“I hadn’t heard that.” Of course, if Chelsea was killed, the killer could’ve broken into her place and taken her things. I wouldn’t put that past someone forward thinking enough to bring grizzly hair to a crime scene.
Frank seems elusive about something, but he appears to genuinely believe that Chelsea skipped town.
For a man of God, he doesn’t seem to hold her or Amber in very high regard. Maybe in his eyes, they’re just another couple of lost causes in a town that makes a minister mow his own church lawn.
“Do you know of anyone around her age that’s left?”
“A few. But it’s normal. There’s not much out here for young people. My kids live in Colorado and Vermont, but I wouldn’t call them missing. Even if they don’t call all that often.”
“How does your wife feel about that? Empty-nest syndrome?”
Frank’s face tightens. “She’s helping my oldest daughter in Colorado with her kids.”
I’ve been around enough broken families to catch the code words for a separated couple. Even in this day and age, that’s got to be embarrassing for a Baptist minister. A big part of what they do is relationship counseling. His own split might discredit him some in the eyes of his congregation. Even if not everyone is meant to stay together.
“You married? Or was Juniper close?” he asks me.
The question comes out of left field. “Me and Juniper? No. She was my student. Never married, either.”
“Sorry. I hear stories about professors. Don’t mind me.”
So do I. “Well, I haven’t seen her in years. Technically, she has her doctorate now and probably teaches—or taught—undergrads. So, it wouldn’t have been inappropriate, I guess. Not now . . .”
It’s a strange thought. In my mind I keep seeing the twenty-year-old girl awkwardly sitting next to me in the pizza parlor. She certainly looked a little older in her photos, but I wouldn’t call it aging. She was twenty-five. A little on the young side for me, but nothing that would have batted an eye on campus if she had a graduate degree and wasn’t one of my students anymore.
I shake the thought out of my head. I’m here because I feel paternal toward her, not because of some unspoken romantic feeling I had for her.
“Do you know how I could get in touch with Amber?”
“Amber? Why?”
“I just want to hear her side of the story.”
Frank releases a small groan. “She’s a piece of work. Trouble. She’s been arrested several times. Not exactly what I’d call reliable. Dishonest, to be more like it.”
He’s pretty judgmental for a man whose job is to help people find forgiveness. “Just the same, it’d give me some piece of mind.”
“Suit yourself.” He taps into his computer and writes a number down on a slip of paper. “I used to coach the girls’ high school soccer team. Here you go.”
“Thank you.” As I get up, I think of a way to reciprocate. “I noticed some bags of fertilizer in the mower shed.”
“Yeah, I use it to keep the lawn nice and green.”
“It’s surprisingly so. Most of the fields around here are brown. Just so you know, though, that’s an industrial-grade fertilizer. I’d cut it down to a third or so. You’ll have to mow less often, but the grass will look as good.”
Frank smiles as he holds open the door. “That explains a lot. Someone donated it to me without any instructions.”
He heads back out to his mower, and I return to my Explorer.
In my car I dial Amber’s number and get her voice mail.
“Hi, um, this is Theo Cray. I’d like to talk to you about something . . .” I leave my number and hang up, not knowing what to say. Leaving even an innocuous voice-mail message is awkward for me, much less when I want to talk about an alleged murder.
Two minutes later I get a text message from a different number.
this is ambyr. meet me @ king’s diner in 2 hrs. 1004BJ3004ATW
The numbers and letters don’t appear to be an address or anything else that makes sense, but King’s Diner is the one I passed by the massive truck stop.
Hopefully, she can tell me what the code meant, as well as what really happened to Chelsea.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
TROUBLED YOUNG THINGS
Amber—or “ambyr,” as she called herself in her text message—is half an hour late. The waitress pours me another cup of coffee as I pick at a cherry in my pie.
“Want something else?” she asks, noticing I haven’t touched it.
“No. I’m fine. Thank you.”
She gives me a polite smile, then moves on to another table. She looks just shy of thirty. Dirty-blonde hair to her shoulders, athletic, small-town pretty.
I like the way she makes small talk with the other patrons and their kids as she bounces around the busy place. There should be at least two more servers here, but she manages to keep things moving, dropping off food, running the register, and taking care of food prep.
The diner is immaculate. The wall by the register is filled with framed photos of men in uniform. There are service patches pinned up as well.
I’d imagine that for some in a town like Hudson Creek, the best prospect was going into the military.
The part of Hudson Creek that’s not the new 88 Service Station or the King’s Diner is oil stained and run-down. Across the street is a motel that looks like zombies would feel at home in it. Next to it is a convenience store plastered with ads for high-alcohol-content beers. In front of it, two men in their midtwenties lean against the hood of a truck, eating microwave hot dogs and burritos. Their truck suggests redneck, but one of them wears a hipster knit cap and the other a Halo T-shirt.
I’m debating whether or not to text Amber back when my phone rings.
“Where are you?” asks a young woman.
“King’s Diner.”
“You’re not in the diner, dumb ass? Are you?”
“Yes. You said—”
“That’s not what I meant. They watch the diner. I’m out back by the old car wash.”
“Oh, I’ll . . .” She’s already hung up.
I hurriedly drop money on the table and head outside.
What did she mean by “they”?
Her paranoia is infectious. I walk out to the sidewalk and glance around. Between here and the 88 are half a dozen parked trucks. Behind the diner is a small, open lot with rusting cargo containers.
The car wash, actually a large truck wash, is a crumbling block of concrete covered in vines. It resembles an ancient temple.
Tall weeds stick through the cracked asphalt. In a few decades you’d never even know there was something man-made here.
I walk around the back of the truck wash and see a girl smoking a cigarette as she texts on her phone.
She’s wearing a hoodie and sweatpants. Her hair is tied back in a ponytail. Underneath the heavy eyeliner is an attractive young woman who looks like she’s getting over a cold.
“I won’t bite you,” she says when she spots me.
I glance around, looking for the “they” she warned me about.
She notices my anxiety. “They never come back here. We’re fine.”
“Are you Amber?” I ask, stepping closer. Nearer to her I can see she’s got a lot of makeup caked on. Probably to cover acne.
“I hope so.” She gives me a smile. “How much did you bring?”
“Bring?”
“Money.”
Is she in hiding and needs help? I pull my wallet from my pocket and start counting bills. “How much do you need?”
She looks down at the cash and steps close to me. “Now we’re talking.” Her breath is overpoweringly minty. Like she just used mouthwash.
Out of nowhere, she grabs my crotch.
I stare at her hand, confused. “Um . . . I just wanted to talk.”
She leans in and whispers into my ear, “That’s what they all say.”
After a confusing moment, I manage to overcome my shock and pull her hand away.
She looks over my shoulder.
There’s the sound of squealing tires as the truck from the convenience store comes skidding around the side of the building. The two men inside the cab are looking at me with murder in their eyes.
“Oh, shit!” says Amber before she runs away.
The driver pulls the vehicle to a stop and flies out of the cab with his friend behind him. “What the fuck are you doing with my sister!”
“I just wanted to ask her a question!” I plead, holding my hands up. He has a metal baseball bat in his hands.