Finding Faye:

by A. J. Andersen

  I know the girls who do that—work the parking lot—are usually tied up with not-so-nice men, usually the ones who hang out at the strip joint. It’s been my personal mission to stay as far away from those men as I can when they venture inside the diner. No matter how hard things are for me, I’m nothing but grateful that my life has not been reduced to the level of giving ten-dollar blow jobs in a filthy truck stop bathroom… or worse.

  I know that some of the other waitresses think I’m being uppity, but I really don’t judge them for what they do. I know that, at best, any of us are just a few steps away from having to face those kinds of choices. The few of us working here who are like me, who are really just there to hustle and wait tables, stick together the best we can. We aren’t what you could call friends, but we do watch out for each other.

  Ana, a new waitress about my age, is the closest thing I have to a friend, not that we take our chats any further than taking our coffee breaks together at a table in the corner. After her first day at work here, I walked her to her car at the end of our shift and handed her my canister of pepper spray. Her sweetness made me afraid for her safety. I’m not sure why she chooses to work here, but I suspect that, like me, she is hiding from someone.

  Probably her baby daddy from the few things she has let slip about him.

  I don’t think she told him she was leaving, let alone let him know about her pregnancy.

  I do know that she is sad. She misses him, I think. I won’t ever ask, it’s not my business, but I can’t help but wonder why she left when it’s obvious that doing so broke her heart.

  Reaching into my apron pocket as I get out of my truck, I confirm that I have my can of spray. I smile a little at the old aluminum baseball bat poking out from under the seat. One indulgence I pay for every month is time in batting cages. I’m not very good, but it makes me feel like I’m doing something to be ready to defend myself if it’s ever necessary.

  So far, I have never needed to use either the spray or the bat, but I always park under a light and as close to the building as possible. Better safe than sorry. I know that I can’t count on any good Samaritans here, so it’s up to me to keep myself out of harm's way.

  What it all boils down to is that I’m a twenty-year-old virgin who has NO intention of losing it to the kind of nasty-ass guy who frequents this place. I have no illusions that it couldn’t happen to me. It’s hard enough to get some of them to respect that I’m here to serve food, not be groped. That’s why I park under a light and don’t go anywhere without pepper spray. There is a much nicer truck stop just a little way up the highway, but I can’t work there. They actually look into the people they hire, and I know that my fake identity wouldn’t hold up to any level of scrutiny. That’s one problem with being on the run before you are even able to vote. I have no idea where to even try to get a fake ID that would let me get a better job, and I can’t risk actually using my real one either. So, here I am. Stuck.

  At the truck stop I am known as Francesca Andrews. Faye Cooper no longer exists anywhere but in my mind, and no one who knew her even knows that she is still alive.

  I shouldn't be scared anymore, I'm already dead. I'm a ghost.

  Chapter Three

  Travis

  I need to get out of town for a while. To get away from my house and the office and everything else. The lure of the cabin claws at me, making focusing on anything else impossible.

  It’s been fucking years! I’ve built a successful business with Blake. We have completed all kinds of investigations, and this entire time I have not once stopped looking for Faye.

  I don’t understand how I can be failing at the most important case of my life.

  I just need a break.

  I need to stop this downward spiral I’m in. I can hardly sleep. I don’t go out with the guys like I used to. Blake isn’t the fussy type, but even he has been worried about me. This morning, when our office manager Becca came in, I had already been glued to my computer for hours doing social media searches. She pushed a cup of coffee into my hand, and made me eat a bowl of cereal she has started keeping in the small breakroom. I know it’s there for me. She is concerned. All of my friends are.

  I never dreamed that it would be impossible to locate one girl. We don’t seem to have any trouble finding anyone else. Sometimes I have nightmares that she’s dead. Those are worse than the ones I have about my brothers who died while we were in the desert. I can face those dreams because I KNOW what happened there. As horrible as that time in my life was, it was real.

  And through it all, I had Faye. Her letters, her snarky observations, the rare photographs she sent—that connection with her made me strong. Carried me through the darkest of days.

  These nightmares about Faye, frightened, hurting, dying…they break me open. Every time I wake up remembering her face the day I left for boot camp, the day I promised her I would be back for her, I fall deeper into this cloud that surrounds me. The loss of her has bled all of the color out of my life. I stopped praying years ago, but when I think of her suffering I always find myself pleading with God to not have let her die while she counted on me to save her. The dreams are coming more and more often as I lose hope that I will ever find her. It’s hard to remember the happy FaceTime chats we had when she was a teenager anymore, the gloom surrounding me making even the good memories seem faded.

  I’m going to the cabin. I hope going there will make me feel her presence. I haven’t been back since the day I found her toy, and I regret that. I should have never missed a weekend, just in case. I don’t think I missed any clues the last time I was there, but I’m going to go look around again. Maybe stay for a couple of days. I might clear the road so it’s passable again, clean the cabin, and just try to get some sleep. Try to exorcise some of the guilt I feel.

  Fresh air and exercise should be good for me, right? At least it can’t hurt.

