Page 12 of Denying Davis
“Wednesday, huh?” Aaron rubbed his top lip with his index finger. “Not a lot of time.”
“No, it isn’t. Why did you ask?”
“Because if you really want to talk to this woman again, I suggest you get moving.”
I nodded just as the waitress arrived with Aaron’s omelet. He was right. I didn’t have time to be considerate of normal social cues.
About three hours later, I pulled up to a storefront in a West Palm Beach shopping center a few blocks from the airport. The glass door had the words “Haute Holidays” stamped across the front in flowery lettering, and a small catering van was parked in a space near the entrance. I slid my Mercedes convertible into an adjacent spot and turned off the engine. The car had been a splurge four years earlier, when I sold the travel app I designed to some Silicon Valley investors. I kept it in Florida and only took it out on special occasions.
This felt like one.
I took a few deep breaths, got out of the car, and walked into the business.
A teenager behind the bakery case seemed surprised to see me. “Can I help you?” he asked in a broken voice as he stared at me with wide eyes.
“I didn’t realize Haute Holidays was also a bakery.” I braced my hand on the glass display window, which showed off several elegant cakes and a few cupcakes drenched in chocolate ganache and whipped white frosting.
“We just have a few items in case customers want to try our offerings.” He took a white plastic wrapper from a dispenser located between the cases and the register. “Is there something I can get you? Would you like to taste a sample?”
“No, I was—I was looking for someone.” My gaze met the teen’s. “Samantha Green. Is she working today?”
“Samantha?” The boy put down the wrapper. “Oh.”
“Is she here?”
“No.” The teen glanced toward the back of the business before lowering his voice. “I’m not really supposed to talk about who works when. It’s like a persona matter.”
“You mean ‘personnel’,” I said, unable to resist correcting the kid. “Personnel matter, not persona.”
“Yeah, that.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Whatever. Listen, I’m not supposed to talk about that kind of stuff.”
I shifted my weight and straightened up. Then I pulled my wallet from the back pocket of my jeans. “Okay, I get that. It’s not really anyone’s business. You guys have to have policies.” I opened my billfold. “But I promise, I’m friends with Samantha Green. We go way back, and I’m figuring a guy like you can help me find her.”
I took out two fifty-dollar bills, no longer caring that I’d crossed the line from normal into creepy. I only had a few days left in South Florida, and I’d be damned if I left the area without having a chance to talk to Samantha again. I handed the money to the teen. “Maybe that will help you with your ‘personnel’ policies.”
The boy looked down at the money as if I’d handed him two winning lottery tickets. “Ugh”—his gaze met mine again—“yeah, yeah that helps.”
“Good.” I cleared my throat. “Where is she, if she’s not here right now?”
“Let me get a piece of paper,” he said. “I can write down the address for you.”
A half hour later, I was parked in front of a six-plex of apartments, right smack in the middle of what looked like an average, but rickety complex. It was the kind of place contractors put up too quickly and crammed too many people inside, the type of place that advertised reduced rates and premium amenities that never quite matched the marketing.
This second time, I parked the Mercedes away from the other cars, in an unmarked spot at the end of the lot.
Apartment 601 was a downstairs unit, one that looked like all the others. It had a small patio with a few hanging ferns and a metal chair. As I walked toward the door, I recited over and over what I would say when she opened the door. She’d have questions. Demands. She might accuse me of stalking. She might slam the door in my face.
None of that will derail me. I know what I want.
When I reached the door, I took two deep breaths before I knocked.
“Who is it?” asked a female voice on the other side. I couldn’t tell if it was her.
“Um…it’s Davis Armstrong. Can I…”
I broke off because I heard shuffling on the other side of the door then the sharp clicking of locks being opened. The door opened a fraction, and Samantha peeked around the security chain. “What the hell are you doing here, Davis?”
“I just—” I stepped backward as a sudden rush of embarrassment passed through me. She was right. What the hellwasI doing? This kind of behavior was way out of character for me, and I hardly recognized myself. But seeing her again at the wedding reception had triggered something, and I had a need to answer questions that had long ago been forgotten.
