable seat in the world’s coziest coffee shop, I can think of him as a puzzle to be solved, and not the scariest person in my former life.
Staying away for twelve years means that I don’t have too many facts, though. I know that he’s no longer a cop. Rayanne told me he lost that job a couple of years ago when the Colebury police chief went to jail and the new guy cleaned house. That’s really all she’d told me because she knows I don’t like hearing his name. But she assumed I’d like hearing that he got fired.
She was right. I did like it. But now I wished I’d asked more questions.
Paging Dr. Google.
I pull out my phone, but a search on his name isn’t very illuminating. There’s only a one-line mention of his departure from the police force. And when I search the Vermont Department of Corrections for his name, I come up dry. So he hasn’t ever been incarcerated.
If I had my office laptop I could perform a background check. But I don’t, thanks to McCracken.
All I have are more newspaper articles on the internet about New England’s fentanyl problem. There are plenty of these, and I spend the next two hours reading about the flow of drugs from the big East Coast cities. Dealers drive it into Massachusetts, New Hampshire, and Vermont, touring the smaller towns like a low-budget rock band playing smaller clubs. By driving the drugs into rural areas, dealers can charge two or three times what they can on the streets of a big city.
Maybe Jimmy Gage saw a business opportunity? An ex-cop would already know all the lowlifes in this area. Even without his badge, they might still be afraid of him.
It’s all speculation on my part. But that man is capable of anything. And the newspaper is full of dying kids.
I stand up, drain the last of my cold coffee, and put on Benito’s fleecy shirt. It’s time for a walk.
“Need anything?” Zara asks when I carry my cup and plate to the bussing station. “You can stay as long as you want.”
“No thanks,” I say, giving her a wary smile. I want to believe that anyone can grow and change. But this girl hated me back in the day. “I’m going outside to get a little exercise.”
“Have fun,” she says with a friendly wave.
I don’t trust it.
Outside, I cross the parking lot and run upstairs to put my bag in Benito’s apartment. Then I tuck my wallet and his keys into my pocket and leave.
I head uphill like I did last night. The idea of entering Rayanne’s ransacked house isn’t quite as scary in the watery March sunshine.
When I reach the house, the key is still under the Buddha statue, just like she’d said it would be. I open the door. “Hello!” I call hopefully.
Silence.
I walk in and close the door behind me, surveying the mess. It’s startling to see my stepsister’s belongings tossed around. But Rayanne doesn’t have a lot of clutter in her life, so it won’t take me long to clean up. I move around the living room, placing all the yoga magazines in a tidy pile on the coffee table. The yoga mats and blocks are easily stacked.
The only broken thing in this room is some kind of diffuser for essential oils. She’ll have to replace that. But I take the time to tidy up her books, straightening them on her shelves. Their covers feature yogis looking calm and enlightened. And—fine—they look just a bit smug. Whatever.
I move lovingly through the house, straightening up Rayanne’s possessions and looking for clues. Where is my stepsister, who tossed her house, and why did she want that kayak?
Upstairs, Rayanne’s bedroom floor is covered in clothes, and the drawers are all open. But I don’t pick up the clothes because I spot something on top of the dresser. It’s a laptop. I tap the keyboard a couple of times, and the screen blinks to life. It’s not even password protected.
Benito seems to think that Rayanne could be involved in something illegal. But come on. No password?
I stand there in her messy room and open the browser, pulling up a map of the state of Vermont. If I were a kayaker, I guess Lake Champlain would be the obvious destination. It’s huge, and has great access to New York State.
Would a drug dealer care about water travel, though? To get to New York you can drive over a bridge or take the ferry. And the amount of drugs a girl could fit into kayak is smaller than in a car.
I really want to believe that Rayanne is innocent. But who goes boating in fifty-degree weather? It’s something to consider.
The jerk who ransacked this house has knocked Rayanne’s garbage over on the kitchen floor. Apparently my sister likes kimchi, bananas and whole-wheat tortillas. It’s starting to stink already. So I gather up the garbage and shove it in a fresh bag. Then I take the whole mess out the back door.
Outside, I scan the garage. There’s a pickup truck parked in there, facing out. But no room for trash. Turning, I locate two metal trash cans against the back wall of the house. One is full already, and smelly as heck. But the other one is empty except for a cardboard box in the bottom. Before I can drop the trash onto it, the photo on the box catches my eye.
I grab the box out of the can—is this is some classic investigative reporting, or what? Then I dump the trash and read every word on the box, which once contained an action camera—the kind that you can strap onto a helmet. The very enthusiastic packaging explains all its uses. Skiing! Boating! Wherever life takes you!
The camera is waterproof and it comes with both a chest strap and a helmet attachment. Interesting. Rayanne has a sporty boat and a sporty camera. Either she’s giving up yoga to make river-rafting videos, or there’s something else she wants to film…
The sound of knocking stops me cold. Three distant, muffled raps, probably on Rayanne’s front door. “Raye!” a gruff voice says. “You in there?”
It’s not an exaggeration to say that I am suddenly frozen with fear. Because that voice belongs to Jimmy Gage. And I’m the idiot who’d left the front door open for him.
Later, I’d realize that darting toward the back of Rayanne’s property line would have gotten me out of there quicker. But I’m sixteen again and terrified. I’m like a bunny trying to make itself invisible to the wolf, cowering against the back of the house, clutching the cardboard camera packaging.
The only act of self-preservation I manage is to crouch down, hiding myself from view
of the kitchen window.
“Hey, Rayanne? Where are you?” My body flashes hot and cold as his voice advances toward me. I hear his footsteps on her kitchen floor, and I couldn’t breathe even if I wanted to.
“Sparks, she's not here,” he says from a terrifyingly close distance. The wall is the only thing separating us. “Place is fine. Why would you ask?”
Terror creeps down my spine, and I feel sick. How many people are in Rayanne’s house?
It takes me another minute to realize he's having a phone conversation. “She's just not home. Her truck’s in the garage. Maybe her hippie friends took ‘er to a yoga retreat. And since when do you ask the questions, fuckwad? My kid is a flake, but you’re a meddling asshole. Just do your job and keep us out of the fucking papers. You’re wasting my time right now.”
The back door creaks open and then immediately bangs shut, and I startle like the virgin in a horror movie.
But then the sound of Gage’s voice dampens, as if he’s facing away from me. “I’m going to grab lunch, and afterward…” His side of the conversation recedes. Still, I nearly swallow my heart. I think he might be leaving.
I wait, listening to my heart pound. But Jimmy Gage does not reappear at the back door, or anywhere in the yard. At some point I hear a car start and drive away, but I don’t look. You couldn’t pay me to move from this spot.
The silence deepens. Eventually it’s replaced by other neighborhood noises. The chatter of a pair of joggers running down the block. A truck rumbling past. Gage is gone, but it takes me a little while longer to move. I basically scramble to a section of wall that has no window and stand up. I shake out my legs and then finally bolt toward the property line. A row of pines conceals a neighboring house. I run through the yard and then down the driveway, finally arriving at a sidewalk.
Slowing down, I try to stop acting like a crazy person. I walk down the sidewalk, wondering where to go. I feel exposed. I turn on my phone and send a text to Benito with shaky fingers. Call me when you can.
