The Girl from Widow Hills - Megan Miranda Page 0,51

wait,” I said. “Do you remember the other day when I ran into you here?”

She blinked slowly. “Sure.”

“Do you remember someone else in here with us?”

She smiled tightly. “The ends of shifts all sort of blend together after a while, Liv.” I wondered if this was her daily routine. Dazed after a night shift, bottle of wine and a microwave dinner. Repeat. “Harvey might know better,” she said, tipping her head to the register.

By the time I turned to thank her, she was already striding out the door.

I walked up to the coffee stand beside the register. “Harvey?” I asked, turning his attention from the television as I filled my cup.

“Can I help you?”

“I was in here a few mornings ago. Friday. I wanted to ask you something.”

His eyes searched my face, but he didn’t respond.

“You said I had an eclectic basket. You asked for my ID.”

He nodded slowly, tentatively.

“Do you remember another man in the store?”

His face changed then, eyes closing. He shook his head. “The police already talked to me. I can’t possibly remember everyone. And as I told them, the recordings don’t save past a day.” He pointed to the camera in the corner, over the television set. “No point, if there’s been no crime. Not worth paying for the storage service. I heard he died. I’m sorry, did you know him?”

“He tried to talk to me,” I said. Wanting desperately to hear what Sean Coleman had to say. What he was there for. Not a journalist. But still coming out of the woodwork twenty years later for a reason.

“I even went through the receipts with the police,” Harvey said, ringing me up. “But I don’t think he bought anything. I sort of remember him browsing. Maybe. I work this shift most mornings, though, and it’s hard to tell them all apart after a while. Same routine, different day,” he said, sharing Sydney’s view.

“Thanks anyway,” I said, paying for the coffee, my fingers shaking.

I SAT IN MY car drinking the coffee, not wanting to go home just yet. Searching the news on my phone to see how far the story had gotten.

The police had been here—in the time since I’d told Detective Rigby about seeing Sean Coleman at the G&M, they’d been here and talked to Harvey. They’d asked for the footage. They’d looked through the receipts. I could picture them pausing at mine, looking closer—A hook-and-eye latch? A bottle of dark rum?

With shaking hands, I typed in Sean’s full name, then held my breath while the results loaded.

There was nothing recent. Social media profiles and job titles. It was a common name. I checked under the News category, but all that came up was some high school kid’s track times. I felt my shoulders relax slightly, then took another sip of coffee.

This time I typed Rick Aimes into the search bar. Another common name, another broad net. I added Central Valley, and the first thing that popped up was the obituary for his wife, Marie. There were scant details. Just the survived-by names—Rick and his son, Jared—and the date of the service.

My phone rang as I was scrolling for any more details, and I jumped, almost dropping it in my lap. Bennett. Probably making sure I was okay, now that he was up. I was glad he was calling; it made me think I was overreacting—about all of it.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Hey, is Elyse there with you?” He sounded slightly out of breath, like he was in a rush.

“No, no. I’m out at the store.”

A pause. “When did she leave your place last night?”

“She didn’t,” I said. “She didn’t stop by.”

Bennett cursed under his breath. “She fucking quit. Left an email and her badge and fucking quit. Didn’t come to her shift, didn’t ask someone to cover. Completely irresponsible, left them short-handed. Couldn’t even be bothered to call it in. And she’s not answering my calls now.”

“That’s not . . .” I began, about to say That’s not like her. But what did I know? As much as I’d come to depend on the routines of our friendship, she’d been here only a handful of months; she’d slid into my life so fast, she could probably extract herself just as quickly.

“What did you say to her?” I asked, accusing.

“Excuse me?”

“I heard you were arguing. My neighbor heard.”

He lowered his voice. “I was angry about her voicemail. Angry at the lack of information. I was riled up and . . . I took it out on her,