Page 14 of Before She Disappeared

“Viv. Met your roommate yet?”

“Briefly. She stared at me like I was the devil. Or maybe that was the way I stared at her.”

Viv lets out a low chuckle that shakes her entire five-foot-nothing body. “She likes me.”

“Seriously?”

“Chopped chicken livers. Works every time.” Viv flips four burgers and throws on a fifth frozen patty in the blink of an eye. I respect any person who can cook that fast.

“You a lifer?” I ask, meaning a lifetime of working in a kitchen.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Me, too. Behind the bar.”

“Stoney says you don’t drink.”

“Twelve-stepper.”

“Mmm-hmm. My husband does the same dance. Need a list of local meetings?”

“That’d be great.” I’d printed out some info before my arrival, but in this matter, at least, I’ve learned to accept help. “What do you put on the burgers?” I push myself away from the doorjamb.

Viv nods toward the stainless-steel prep island, where I see a block of sliced cheese, a jar of pickles, and a bag of buns. Thin white melamine plates are stacked at the end, near canisters of silverware. It’s a small kitchen, but efficiently set up. Viv moves straight from the grill to the fryolator and drops in a basket of fries.

I wash my hands, then plate the buns, dish out sliced pickles, unpeel slices of cheese. I add a fifth plate for me. Tucked in the kitchen with the smell of seared hamburgers and crisping fries, I’m famished.

“Lettuce and tomatoes in the fridge,” Viv informs me in a stage whisper. “And my special sauce. Keep a batch just for Stoney. And friends of Stoney’s.”

“I like you already.”

Happy hum. Viv tosses the four finished burgers onto the plates, flips the fifth, and grabs the fries. She is damn good.

I deliver the four plates to Stoney while Viv finishes up mine. Stoney doesn’t bat an eye to find me standing at the end of his bar with food delivery. The three of us could’ve been working together for years. I both love the feeling and fear it. There’s a reason I’m always the outsider. Many AAs talk about needing to replace one addiction with another as a form of coping. I gave up drinking and took up always being on the move instead.

A rolling stone gathers no moss. Paul used to tell me that all the time. Later, he’d accuse me of not listening. But I heard it all. I always heard it all.

Viv has moved on to deep-frying frozen chicken wings. She hums as she works, a sheen of sweat glistening across her brow. Her movements are unhurried, smooth. Stoney appears with two tickets in his hand. He glances at my burger, still midpreparation, then hands me the tickets and disappears.

I read off the orders for Viv, then smash the top on my burger and dig in.

“Stool in the corner,” Viv sings out.

Sure enough, there’s an old wooden stool tucked in the shadow of the fridge. I pull it up to the prep counter and take a seat. Since Viv has already proved she has no problems talking while she works:

“I heard there’s a girl gone missing,” I cue up.

“Angelique Badeau,” Viv confirms. The sizzle of meat as she tosses two more ground beef patties on the grill.

“What happened?”

A wave of the metal scraper in the air. “Girl walked out of high school one day and bam, no one’s seen or heard from her since.”

“Drugs, gangs?” I ask.

Viv turns long enough to give me a look. “Cuz she’s Black?”

“White kids have gangs, too,” I assure her. “For that matter, so do most groups, including all the middle-class, middle-aged white guys suddenly becoming biker dudes. You could argue gangs are one of our common denominators.”

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