Page 122 of Once Upon A Small Town Secret
I turn back to Mark.
“What did they do?” I ask, and my stomach tightens.
“Came in. Ordered beer,” Mark says. “Then they just… got into it with Ben. I don’t know. They accused us of cutting the beer with water. Demanded new ones on the house.
“One of them called him a thief. Another said something about ‘good-for-nothing.’ Ben tried to keep it cool, but then he just… tossed them, you know? Calm, clean, out. And the second the door shut, he told us to take the stick, and he walked.”
My hands are steady on the bar. I only realize I’m gripping too hard when my knuckles tell on me.
“A thief,” I repeat, because that’s the word my brain stuck to. “What does that mean? Where did he go?”
Mark shakes his head. “He didn’t explain.” His eyes are apologetic. “I figured I’d catch him after he cooled off. But he never came back.”
I nod. I don’t trust my voice, so I nod.
I let go of the bar and step back, the room tilting a degree off center before it rights itself. Gossip, I can handle. I've been handling it since I was old enough to bake a cake that looked too pretty for my brother not to tease me.
But something about those men got under Ben’s skin. They called him a thief. I may not know all the details of Ben’s life, but I know what words like that could do to him.
“Okay,” I say to the bartenders, because they’re looking at me like I might know where the owner of their workplace went. “Thanks. If he comes back—”
“We’ll tell him you were looking,” Mark says, gently. “And we’ll keep trying him.”
“Me too,” I say, and I turn away from their concern because if I stand here much longer, I’m going to cry. Not because he’s embarrassed by me—God, Paige, get your ego out of the kitchen—but because he’s gone, and no one knows where.
I duck around the end of the bar, out of the sight lines and the conversation. My phone is already in my hand by the hallway where the bathrooms are, and I hit his name without thinking. Voicemail again. His recorded voice asks me to leave a message. I don’t. I hang up because the idea of putting words into that empty space makes my throat close. Whatever I have to say, I can’t say it there.
Think. Where does he go when he can’t breathe? He’s not a walker the way I am. He doesn’t go to the river unless I’m dragging him that direction. He doesn’t have a favorite bench or tree, or overlook. He has a truck and a deck and a stubborn streak that makes him keep moving until the motion burns itself out.
A trickle of nausea rolls through me. I press my palm flat to my belly. “You and me both,” I whisper, and then I call the only person who might be able to triangulate Ben Hoffman on a night like this.
Jason answers on the second ring. “Paige.”
“Have you heard from Ben?” I don’t bother with hello.
“No.” His voice is neutral enough that I can hear what he’s not saying. He’s trying to be careful. For me. For himself. For the thing in the middle of all of us, the one we haven’t quite worked out yet.
“He left the Pint,” I say, keeping my voice low even though it doesn’t matter if the hallway hears. “Hours ago. No one knows where he is. His phone goes straight to voicemail.”
There’s only silence on the line—just long enough for the hairs on my arms to lift—before he says, “What happened? Do you know why?”
“I don’t know everything. The staff said there was gossip about us, obviously.” I roll my eyes at the wall. “Then a group of older guys came in and were… awful. They accused him of cutting the beer. They called him a thief. Good-for-nothing. Mark couldn’t hear all of it, but he said Ben tossed them and then walked out. That was hours ago.”
Jason’s inhale is quick and sharp. His voice goes tight, controlled, and careful. “Okay.”
“Okay—what?” Panic pricks the backs of my knees. “Jason, what does that mean? Why would someone call him that? What’s going on?”
“I’ll take care of it,” he says.
“Jason.” My voice spikes, and I make myself drop it a notch. I head toward the back door, toward the empty chill of the service hall, because my skin feels too thin in the public part of this building. “No. You don’t get to go all cryptic Batman on me. What is going on?”
“I’ll take care of it,” he repeats, and now he’s doing that cryptic big-brother thing where he wants to take care of the problem himself and expects me to get behind it. “I’ll find him. Are you at the Pint?”
“Yes. No. I’m in the hallway by the bathrooms.” My laugh comes out wrong. My eyes burn. “I was supposed to meet him tonight to finish the film festival plan, but he didn’t show up. He’s not answering.”
He’s quiet for two beats. Three. “Go home,” he says finally, softer. “I’ll call you when I find him.”
“I’m not going home,” I say on instinct. The hallway air tastes like dish soap and fryer particles. “I’m going to drive around, check the river path, his place—”
