Page 34 of Another Girl Lost

Drawing myself up, I ignored the stiffness tugging along my spine and smiled to the group of people still lingering and watching. “Alive and well. Thank you.”

A few smiles flickered before the crowd slowly dispersed. With as much dignity as I could muster, I walked out of the gym. My irritation grew as I stepped outside. I took a long drink of water. My meltdown was due to Dawson’s visit. He’d arrived Thursday with his notebook and suspicious gaze and pried open the can of worms I kept sealed most of the time.

I stepped off the curb. A horn honked and I looked up to see a truck driver glaring at me. He raised a hand as if to ask,What gives?

Smiling, I waved my thanks for his patience and not running me down and continued. I reached the next intersection. When I got the green light, I crossed and moved down the block past industrial warehouses.

At my building, I fished keys from my purse and unlocked the two dead bolts on the screen door. Next, more locks on the metal doorbefore it pushed open. Inside my place, I secured the locks and walked to the portrait I’d been painting of Della. She stared at me with the eyes reflecting cunning, hurt, and love, depending on the angle. The eyes. I could never get them right.

The woman I’d seen today was tall, lean. She was not the plump, dirty girl I remembered. She looked nothing like my Della. NotMy Della. The Della.So why had her gaze spooked me?

I knew I should spend the day working, but my nerves hopped with anxious energy, and my thoughts kept returning to Sandra Taylor. Was she the Other Girl? Had Tanner killed her?

The online articles I’d read about Sandra last night had offered scant details: Sandra had lived off Nineteenth Bay Street, and she’d worked at Mike’s Diner.

I’d only been to Mike’s once. That diner had changed my life, but I could barely picture the place. My single overwhelming memory of Mike’s was the smell of food. Burgers. Fries. My mouth had watered even as my heart rammed my chest so hard, I thought my ribs would crack.

It made no sense for me to return to Mike’s. Better to stay away from anything that could trigger the nightmares. But I still grabbed my keys and exited out the back of the warehouse to my truck. I plugged the address into my phone and drove the twenty miles to the diner. As the city melted and gave way to more green space, my unease grew. There was a comfort in the steel walls and concrete floors of my warehouse. Green spaces and open blue sky never comforted me. Too many places to get lost.

Thirty minutes later, I pulled up in front of Mike’s Diner and stared at the long, cigar-shaped silver building reminiscent of a 1950s diner.

The parking lot was nearly full. Made sense. It was ten on a Saturday, and folks tended to enjoy a later breakfast or early lunch. I sat in my truck for a good half hour, watching people come and go. No one noticed me now, and no one had seen me ten years ago. They were all living their lives. I didn’t register.

Finally, I shut off the engine and got out of the truck. The rising summer heat warmed chilled skin as I crossed the lot to the restaurant. My hand on the front door, I hesitated. A woman behind me cleared her throat. I opened the door and stepped into the diner buzzing with busy conversations, the rattle of plates, and Elvis Presley’s “Blue Suede Shoes.”Go, cat, go.Tanner’s music choices had always been hard rock.

“Do you want to sit at the bar or a booth?” The waitress’s question blended with the background noise.

I didn’t remember the red leather tops to the barstools, the strip of yellow neon behind the bar, or the rows of booths to my left and right.

“Ma’am, do you want to sit down?” the hostess asked.

“Yes.”

“Bar or booth?”

“Bar.”

“Great.”

I followed her to a stainless-steel stool at the end of the bar. She set a menu in front of me. “Enjoy.”

“Thanks.”

When I’d been here before, I’d walked up to the bar. I’d watched the redheaded waitress move back and forth between the kitchen and dining room. I hadn’t known her name as I’d fingered a sugar packet with hands still stained with grime that soap and water couldn’t remove. I’d told Tiffany about the fictitious puppies and then followed her through that kitchen door. No one had paid any attention to us. The back door was open, and through it I could see Tanner’s van pull up.

“What can I get you?” a waitress asked.

I looked up to a woman’s lined face. She held a full coffeepot as if she’d predicted exactly what I wanted.

“Coffee would be great.”

With an effort, she found a smile as she filled a stoneware mug, dropped a couple of creamers, and asked, “Know what you want to eat?”

“Scrambled eggs and toast.”

“Great choice, hon.”

I sipped the hot, bitter coffee, watching as the cooks in the kitchen placed hot plates of food on the counter and rang a bell. They moved with controlled efficiency and barely looked up from the griddle.

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