Usually, I avoid his eyes, but today I meet his stare with one of my own, jamming my hands into the pockets of the threadbare Old Navy hoodie that is, at least for the time being, my only winter coat. I don’t have to be here. I could leave. I’m doing him a favor, damn it.
A few seconds later, Porter slips my phone into his pocket and pushes through the revolving door. He crosses over to me with long, purposeful strides and rams a thick finger in my face. “I want to know how you got this information, young lady. How did you know Molly? Who put you up to this . . . this sick, twisted—”
Tears sting my eyes, from anger or the wind. Maybe both. “Just give me my phone. I’ll leave.”
No. NO, please, Anna, please.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he says, his voice rising. “I still have a couple of friends on the force, and you’re gonna answer some questions. Otherwise, I’m turning this phone over to them and—”
“Fine!” I snap back at him. “Keep the stupid phone. Do you think I enjoy standing here in the cold? Sucking in secondhand smoke? I told her this wouldn’t work. I told her.”
“You told who?” Porter asks, gripping my arm.
“I told M-Molly,” I reply, teeth chattering as a gust of even colder wind whips around the corner.
Porter glances down at my clothes, and his eyes, which actually look a lot like Molly’s, soften the tiniest bit. “You wanna go inside where it’s warmer, Anna? I’ll trade you a cup of coffee for some answers.”
I pull my arm away. “How do you know my name?”
He shrugs. “Your phone is the property of Anna Elizabeth Morgan. I can put two and two together.”
I move toward the café door. “No coffee. It’s burnt. But I wouldn’t say no to some hot chocolate.”
The café is gloriously warm. Debussy’s Arabesque no. 1 plays softly in the background. Six months ago, I didn’t know Debussy from Devo—both are way before my time—but since Molly came on board, it’s like I have a radio announcer in my head whenever I hear classical music or pretty much anything piano. A lot of it isn’t really my style, but this one is nice. Arabesque kind of reminds me of a waterfall, and I find myself relaxing just a bit.
There are two open tables. One is grungy, but the cleaner option is a booth positioned against the mirrored tiles that cover the wall of the café. I grab a few napkins and wipe the crumbs from the messy table onto the floor. Molly is so close to the front right now, so intensely present, that I know exactly what I would see if my eyes strayed to that mirror.
The day we recorded the song for Porter on my phone, I caught a glimpse of myself in a framed picture near the piano and saw my reflection mostly through Molly’s consciousness. Her brown skin superimposed over my own pale complexion, the chocolate color of her eyes nearly obscuring my own deep blue. Her black hair pulled back, a few tendrils escaping, and only a hint of my own dark-blonde curls around my shoulders. Like I’m the ghost and she’s the living. Vivid, angry bruises on her neck and upper chest. A small trickle of blood on her left temple, and when I glanced down at the piano keyboard, a red gash where my left pinky should be.
Is that what Molly saw the last time she looked in a mirror? Or was it her last glimpse of her body before leaving it behind? Either way, it spooks me. No mirrors when Molly is wound up like this. And I make it a point to keep my left hand in my lap as much as possible these days. Just in case.
A few minutes later, Porter slides a cup of cocoa in front of me, a glob of whipped cream on top, and takes the other chair. He risked the coffee, despite my warning, and grimaces as he takes a sip.
“I was hoping they’d made some fresh, but I guess not,” Porter says, dumping three creamers into the mug. He takes another taste, frowns, then adds two more.
Apparently satisfied with the brew, Porter leans back, pulling my phone out of his pocket as he shrugs the coat from his shoulders. He doesn’t give me the phone. Just holds it there in the palm of his hand, taunting me.
“So. How come you know that song, girl? You go to school with Molly? She’d be about your age now.”
“No.”
“You take piano with her or somethin’ like that?”
“I’ve never taken piano lessons,” I say, stirring the whipped cream into the chocolate to cool it.
“Then who was playin’ that song you recorded on the phone?”
“Me. Sort of.” My fingers, but more Molly. Saying that would probably end the conversation however, so I push forward to the key point. “Molly said you’d recognize it.”