Page 567 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

A car pulls up outside the shop and parks in front. A man gets out, in a pair of track pants, a T-shirt, running shoes, and I agree with him. Coffee before exercise, right? He carries nothing, so I let him go.

One minute, two, then, “Hello?”

My father is out of breath, and a streak of guilt goes through me. I don’t want to lie, but I’m not sure what to say.Stay with Mom.

“Rem?”

“Hey, Dad.”

“You okay?”

They were good parents to me, despite the grief, the complete shutdown of our family after Mickey went missing. And they never said it out loud—you should have stayed with him. This is your fault.

They didn’t have to. It was carved into my DNA.

“I’m okay. But Dad—” I draw in a breath and say the only thing that makes sense. “Happy Birthday.”

Silence.

“What?”

“It’s your birthday today, right?” I’m grimacing.

“I guess so.”

“Well, then, Happy Birthday.”

And then, thank God, I hear my mother’s voice in the background. “Vin, there’s a police car pulling into the drive.”

I lean my head back, my heart punching my sternum. “A police car?” I ask in my very best impression of light concern. “What’s that about?”

“I’m not sure. Um. Thanks for calling, son.”

“I’ll be over as soon as I can,” I say, but he hangs up.

I fight this crazy urge to weep for the pain they’re about to experience. But I’m holding onto a feeble, impossible hope that this time, things won’t end quite so badly.

Across the street, a bicyclist has pulled up, parked and has gone into the shop. It’s still early, a little past 6 a.m.

Over an hour before the blast.

I want coffee. And I want to get eyes on the shop.

I get out and cross the street. Glass windows, a planter out front that overflows with geraniums. A sandwich board with specials sits just outside the door, calling people inside with freshly made butterscotch scones. My stomach is a monster.

The place is small, homey. Groupings of wicker chairs circle low round coffee tables, two slipcovered sofas facing each other,a blackboard with the menu chalked on it, the ceiling high and open to the pipes. Freshly roasted java seasons the air. I would have liked this place.

It’s possible Ramses left a package here last night, so I look around. Three thermoses of coffee, their names hanging in tags are lined up along the bar, but I see nothing out of place. A middle-aged blonde, her hair tied back with a handkerchief and wearing a tie-dyed apron fills a glass case. Her name tag reads Katia.

I spot the scones. And a couple of old-fashioned donuts. And fresh pumpkin bread.

Yeah, I would have found a writing niche here. Maybe I will, someday.

“Can I help you?”

I study the board and decide on today’s special, a macchiato. I order it with extra espresso.

The runner sits in the corner, reading a newspaper. He glances at me, and I notice he has blonde hair cut short, military style, and a tattoo peeks out of his shirt, on his upper arm. He looks away from me and stares into the paper.

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