I headed straight from the police station to the Black Cat Café on the far side of the chilly green. Gray had overtaken the sky, turning it from the front edge of spring back into the tail end of winter. I pulled my coat tighter around me and lifted my bag on my shoulder.
I was glad I’d brought my laptop with me. There wasn’t much time before everyone would have the story, which meant I’d have to go for basic in my second post. I’d save my crime statistics and the background on Simon Barton. As it was, I would have barely anything to add in the print follow-up. I’d already called the ME’s office and, as expected, I had gotten a curt “No comment pending our official results.”
Despite my initial vertigo, I was no longer conflicted about staying on the story. I wanted to, needed to write about it, and with an intensity that even I had to acknowledge was somewhat disconcerting. I could only imagine what Justin would say if he knew what I was feeling, which was why I didn’t plan to tell him.
Can you have coffee? Justin texted before I’d gotten all the way across the green. He was checking up on me. Acting like he was sure I’d be fine, but wanting a peek with his own eyes to be sure.
Great. Black Cat? Thirty minutes?
By then I’d be done with the Web update.
Wouldn’t miss it.
It was warm inside the rough-hewn Black Cat, the air rich with the ten varieties of free-trade coffee beans on offer. It was my favorite café in town, the place I went when I didn’t want to write at home, which was most of the time these days. That was the thing about not being able to get out of bed for weeks on end. Once you finally could, you developed a real phobia of being at home.
The Black Cat was a true university hangout—professors and students—complete with wobbly wood tables, faded concert posters, and bathrooms that didn’t lock properly. The moms in town all went to Norma’s around the corner, which had brightly hued art deco throw pillows on its long benches and lavender soap in the bathroom. It also had an organic juice bar, two kinds of vegan muffins, and wine from four o’clock. Meanwhile, the Black Cat didn’t serve decaf and refused to stock skim milk or artificial sweeteners. The first time Stella came in with me, she got lippy when they scoffed at her request for stevia. The argument between her and the barista got so heated, I thought for sure he was going to throw his skateboard at her.
But I liked the Black Cat. It reminded me of the unapologetic cafés around Columbia that Justin and I had frequented when we first started dating.
I ordered a full-fat latte and sat in the window. In fifteen minutes, I had a decent draft. It was short, under a hundred and fifty words. My interview with Steve had been exclusive because it was first. That didn’t mean he’d given me much new to say.
I read through the post one last time. Satisfied, I emailed it off to Erik with a note: Extended print story to come. But extended how, exactly? I was pondering how I’d flesh it out as I headed to get another latte. I ran smack into Nancy on her way out the door.
“Oh, hi, Molly,” she said, smiling, but with none of her usual ease.
Her face was drawn and her eyes were puffy. Her long dark blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail that looked slept on. She seemed very much like somebody in the midst of a family crisis.
“It’s terrible what’s happened with that baby,” she said, sadness and sympathy flicking across her face. “Erik told me that you’re covering it.”
I couldn’t tell whether Nancy was upset for herself or concerned for me. We’d never spoken about the baby I’d lost, but I could tell she was thinking about it. And after all she and Erik had been through—three miscarriages, followed by two rounds of unsuccessful IVF, one larcenous surrogate, and an already arduous and still unsuccessful adoption process—a dead baby must have triggered all sorts of strong emotions for her, too. I wanted to ask if she was okay. But everything I thought about saying felt presumptuous and awkward.
“I’m trying,” I said, feeling myself well up. It was that caring look in Nancy’s eyes. It did it to me every time. “It’s terrible. I feel terrible for—well, everyone involved.”
Nancy nodded, then mercifully looked away, toward the Ridgedale town green. But she lingered while I waited in line, as if she wanted to say something else. After a while, it started to feel uncomfortable with her standing there, not saying anything.
“I hope everything is okay with your family,” I said, compelled to fill the void.
Nancy turned sharply in my direction. “What do you mean?”
Dammit. Why had I said anything? There I’d gone, hooking myself on all that invisible barbed wire again. What if Erik was off somewhere on a bender or something that Nancy didn’t know about? Elizabeth told me once that she’d spotted Erik at Blondie’s, a dive bar downtown. But she added that she’d been very drunk herself—“totally wasted,” as if she were sixteen instead of twenty-six—so I hadn’t taken it seriously. But judging from the look on Nancy’s face, there was something complicated going on.
“I’m sorry, I thought Erik said he had to go out of town for something family-related. I may have misunderstood. This story has me pretty distracted.”
“No, no, you’re right,” Nancy said quickly. She smiled again, even less convincingly. “It’s Erik’s cousin. There was a fire at his house, bad wiring. No one was hurt, but the family lost everything. Thank you for asking.” She looked around as if searching for someone or something to grab on to, but she came up empty-handed. She checked her watch. When she looked back at me, her eyes had softened, filled with compassion, not pity. She squeezed my arm. “I should probably be going. You take care of yourself, Molly. And don’t work too hard.”