Randall must have had the same idea. He pulls in a half-hour early himself, driving a beat-up Ford truck with paint so worn it looks like mange.
Mara told me that her mother and Randall eventually divorced, partly because their fights had turned so violent the neighbors called the cops every weekend, with Randall spending the night in jail at least twice. He was running out of money, which meant Tori Eldritch was no longer interested.
Looks like he’s yet to make his fortune again. I found him through tax returns for the construction company for which he currently works. The address on record was the empty office space. I still don’t know where Randall lives.
Now that he’s here, I make my way inside and pick up a beer at the bar. Selecting a booth in the darkest and most distant corner of the pub, I text Randall:
I’m here whenever you are.
Then I wait, hoping he’s not going to back out.
Ten minutes later, Randall shuffles into the pub. He’s well past sixty, but you can tell he was once a man with shoulders to rival Shaw. Now those shoulders droop and a hard, round belly causes his jeans to sag. His scarred hands testify to years of labor. The broken blood vessels on his bulbous nose and the yellow tinge to his eyes tell another story.
Randall walks to the bar to get his own beer. I watch his interaction with the bartender, checking to see if they know each other, if they’re friends. The interaction is brief and impersonal. The bartender keeps his focus on the football game playing on the TV hung over the opposite corner of the bar. I doubt he’ll look our way.
Just in case, I’m wearing a baseball cap, glasses, and the sort of plaid button-up that Randall should perceive as a slightly more stylish version of his own buffalo shirt.
I ordered a Budweiser, the same bottle Randall sets down on the table.
He sinks heavily into the booth, knocking the tabletop askew with his belly.
“They make these things so fuckin’ tight,” he grouses.
“Nothing’s made for tall men,” I agree.
It’s Randall’s bulk, not his height, causing the problem. But commiseration is the first step to friendship.
“Didn’t even know if I was gonna come tonight,” Randall grumbles. “Haven’t seen that bitch in years.”
“Mara?”
“Tori.”
I knew Tori Eldritch would be the hook. Once a woman has her claws in a man, he never quite gets free of it. Randall divorced her and moved across the state, but if Tori showed up on his doorstep in a tight dress, he’d make the same mistakes all over again.
“When’s the last time you saw her?”
“Nine years ago.”
“Mara would have been sixteen?”
“Fifteen.”
“She was your stepdaughter?”
Randall makes a dismissive, snorting sound. “I guess.”
She lived in his house for almost a decade, but he’s behaving as if he hardly knows her.
“What made you split up?”
“She’s a fuckin’ nutcase. And the apple don’t fall far from the tree.”
“I’ve had a hard time tracking down sources. I’ve gotta interview three family members, and it doesn’t seem like Mara has many.”
“We’re not family. We never were.”
“Alright.” I shrug. “They’re paying five hundred bucks though. So if you know anything, it doesn’t take much to get paid.”
Randall shifts in his seat, considering.
“And you’ll give me Tori’s address?” he says.
“Sure. When we’re done talking.”
Randall grunts his assent. “Whaddaya wanna know?”
“What was Mara like when you knew her?”
“Fuckin’ annoying. I never wanted another kid in the house. My boys were bad enough. Ungrateful too—she’s eating my food, wearing the clothes I put on her back, and she has the fuckin’ gall to skulk around the house glaring at me. Plus her and her mom were at it all the time like cats, fucking’ squallin’ and causin’ a racket.”
“Did you see any early evidence of her talent?”
Randall scoffs. “Drawin’ pictures is supposed to be a job now? Don’t make me laugh. Fuckin’ lazy, just like her mother.”
I don’t expect any actual insight from this man. There’s only one piece of information that interests me, and I’ll play through this charade until I get it. The rest is all just fuel on the fire. Though I can’t let him see any hint of the fury stoking inside me with every word that comes out of his disgusting nicotine-stained mouth.
“You said her relationship with her mother was bad?”
“Fuckin’ hated each other. Tori wished she never had her. Said it all the time. I told her she should pack her off to some relative, but there wasn’t anybody to take her. Besides, Tori had some weird thing about her.”
“What do you mean?”
“She talked shit on her nonstop. But she was obsessed with reading her journals, her text messages. She’d wear Mara’s clothes and her perfume. Especially around me.”
My jaw ticks.
“She thought that would attract you?”
“Fuck if I know. She was jealous as hell. Always screaming at me if she thought I looked at Mara.”
This is the delicate part, where I have to put out the lure without scaring off the fish.
I give a low chuckle, the kind that tells a man that locker room talk is on the table.
“Well … Tori wasn’t getting any younger.”
Randall snorts. “That’s for damn sure.”
“And Mara’s pretty enough …”
Randall takes a long pull of his beer, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and belching softly. Then he leans forward, fixing me with his bloodshot stare.
“That woman would have let me do anything to her daughter. She offered her up when she realized I was really gonna leave her. Flat out told me I could have her.”
I keep the friendly smirk fixed on my face, pitching my voice low and amused.
“Why didn’t you take her up on it? Or maybe you did …”
“Wasn’t worth it by then. That cunt was gonna get me tossed in jail. And the daughter’s all fucked up. A fuckin’ spaz. There’s something wrong with her. She’s some kinda retar—”
He breaks off, eyes flicking to my upper lip, which is curling into a snarl I can’t control. I have to turn it into a laugh that comes out harsh and braying.