Page 45 of This Stays Between Us
My mind flashes back to the rage in Randy’s eyes earlier this morning.
“Look,” Nick says, pushing himself to a standing position so that he towers over me. “I’m sorry for all of this, and everything you had to go through. I hope you find what you’re looking for. But there are people out here who aren’t going to take kindly to you trying to dredge everything back up.”
He throws a wad of cash down on the counter to cover our drinks.
“Just be careful, Claire.”
The warning rings loudly in my ears even after Nick has exited the hotel.
20
Claire
Now
Be careful.
If my gut is right, Nick wasn’t the person who killed Phoebe. Or Hari. Nor did he trap me in the mine.
Which means the person who did all those things is still in Jagged Rock, and they’ve made very clear what they’re willing to do to stop me from discovering the truth.
The thud of a glass on the counter shakes me back to the present.
“Thought you could use another,” the kind worker says as he plunks down a fresh rum and Coke in front of me. “That looked intense.”
“Thank you,” I say, realizing I’ve somehow drained my first glass already. “It kind of was. And I appreciate you looking out for me over there.”
“Can never be too safe.” He pulls a beer from the cooler behind him and takes a long pull from it. “What’s your name?”
“Claire,” I say, taking a sip of the strong cocktail.
“So, I’m guessing you’re here because of the body they found up by the Inn?”
I swallow. I’m afraid to admit it after Nick just explained how we helped ruin this town.
“She was my friend,” I say, carefully. “Phoebe. We were on a study abroad program here the year she went—” I catch myself. “The year she died.”
“Oh, I know it. That was the last year they did that program. The hotel used to make good money off you lot, this being the only bar where you can get loose in the whole town.”
The guilt slices at me, and I clear my throat. “Did you work here back then?”
“Honey, I’ve been working here since I was born. This son of a bitch is a family business,” he says, holding his arms out to gesture around him. “I use that termbusinessquite loosely, of course.” He chuckles. “My great-great-great grandfather built it back when the mine was still in business. But we shut down the hotel portion a few years back. Now it’s just the bar and restaurant. Our clientele is mostly locals and some folks like you who are passing through.”
I don’t know if it’s thehoney,or the sass with which the man talks, but it jiggles something loose in my memory.
“Wait, you said you worked here when Phoebe went missing. You weren’t… I mean…the karaoke you used to have here, did you…?”
“Oh, did I ever. You, love, are looking at none other than Miss Daisy Dukes herself.”
He does the signature pose of the drag queen I so vividlyremember—hip popped, elbow cocked, hand propping up his chin—and I picture him back up on that stage, decked out in a waist-length bleach-blond wig and those shorts I swear he painted on.
“No way.”
“Mmhmm, I know, I know. How the mighty have fallen, right?”
“No, that wasn’t what I…” But my eyes catch again on the dust draping heavily on the liquor bottles. “I’m so sorry,” I say, and I am. If I had done something different that day, not only might Phoebe still be alive, but this poor guy could have a thriving business.
“It’s not your fault that I’ve turned into a gay Ms. Havisham, honey,” he says, and despite the depressing subject matter, there’s a twinkle in his voice.