  The road is impassable, choked with vegetation. I leave my truck as far up the dirt road as I was able to get and hike in, carrying my rucksack and my sleeping bag. Not much has changed other than the overgrowth of the trail. The small log building still looks sturdy. Grandpa built it well. The years of neglect show in the mucky windows and the moss-covered roof but the walls look sturdy and the porch is solid.

  The front door opens easily, much to my surprise. The scent of dust and bitter mildew burns my eyes and nose so I prop open the door to air it out. I drag the musty linens outside, tossing them in the burn pit behind the house. The hand pump at the sink doesn’t work, so I find a bucket and haul water in from the creek so I can clean everything. The busy-work is good, and coupled with the music blasting from my cell phone it’s an effective distraction from my thoughts.

  For the moment, I’m content to be doing something that feels productive. I was right. I just needed to give myself a break from work, and from worry. I promised myself I wouldn’t check my emails until morning, so I plan to keep myself moving until I’m tired enough to sleep.

  Who knew housework could be this therapeutic. So far I haven’t found anything that would help me find Faye…

  Shit. Now I’m thinking about her again. I swear I can feel her here. Maybe I’m going crazy. Would I realize it if I was? I don’t really think I would, so I must not be.

  Frustrated and angry with myself and the whole damn situation, I drop the old mop to sit out on the stoop and concentrate on breathing through my feelings of being responsible for Faye being missing for so long.

  I have to stop this obsession I have about finding her. I have to accept that I’m not going to find her. If I was going to, I would have by now.

  Faye is lost to me. I failed her. She trusted me and I fucked up.

  Defeat settles over me. I sit there until the sun starts to go down before going back inside, and I pull an unopened bottle of whiskey out of my bag. I don’t know why I brought it, I really shouldn’t sit out here and drink myself into oblivion. I stare at it for a long time before moving inside to sit on the
cot before cracking the seal. My first pull on the bottle settles in my belly, and I take another, letting the comforting heat flow through my tired body and slow down my whirling brain. Maybe getting a little drunk will help me let her go. Just this one time.

  Chapter Four

  Faye

  The majority of my shift has been uneventful, which is the best kind of shift. There is a big man sitting in the section of tables that I just took over who makes me uncomfortable. He has been here WAY too long, and he looks dangerous. Not a rape-someone-in-a-back-alley sort of way though; this guy radiates a different kind of danger and power.

  I missed him coming in, but it’s obvious that he is tall, and the width of his shoulders would be impressive if he didn’t keep glancing at me in a way that makes me nervous. I can tell he has a gun under his leather jacket. Enough patrons of this diner come in packing, so I can spot a concealed carry from across the room most of the time. But really, it’s not the gun or his size that concerns me, it’s the way he watches me when he thinks I’m not paying attention.

  News flash, buddy. I’m always paying attention.

  He has been here for so long that he finished his meal over an hour ago. Sue, the waitress who had his section during my first shift, has topped off his coffee several times since then. I even took a break before starting my second shift, but he is still there staring at his phone, then looking at me with a furrowed brow and intense eyes.

  There is nothing at all interesting about me. I make sure that I blend in. I do nothing to draw attention to myself, so I just don’t get why he seems fascinated by observing me. I need to get rid of him. I don’t want him sitting in my section at all.

  I approach his table, plastering a huge smile on my face. “How are you doing here, sir? Would you like anything else, or can I bring your check?”

  His eyes go from my face to the nametag I have pinned to the bodice of my cheap polyester uniform. His eyes narrow calculatingly and his voice is gravelly when he quietly answers, “Pie, Francesca?”

  I get the feeling he is questioning my name and not the availability of pie. The glass case at the counter full of pies is evidence that we serve pie.

  An icy finger of fear traces its way down my spine.

  “Yes sir, we do have pie. What kind would you like?”

  One of us has got to get out of here. I can feel panic settling in my gut. Tightening my lungs. It’s hot and roiling and I’m overwhelmed with the urge to run. To just head out the door to my truck and go anywhere to get his gaze off of me.

  There is something glittering in his eyes that I can read. He knows who I really am.

  Suddenly he looks away from me and focuses his attention back on his phone. “Apple. To go, please,” he says politely, making me doubt what I was so certain I knew just seconds before.

  I sigh in relief, my anxiety fading back to a somewhat normal level. “Of course, sir. Let me go get that pie, and your check. I will be right back.” I still want him gone, but this time my smile is genuine as I hurry to the counter to box up the dessert.

  When I turn back toward the register I’m surprised to find him standing there waiting for me. He hands me a credit card with a company name on it. K&S Securities—maybe that explains his watchfulness. I have heard of the company, advertising on the radio, so he must be some kind of bodyguard.

  I feel much better now. It wasn’t me personally he was focused on—he probably watches everyone like that.

  I give him another small smile as I settle his bill, and as he turns to leave he meets my eye again. “The tip on the table is for the server who helped me earlier. You will hold on to it for her?”

  I nod my agreement; we have tip cups in the back for just this reason.

  He tilts his chin up in acknowledgment and slips his hand into his pocket before setting a folded bill on the counter between us. “This one's for you,” he says, and takes his box of pie, striding out the door into the evening light without a backward glance.

