interrupts whatever lie was coming. I pretend not to notice and don’t make eye contact with the approaching server. “Vodka cranberry,” I say, as she glides past without stopping.
Chris watches me.
I watch him.
“You look nice,” he says finally.
“Thanks. You, too.” I think about the gray silhouette on my phone. With the Henley and the shadows, he looks the same. Vague. Unreal. “How was work?” I ask, when he doesn’t say anything else.
He sips his beer. “Fine. Busy. How were your errands?”
“Fine. Busy.”
The server returns and wordlessly sets down my drink before slipping away. Chris frowns at her retreating form.
“This place,” he says.
“What about it?”
“It’s so... cold.”
“It’s Holden. Do you miss Missouri?”
“I’m from Montana. And no. Sometimes.”
“Sometimes what?”
“Sometimes I miss the people.”
I pick up my glass and watch him over the rim. “What’s stopping you from going home?”
He looks thoughtful. “I came to Holden for a reason. I don’t know what it is yet, but I’ll let you know when I find out.”
“Let me know if I can help.”
He takes a drink. “Sure.”
We’re quiet for a minute, ignoring each other the way everyone else does.
Finally Chris says, “How were your errands?”
I don’t point out that I’ve already answered this question. “Good. I was thinking about you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. I went to the library.” That’s a lie, of course, but so is everything he’s saying.
“I didn’t know you read.”
“I don’t, really. But it’s near the museum, so I thought about Fleishmann’s and the missing sun dial, and your research, so I went in.”
“It’s a good story, about the sun dial.”
“All your stories are good, Chris.”
He smiles, and it’s not fair that he can be so attractive and so horrible at the same time. I’m pretty sure I read an article about me with that same quote, some years ago. Anyway.
“So what’d you learn?”
“I was reading about the missing money you mentioned.”
“I thought you knew about it.”
“I know what’s in the papers. I haven’t followed the story all that closely, I just know it’s supposedly still out there.”
“There’s no supposedly. They haven’t found it, so it’s out there.”
“Or not.”
“How do you figure?” he asks.
“They traced the other two hundred million electronically. Why would there be twenty million in cash? What would someone do with that?”
“Bury it.”
I scoff. “That’s stupid.”
“Why?”
“Because they had a diagram of what twenty million dollars would look like. Assuming it was new bills, tightly banded, it’s a minimum of two cubic yards. About the space this booth takes up. Who’s going to bury that much money? Wouldn’t it just get ruined?”
“Probably. But a desperate person isn’t thinking rationally. Carlisle had his fingers in dozens of development projects around the city. He had access to empty lots and digging equipment. It’s not impossible. And what’s twenty million to a billionaire?”
“A former billionaire,” I point out.
“Exactly. It’s all he has.”
“Except he has nothing, because he’s in prison.”
“He has kids.”
“His son died. His wife died. His daughter disappeared.”
Chris studies me. “How perfect for her.”
My lungs freeze, mid-inhale, and for five terrible seconds, I feel like I’m dying all over again, lying in that field, staring at Alex’s broken body, waiting for my turn. But it won’t come. Not yet.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Chris says, like he can read my mind. “I just mean, if she knows where the money is, there’s no one to stop her from getting it. She could have twenty million dollars, free and clear.”
Free and clear. I’d laugh if I could get enough air into my lungs.
“It’s been three years,” I manage. “She either already has it, or doesn’t know where it is.”
“Or she’s patient.”
“Or innocent.”
He picks at the label on his bottle. “Do you believe that?”
“That she’s innocent?”
“Yes.”
I hold his stare. “Yes.”
“Fair enough.”
I was never one for gambling. Three years ago, everything I felt showed on my face. Now it’s the same story, except I don’t feel much of anything. Chris, on the other hand, has an excellent poker face. I can’t tell if he believes I’m innocent, believes I’m Denise, believes there’s money, believes anything.
“Anyway,” I say, reaching to take his hand, turning it over to study his palm. It’s soft and hard at the same time, years of calluses turning into a smooth bed. “According to the internet, the most popular new rumor is that the money is on Kestrel Island.”
“Where’s that?” he asks.
“It’s the island in the lake at Fleishmann’s Park. My—” I cut myself off before I say “my dad.” “My research says the island is a bird sanctuary, and Kimball Carlisle was