Page 13 of Deep Tide

The casual question was loaded with worry.

“Fine,” she told him.

“Where are you? I went by your place earlier and—”

“I just got home.”

“Where were you before?”

“I went by the Windjammer shop to talk to the staff.”

“Is everyone okay?”

“No. But I guess I expected that.” Many of Leyla’s staffers worked shifts at both coffee shops, and they were a tight-knit group. “A couple of Amelia’s friends were pretty emotional, so I told them to take some time off.”

“I’m sorry, Ley.”

“Me, too.”

She turned and locked the door, then slipped off her shoes.

“I can swing by there,” Owen said.

“Don’t do that. I’m fine.”

“I want to.”

“No. Really. My back is in knots, and all I want to do is take a shower and go to bed.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, well—”

“Thanks for the thought, though. I’ll call you tomorrow, all right?”

“Lock your door.”

“I did.”

She hung up with her brother and silenced her phone before tossing it on the chair. No more people. She glanced around her cramped apartment, taking comfort in the familiar surroundings. What it lacked in square footage it made up for with a location just minutes from work. The main downside was the tiny galley kitchen, but she maximized the hell out of it. Every stockpot and sauté pan had a place, and she kept everything rigorously organized.

Tugging the elastic band from her hair, she stepped into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. She hadn’t eaten all day, and she wasn’t hungry, but a glass of chardonnay sounded really, really good.

Of course, she didn’t have any.

“Crap,” she said, staring at the shelves. Her weekly grocery run, like everything else she’d planned to do today, had fallen off the table. She checked the pantry.

No red wine, either. She had a dusty bottle of Tito’s, but just the thought of vodka turned her stomach, and she opened the fridge again.

So, no wine tonight.

What she did have was wilted arugula and expired yogurt.

She dragged the trash can out from beneath the sink. With a sudden burst of energy, she combed through every corner of the fridge, checking expiration dates and pitching items in the trash. Slimy mushrooms—gone. Moldy ginger root—gone. Crusty anchovy paste—gone. By the time she was finished, the entire produce drawer was empty except for some sticky gunk and a handful of petrified blueberries. She moved the drawer to the sink and scrubbed it down.

When she finished, the refrigerator was clean, organized, and nearly empty except for condiments. She tossed her sponge into the sink and gazed out the window. Like her bedroom, the kitchen had a view of the parking lot behind the bike shop. Through a gap in the buildings, Leyla could see tourists streaming back and forth on Main Street, which was lined with bars and restaurants. As dusk fell over the island, the Sunday family crowd was heading in for the night and the pub crawlers would soon take their place. Beautiful young people would come out in droves in search of loud music and cheap drinks. They’d do Jell-O shots and shoot pool and sing karaoke as they partied their way down the strip. And most of them would make it home fine, but some of them wouldn’t.

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