  I pick up the cash and unfold it. It’s a hundred-dollar bill! No one has ever left a tip that big for any of us girls at this dump. It must have been a mistake, or his way of trying to proposition me. I didn’t get that kind of vibe from him, but you never can tell. I hurry to the door to see if I can catch him before he leaves, to return the large amount of money, but he’s nowhere in sight. Guess it’s my lucky day.

  I’m still going to have my spray in hand when I leave tonight, just in case I need it.

  Tucking the folded bill back in my pocket, I smile to myself. I get to go to the cabin this weekend! It’s been a while, and I’ve missed it.

  The remainder of the evening goes by uneventfully, and I make it to my pickup without any trouble or unexpected visitors. I keep my mace held tightly in my hand, ready to be used, until I slide behind the wheel and lock myself in the cab. I check to make sure I know where my bat is and turn the key to start the engine.

  I sit for a few minutes, letting the old engine warm up a little bit. The dirt lot behind me is full, and I can see a couple women climbing out of trucks before going to the next one and knocking on the door. Again, I’m struck with a wave of gratitude that I have been able to keep my head up enough that I have avoided that fate.

  Turning onto the highway, I drive the few miles toward town and my little apartment. Double shifts suck, but I did okay in tips, even if I don’t count the hundred from the big stranger. I’m exhausted and smell like greasy diner food, but I have tomorrow off so I don’t need to wash out my uniform in the sink before I can take a shower and go to bed. I can just drop it on the floor and take a quick shower. Maybe I will go to the laundromat in the morning.

  Yawning, I pull in behind the garage. It’s pretty dark in the alley, and I don’t live in the best area, so I take my bat in hand before hopping out of my truck and jogging up the rickety flight of stairs and letting myself in. I turn both locks behind me and I release the breath I didn’t even realize that I was holding. I don’t work at night very often for just this reason. I don’t feel safe being out after the sun goes down, but I’ve been in this little space long enough now that it feels like home and is comforting to me in its familiarity.

  I strip down to my threadbare bra and panties, kicking the ugly uniform toward the laundry basket. I hate that thing. It’s scratchy, and no matter how much I scrub, it always smells like grease and makes my skin blotchy. I dream of the day I can burn it, but that day is so far into my future that I can’t even imagine when it might come.

  I’m up early, as usual. I don’t think I’ve gotten quite enough sleep in the last four years. I’m so tired this morning that I don’t even open my eyes. I just nestle into the warm comfort of my cocoon and pull the covers back over my head trying to force myself to relax enough to fall back to sleep. But it just won’t come no matter how many slow breaths I count. I’m too tense. My thoughts returning over and over to the man from the diner and the way he stared at me so intensely.

  Who called me Francesca like he knew it was a lie.

  I really don’t want to run again. Just the thought makes my stomach tight. I know it’s not much, but I have made something resembling a life here. I like my apartment; it’s cozy and I have fixed it up so that it’s a reflection of who I want to be and not the worn-out person I have become. It’s clean and tidy, with colorful curtains that hide the bars on the windows and soft blankets on the threadbare sofa and bed in the corner. I have a library card dammit! And a small stack of books that need to be returned on the small table beside the door. If I have to disappear they might not ever be returned, making me a book thief!

  I know I’m being ridiculous. I just can’t help myself right now.

  Giving up on the idea of sleeping anymore, I sit up in bed surveying my small space. My eyes on my small tank of goldfish. Their brightly colored bodies make me happy and their slow movements help calm me down. They are the first pets I have had since I was a little kid, and I will not give them up unless there is no other way.


  My dark mood lingering, my thoughts wander and I think about the dog I had before we went to live with Brad. He was just a little dog, some kind of terrier, I suppose. My mom took him to the pound right before we moved in. Brad, she said, didn’t like dogs. Brad didn’t like anything, but mostly I think he didn’t like me. I have always believed that the only reason my dog had to go was because it was mine. If mom had said he was hers I’m sure we could have kept him.

  I’ve considered adopting a dog, but I’m so afraid I will have to run eventually. It would break my heart to have to abandon my dog, but it wouldn’t be fair to a dog if I ended up living in my truck. At least Chuck, the old guy who owns the auto shop and my apartment, likes my fish. I know if I have to disappear again, he’ll just move them downstairs to his office and take over feeding them. Sighing dramatically, even though I’m alone, I flop back against my pillows. I need to get over it. I’m sure everything is fine.

  I’m still telling myself that as I slip out of bed and open my mismatched curtains, letting the early fall daylight stream in the windows as I water my small pots of fresh herbs and feed my fish. Instead of going out to do my laundry, I decide to wash a few things in my small tub and hang them to dry from the shower rod. It saves me time and money that I’d rather not spend. The few other chores I have don’t take long either, and I drop wearily onto the sagging cushions of my sofa with a cup of coffee and a book I picked up from a yard sale over the summer.

  Yeah, this is just what I need. A nice, quiet day alone to relax and recharge my batteries. I might even take a nap later. I can’t even remember the last time that I indulged in a nap.

  Chapter Five

  Travis

  The whiskey was a mistake.