The thought is comforting. I don’t want to see Jade right now. I don’t know how to make what we have work; not only do we not know how we fit together when we don’t have Bailey as our connective tissue, but Jade is suspicious of me.
I need time to figure out how to handle her. Get her back on my side. And I’m not going to do that by entertaining rumors over coffee with the two girls Bailey hated more than anyone.
I’m washing dishes when the bell over the front door tinkles. I crane my neck to look over the counter in time to see the two men coming in. One white, one black. Both in work pants and heavy parkas. From the highway snow removal company, maybe.
I’ve never seen them in here before, but then again, Pete’s Dinette is closed today so all of the workers could join the search for Bailey. These men are probably regulars there; they stare at the menu over my head, puzzled by words like organic and seven-grain before settling on two coffees and a stack of buttered toast.
I yell for Rob to throw the toast in before I start on the coffees. The men take the table closest to the counter—the one covered in sugar left from an overzealous toddler this morning. I was so distracted by Val and Bridget I forgot to clean it up.
One of the men—the white guy—leans back in his chair so vigorously it groans. “You see any of the searchers on your way up?”
I keep one eye on them as I start a fresh pot of coffee.
“Nah, I heard most of ’em got sent to Pleasant Plains,” the black guy replies.
“Makes sense. Seems like if she were in Broken Falls, someone would’ve found her by now. They asked everyone with land to search it good.”
My hand trembles around the handle of the pot. I think about interrupting—You sure you want that coffee black?—just to get closer and hear their conversation better.
The white guy takes a napkin from the holder in the center of the table and tears at one of the corners. “You hear? Jim Grosso was the only one who wouldn’t consent to a voluntary search of his property.”
I freeze. The black guy whistles. “He’s got that big shed and everything.”
“Isn’t his boy involved with the Hammond girl somehow? At least, that’s what people are saying.”
The bell in the kitchen dings; Rob passes me a plate of buttered toast. My back turned to the men, I keep one hand on the coffeepot, cursing the crescendo of the gurgle the fresh drip makes. I step away from the machine so I can hear the men better.
“I heard Sheriff Bill’s got his eye on one of the girl’s friends,” one of the men says.
I whip around, forgetting my hand on the coffeepot. It slips from my grasp and shatters on the floor. Hot coffee continues to pour out of the machine, splashing the thighs of my jeans. I ignore the way the wet spots are scalding my legs and react stupidly, trying to pick up the pieces of the shattered glass from the pot.
“Whoa, whoa!” Rob runs out of the kitchen, brandishing a rag. “Don’t touch.”
But it’s too late—there’s a slice down my thumb, like a paper cut, but deeper. The men are staring at me; I can feel it. Rob wraps the rag around my finger, and I swear he can hear my heart trying to leap out of my chest.
“Can you get them two black coffees?” I choke out. Then I make a run for the kitchen.
I hear Rob apologize to the men as I stick my finger under cold water in the back sink. Sheriff Bill’s got his eye on one of the girl’s friends. They were talking about me, and they hadn’t even realized it.
Cold sweat springs to my face. I stand over the sink, watching my blood circle the bottom of the sink, staining bits of egg stuck in the drain. People think I did this. People actually think I could have killed Bailey.
And why wouldn’t they? I’m the outsider who waltzed into Broken Falls a year ago with no explanation. Russ Markham’s bastard child, the girl with purple hair and a sketchy past. The media is saying Bailey knew her attacker; everyone knows no one from Broken Falls is capable of murder.
But there is one other person. Someone who actually had a reason to want to hurt Bailey. And for whatever reason, the police believe the bullshit alibi his dad gave him.
I don’t. And I need something, anything to prove that Cliff Grosso is the one who is hiding the truth about that night.
When Rob comes back into the kitchen, he pushes his bandana up his forehead and takes my finger gently. “There’s Band-Aids in Ashley’s office. Go get one and I’ll watch the front.”
“I’ve got to go,” I blurt. “I’ll be gone an hour, max. You can handle things on your own until then, right?”
“Kiddo, I handle this place on my own all the time.” Rob blinks at me with bloodshot, pot-addled eyes. “What’s going on?”
“There’s just something important I need to do.”
Rob glances at the closed door to Ashley’s office, where she usually is. Fielding calls from distributors. Working on our paychecks and schedules. “Maybe I should call Ash.”
“Please. Don’t do that. She doesn’t have her phone with her, anyway. The volunteers aren’t allowed to carry them because people might take pictures or whatever.”
Rob just looks at me.
“An hour.” I hold my hands up. “I swear.”
Rob rubs his stubbly chin. Sighs. “Okay. I’m calling you if you’re not back by then.”
—
I’m sitting in Andrew’s car, engine running. My phone is ice-cold in my injured hand as I look up the number for Grosso’s butcher shop.
Someone picks up on the second ring. The voice is raspy, male. “?’Lo?”
“Is this Jim?” I ask.
“Speaking. What can I do you for?”
Hanging up would be too suspicious. “I’d like to place an order. A big one.”
Jim Grosso sighs. “Hold for me a minute, okay?”
I keep my voice even, chipper. “Sure thing.”
When the line clicks, I end the call. I turn on the radio and wait five minutes before I call Grosso’s Hunting and Game. I immediately get a gruff male voice on the phone that sounds like Cliff.
I hang up.
I breathe hot air into my gloves and start the wipers on Andrew’s car. They whisk away the fattening snowflakes landing on the windshield. If the snow keeps up, they’ll have to end the search early. Panic needles me; I shake my head. I have to do this.
I punch a vague address into my phone GPS—Cypress Circle—because I don’t know Cliff’s exact address. The directions lead me down the same back roads Jade and I took the other morning.
When I arrive, the Grossos’ cabin is dark; no smoke billows from the chimney this time. I park far from the house, midway between their property and the nearest neighbor. What the hell am I doing? With shaky hands, I pull the beanie I left on Andrew’s passenger seat over my ears and step out of the car.