Page 48 of The Witch's Orchard
“Yes,” I say. “I am.”
Her pale blond eyebrows draw up and together and her eyes fill with tears but she bites down hard on her bottom lip and sniffs.
“I need to talk to you,” I say. And I say it more because I feel it’s what she wants to say. Like this is a play and she forgot her line and I’m just cuing her to keep things rolling.
She nods her head, then turns and looks at the big black and white clock above the doors to the kitchen.
“I get a break in about thirty minutes.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Can you meet me out back?”
“Sure.”
Mandy sniffs again and then heads into the kitchen. Soon enough, the young waitress returns with my plate of food. I knew I was hungry, but I hadn’t realized just how famished I was until that salty, greasy goodness appears on the bar before me. My eyes fill with honest-to-God grateful tears, and if I weren’t so wholeheartedly focused on stuffing my face, I’d get down right there in the middle of Ellerd’s and thank this angel for bringing it to me.
Instead, I wolf down every single bite of the crispy chicken and peppery white gravy. The tots are, each of them, explosions of salty, oily starch and the apples slip around in my mouth, slick and cinnamony and perfectly tender.
“Mmm…” I can’t help but moan. I chase the whole thing with coffee and check the clock. Ten minutes left.
The eighteen-year-old comes back and picks up my plate.
“Can I ask you a question?” I say before she can disappear.
“You that PI?”
“I guess.”
“This about those girls?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” she says, and puts my plate back down.
“What do you think happened to them?” I ask.
She looks side to side, then crouches closer to me and says, “You know one was found dead this morning, right?”
“I do. I was the one who found her.”
Her eyes widen, but then she takes on a skeptical look and says, “So why ask me about it?”
I shrug. “You work in here. You hear stuff. You live in this town. You hear stuff.”
“Okay,” she says.
“So, what do you think happened?”
“Well.” She pauses. Squeezes her lips together. Glances around. Leans even closer. “I always heard they probably were kidnapped by some pervert who put them in a basement.”
“A basement?”
“Yeah, or like… a hole in the ground somewhere. Or, you know, my friend Jada always said they probably were sold to some billionaire to use as sex slaves. Nasty.”
She shivers and then says, “But now with Molly Andrews turning up dead… Pretty creepy. Makes you wonder what happened to the other one.”
“The other one,” I repeat, encouragingly.
