Page 93 of Long Gone

“You’re just going to leave?”

“I told you it was a mistake,” I said as I snatched my purse off the floor and reached for the lock on the door.

“I can smell the alcohol on your breath,” he said so quietly I almost missed it.

I kept my back to him, momentarily frozen. “I had a drink at lunch. So what?” So my lunch had been a latte, part of a muffin, and a lot of vodka. I dared to glance back at him to find him staring at me with disappointment.

I couldn’t handle his disappointment on top of everything else, so I opened the door and headed outside, wondering what the hell I should do or where I should go. I didn’t trust myself to drive, and I couldn’t go back into Nate’s store. So I walked down to a café and slipped inside, plopping into a booth.

A waitress who looked old enough to be my mother walked over with a menu. “You doin’ okay, honey?”

Oh crap. I probably had puffy eyes and a red nose. “I’ve had better days,” I admitted, giving her a weak smile.

“You know what I find helps with the not-so-good days?” She smiled. “A piece of pie. Ernie’s got someone who bakes ’em fresh every morning. We’re out of most kinds, but I have some apple left. I can serve it to you with a scoop of ice cream and a fresh cup of coffee.”

I almost told her no, but I needed to order something and, now that she’d mentioned it, pie sounded delicious. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Doctor Betty, at your service,” she said, saluting me, and I grinned at her attempt to cheer me up.

While I was ashamed of how I’d fallen apart in front of Nate, I was mostly horrified. How had I let that happen? I wanted to blame it on Malcolm, but my mind kept returning to my father’s involvement in this mess. Would my dad tell me why he’d cleaned Hugo’s things out of his office?

Could I believe him if he did?

Betty returned holding a plate with a generous piece of pie and a scoop of ice cream in one hand and a pot of coffee in the other. I turned over the coffee mug in front of me and grabbed a packet of sugar.

She set the pie plate in front of me. “Here you go, honey. This might not fix whatever’s wrong, but at least you’ll get a belly full of goodness.”

I couldn’t help laughing. Usually I hated dealing with cheesy service workers, but Betty had a genuineness to her I had to appreciate. As she filled my cup, I asked, “Could you bring me some milk for my coffee?”

“Sure will.” After she filled my cup, she spun on her heels and headed behind the counter.

I picked up a fork and sliced into the pie, scooping up a small portion of ice cream with it. I nearly moaned when I took a bite. She’d warmed the pie, and the crust was perfectly flaky, just like my old roommate Kara had made it.

I hadn’t spoken to Kara in weeks, and I considered texting her, then decided she was part of the life I’d left behind. Maybe it was better to make a clean break. I was never going back to my life in Little Rock. It was dead and buried.

The thought should have made me more depressed, but I’d already come to terms with it. The question was whether I should stay in Jackson Creek. I’d come to town broke, but I could have taken the five thousand Vanessa Peterman had given me and moved somewhere else. My father’s change of heart had been a big reason for me staying. What would I do if he admitted to doing something illegal? To possibly murdering someone?

But that was a big leap. Just because he’d cleaned out Hugo’s office didn’t mean he’d done anything unsavory. But if he’d been on the up and up, why hadn’t he given Hugo’s stuff to his wife?

Betty returned with the milk and set it in front of me. “You let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks.” She started to turn away and then a new thought hit me. “Hey, Betty, have you worked here for a long time?”

“Boy, have I,” she said with a laugh. “Goin’ on twenty years.” She pointed to the back. “Me and my husband Arthur own the place.”

“You do?” I asked in surprise. She was wearing a blue waitress-style dress and a white apron along with white orthopedic shoes. I pointed to my half-eaten pie with my fork. “Do you bake the pies? Because this is amazing.”

“No need to butter me up,” she said with a grin, “especially since I didn’t make it. Arthur has a woman who bakes them at home and delivers them every morning. We can authentically say they’re homemade.”

“Don’t ever lose her,” I said, moving the small cup of milk closer. “I bet a lot of people who work downtown eat here.”

“A good lot of ’em do,” she said. “I know ’em by name too.”

I leaned closer and lowered my voice. “Did Hugo Burton ever eat here?”

Her eyes widened. “Hugo Burton? I haven’t heard that name in ages.”

“Was he a customer?”

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