Page 45 of Nothing Ever Happens Here

“Earth to Flor,” Herb hollers.

“Sorry,” I say. “Ready?”

We start to record and we don’t know what we’ll say, but Millie is half-drunk so she starts. “Please, everyone, we are putting a photo of Bernie Adler up on our channel. If you have seen him, please write to us with any information,” she manages, but the waterworks start almost immediately, and Mort takes over.

“Hello, everyone. This is Mort fromMort’s Literary Musings, which you probably know if you are listening right now. We’ve paused our literary analysis, and now our true crime series, in order to focus our attention on finding our dear friend, Bernie,” he says, and I hear his voice crack. I give him a thumbs-up to tell him he’s doing well and he continues. He reads out the email address that he and Evan have just created, and it’s amazing to me that, just like that, we have a line of communication. Technology never ceases to amaze me.

“[email protected],” he says.

And even with the heaviness of the moment, Herb can’t help but roll his eyes and say,“At least we know that address hasn’t been taken already.”

“Well, yes, and actually, Evan and I have decided to partner in the podcast world. He’ll be videographer and editor, and I’ll be the talent.”

Herb sighs. “Uh-huh. Super.”

“We’re still thinking on our new name and I didn’t want to confuse anybody by announcing a change right now,” Mort says, looking to Evan for approval, and Evan high-fives him.

“Mort and Evan’s show about all things murder and macabre,” Mort adds.

“Catchy,” Herb says, reaching his limit, so he goes to the minifridge and grabs a Dr Pepper and rolls his eyes to his heart’s content out of sight. Truth be told, I think he’s a little jealous of the friendship between Mort and Evan, and I suppose between Mort and Bernie, but he’d never admit it.

“Murder and what now? My-Cob? What the hell is my-cob? You can’t just make up words,” Millie adds. “That title is terrible.”

Shelby comes out of the office when Herb hollers for her, and we all take turns talking about things Bernie loves, like feeding blueberries to the pigeons at Sunflower Park, and a good pint at the Trout, and scrambled eggs with maple syrup, and his favorite pendant (which Shelby adds and explains he hasn’t taken it off in twenty years, and we didn’t even know about that), and pickleball, and his new friend, Gus, who he wouldn’t leave behind…and places he liked to go. We read off the license plate of his car and the time frame when he disappeared, and then we wait.

I don’t know what I expected—maybe the magic of the ten seconds it took to create a new email address to apply to receiving messages on it, but there is nothing coming in.

After a couple of hours, though, there are nine emails. All of them say how sorry they are for what’s going on with Bernie and ask how they can help, to which Herb replies you can help by only emailing if you have something useful to add, which I don’t think is at all a helpful thing to do, but I can’t blame him. We are all on pins and needles every time the email pings, but nothing.

By 10:00 p.m. Evan is off shift and Heather has taken over for Shelby and Millie has fallen asleep in front of an episode ofAndy Griffith. The rest of the building is quiet except for the low hum of radios or TVs in residents’ rooms down the hallways, and I finally accept that there will be no more news today from police or email tips, and so I go to my room to bed.

I don’t sleep, though. I lie awake thinking about Blacklock. Blacklock…and Shelby’s phone at Riley’s, and Otis’s notes, and Leo somewhere deep-sea fishing with all Mack’s money, and I especially think about Bernie.

We were all given the password to the new email tip line, so I slip on my glasses and take my phone from the nightstand and log in one more time. It’s pushing midnight and I’m certain there won’t be anything new, but I feel compelled to keep looking, and when I see a new email, I sit up straight in bed and turn on the light. The sender’s address is not Ted Walters or Leslie Katz or Jamie Knutsen from church or the VFW. It’s a very scary-looking address with a bunch of numbers and symbols instead of a name.

When I click it open it says, “There is something in the parking lot where Bernie’s car used to be. Go look.”

I feel my heart beating against my chest and a prickle of heat climb my spine. I shove my feet into the snow boots by my bedroom door and wrap my robe around myself, marching down to Herb’s room and tapping on the door.

“Christ,” I hear from inside, so I open the door.

“Herb, get up. Let’s go,” I say, walking over to his bed. I show him my phone and he squints to make out the email, then grabs for his glasses and sits up fully and stares from it to me.He doesn’t say anything, just stands and starts grabbing for his coat on the armchair near his bed. Together, we hold hands and walk through the yard, the snow crackling under our feet in the impossibly silent and still night, the light from our flashlight apps leading the way.

When we reach the back lot, I notice that Bernie’s car has left a large clearing in the snowy ground, and there is only a chain-link fence and a couple of junker cars next to a shed in the entire area. We flash our lights around, trying to see what this email means—what in the world could be in the spot where Bernie’s car was? What the hell does that even mean? The words repeat in my mind as we search. Then, I aim my light down, and I see it.

My hand flutters to my mouth, and I inhale sharply.

“There,” I say, pointing to it. Herb turns around, his eyes widening as he sees what I see. He leans down and picks up the shining metal object, holding it up to the light. I move in close to him and we both examine it.

He wipes snow off and reveals the image of a border collie. It’s Bernie’s pendant.

18

MACK

“Fuck you!” I scream until my voice is hoarse and my throat aches. “Motherfucker!” I punch as hard as I can over and over again at the heavy bag suspended from the garage rafters. It hangs like a dead body swaying, and I don’t even use the old boxing gloves on the dusty shelf—I just punch until my knuckles are cracking and chafed and then I kick it until I’m breathless and the sobbing stops.

It’s close to midnight and the night is perfectly still and silent. I can see each puff of desperate breath in the ice-cold air, but I don’t really feel the pain. Too much adrenaline is coursing through me—too much white-hot anger at Leo and his games and his demand that I stop looking for him.

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