Page 129 of The Archer Brothers

“Are you going to take it home?” Her question gives me so much hope, but it quickly deflates.

I shake my head. “I’m sure the registration is expired and I can’t afford to get pulled over.” I can feel her eyes on me, but I’m afraid to look at her. I really need a moment to take all of this in. First, someone named Amy Jones has been paying this rental fee, and for all I know that’s my wife. The money is coming from an East Coast bank Cara seems familiar with. The problem now is that I’m on the West Coast with no money to get to where this bank or this Amy person is. Cara makes the first move and steps into the storage unit. She walks around my bike, inspecting it. It’s safe to say it won’t blow up if I start it since Frannie hasn’t had access to. When she gets to the end, she kneels and starts to smile.

“Nope, you’re good for another few months,” she states, much to my surprise.

“What?” I choke out.

“McCoy, someone has been paying for the upkeep of this bike, and you and I both know it’s your wife.”

“Or this Amy Jones,” I mutter, because that’s who we have proof of.

“Semantics. Call your PI and let her know what we’ve found. I’m going to go talk to Buzz.” Cara walks out, our happy moment now over and back to work mode has set in again.

“Buzz?”

“That’s what his name tag said,” she says, shrugging as she walks away.

When Cara is out of sight, I step in and instead of going to my bike I open one of the boxes holding Claire’s clothes. I pick up a pink dress with ruffles on the bottom. I’d like to think I remember her wearing this, but I don’t. I bring it to my nose and inhale deeply, imagining the sweet smell of my baby girl. I know it doesn’t smell like Claire, or a baby, but I’m telling myself it does because I need to believe I’m going to find her. I need to have faith that this Amy Jones is going to be or know where my wife is. I put the dress down and pick up a pair of socks, putting them in my pocket. If I can’t have my daughter with me right now, I’ll carry a piece of something she used to wear. It’s stupid, I know, but I need it.

My bike looks clean even though there’s a layer of dust on it. I find a rag and wipe it down before climbing on. She feels good between my legs—it doesn’t feel like I haven’t been on her for six years. I think about starting her up, but would rather do it out in the open. Pushing the kickstand back and dropping into neutral, I roll out until I’m in the middle of the alley.

After closing the storage door, I hop back on and make my way to the front office where Cara is. She’s standing by her car, talking on her phone, which reminds me to call Marley. I pull out the cell phone Evan gave me and dial her number. It rings and rings until her voicemail comes on.

“Marley, it’s McCoy. Call me. I think I found something.” I decide not to leave any details because I’m still fearful that she’s being watched, although if Frannie is hounding the storage owner, she can’t be messing with Marley. I wouldn’t put it past Frannie to have a fucking team of assholes working for her though.

The gate opens, allowing me to take my bike through. By the smile on Cara’s face, she approves that I’m on it.

“Have you started it up yet?”

“No, I was waiting until I was out here. If I need a tow truck this area is accessible. Plus, I left the key in the car. Did you get what you needed from Buzz?”

Pulling out her notebook, Cara nods. “I just verified what he said earlier and I asked him about the tags on your motorcycle. He says they came from the DMV every year. I asked him how he knew to put them on and he said the last time he saw Penelope, she asked him to take care of the bike and only let you in there.”

“So he recognized me?”

“Yeah, he must’ve. Did you call your PI?”

This time I’m the one nodding. “Left a message to have her call me.”

“It’s a good lead, McCoy. Come on, let’s go get some food. I’m starving.”

After I get the key out of the red box I hop back on my motorcycle and turn the key, engage the clutch, and push down on the kick-start. She roars to life underneath me, and for the first time in I don’t know how long, I’m smiling. This is a small step, but it’s monumental one.

IT’S BEEN A few days since my blackout, and thankfully Ray seems to have forgotten about it and so has Adam. He hasn’t said anything the last couple of times he’s been in the store and for that I’m thankful. I couldn’t quite figure out why Ray was so sour about my blackout until I went to work the next day and everyone was asking if I was okay. If I was being asked here, then that means Ray was being asked at work and he likely didn’t want to take attention away from his students. Plus, hearing your wife is blacking out is probably cause for concern. I can’t really blame him.

Of course the day after the blackout, which let’s be honest was really my mind going elsewhere, I didn’t get any work done. The store was full of concerned neighbors and citizens; even the town’s resident doctor stopped by to make sure I was okay. It was overwhelming and I’m hoping it’s now behind us. I don’t want to be treated with kid gloves or have people staring at me, wondering if it’s going to happen again. That day with Adam was an isolated incident.

I thought about taking a few days off, but that would only prove to be troublesome for me. Being alone in my house with my thoughts with nothing to occupy my time would defeat the purpose of forgetting about everything and that’s what I need to do, forget.

The bell chimes on the door and once again I find myself lost in thought about nothing in particular. I’m afraid to think about my life before I arrived in Pittsfield. No, I shouldn’t say that. My life was great. I was in love, happy, and my man loved me with everything that he was. I never doubted how he felt about me. But that all changed when Frannie— No, I shouldn’t think about it. Those thoughts, that life, it needs to stay locked away. Ted Lawsoncannothurt my family anymore.

I smile at the couple that just walked in. They’re tourists. It’s easy to tell the people that haven’t been here before because they walk in and cringe when the screen door slams shut. Their steps are timid because they’re not sure where they should go. Eyes wander, searching for the bathroom sign, and they rush off as soon as they see it. I chuckle at this particular couple because that’s what they just did, only to stop by the glass-covered pastries and point to the large cinnamon rolls and cookies. Even if they only meant to stop and use the restroom, they’ll purchase something as they leave. Laura has the store set up perfectly that way.

As soon as customers walk in, the counter is off to the left with the store opening up on the right. Directly in front of them is a table full of Vermont specialties and diagonally from there, you’ll find our coffee and pastries stand with the bathrooms in the back corner. Groceries and the deli are straight ahead when you walk in. It’s truly the perfect little country store.

Another couple, followed by a family, walks in—meaning I should leave my duty of dusting. I stand at the counter with my hands behind my back, making eye contact with them when they look my way. The goal is to make them feel welcomed. That’s what Laura did for me, same with Ray. Claire and I were barely making it, but we had each other and I was determined. I never liked working at the gas station. It’s freezing in the winter and stifling in the summer, but it paid my rent and put food on the table for Claire. People used to drop things off for her when we were at work. We’d walk home, a mile down the busy stretch of the road, and find a bag of clothes. She’d be so excited and on the inside I was, too, but as soon as she went to sleep for the night I cried my eyes out in the bathroom. My life wasn’t supposed to be like this. When my husband died I should’ve been able to pack up my home and find a new place for us to live. I have no doubt I would’ve gone to stay with Ryley, who was pregnant at the time. I’ve always wondered how she’s doing today and whether or not she had the baby.

I’ve been tempted to hunt for her on the web, see if I can find a picture of her, anything to curb my curiosity, but at the same time, I don’t want to know. I don’t want to risk someone looking over my shoulder, or somehow knowing I looked her up. That part of my life is dead and buried, and as much as I miss it, I’ll never be there again.

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