Page 85 of The Words We Lost

“You ready for something stronger than Diet Coke with a twist of lime, Cecelia Jane?” He winked.

Weirdly enough, she had no desire to correct him on the use of her full name.

She leaned her elbows on the bar top and waved him in close, just as a rebellious curl popped free of her oversize hoodie. She attempted to tuck it back behind her ear. “I’m wondering if you can tell me what kind of drink those two gentlemen are enjoying at this table to my right here?”

The bartender cast his gaze to where Cece flicked her head and then smirked. “They’re porters.”

“And porters are beer, right? I mean, theydocontain alcohol, correct?”

His grin popped two identical dimples on either side of his lips as he, too, set his elbows on the shiny bar top and leaned in secret-telling close. “That particular porter there is rated at nine percent ABV. So yes, theydefinitelycontain alcohol.” He tapped a fingernail to her glass. “Unlike your Diet Coke here, which contains zero percent.” As he righted himself, he reached to tug on the end of her curl, causing it to boing against her cheek. “I don’t think this one wants to hide in that hoodie anymore.”

“Guess not, thanks.” She tried for a smile, but in light of the revelation, she couldn’t maintain it for long. Turned out, she wasn’t as good an actress as she’d hoped. “I appreciate your help.”

“How ’bout I mix you up a Ryker Special—on the house.” He tilted his head, held her gaze. “I’m Ryker, in case that didn’t come out as smoothly as I intended it to.”

“I’m only a fan of mocktails, but thank you anyway ... Ryker,” she added before taking a long pull from her straw.

“Want to hear something ironic?” His grin brightened all the more. “I don’t drink either, but the tips are putting me through law school.” He tilted his head to Cece’s drink. “How ’bout we make this drink the Cecelia Jane Special then, shall we?” One of the other bartenders called for him, and Ryker tapped his palm twice on the bar top before moon-walking to the other side of the counter. He pointed to her. “Promise you won’t leave before I get back.”

Flustered, she nodded before twisting around in her seat once again, determined to collect the evidence she came in for, only Hal’s table was empty. The remnants of his beer and his hat were still there, but he and Mr. Insurance Adjuster were nowhere to be found. Panic seized her chest as she searched for him, angry she hadn’t snapped a picture when she had the chance. But then, as if in slow motion, she saw them standing along the perimeter of the busy restaurant. Only the duo she’d been looking for had doubled to four.

Two men joined Hal and his friend near the back corner. They were sleekly dressed from head to toe, with big-city vibe haircuts and attitudes that stood out among the mass of blue-collared men sloshing beer back and screaming at the referee on the screen.

She rose up on the footrest of her barstool, squinting at them over the crowd to get a better view, catching only the tail end of a quick exchange. The passing of what looked like a folded piece of paper, which Hal opened and studied for all of two seconds before he shoved it into his jacket pocket. The entire encounter was seconds, maybe half a minute tops.

Heart pounding in her throat, Cece dropped back onto her stool, trying to make sense of what she’d just seen.

She peeked under the rim of her hoodie as Hal and his friend reclaimed their seats at their table once again and ordered another round of porters from the waitress. In a rare dip of room volume, Hal’s accent bit through the crowd noise and three words found their way to her ears. “... at first light.”

At first light.What was happening at first light?

Enough was enough. She definitely had what she needed to get Joel involved. She angled her phone under her right arm and snapped two inconspicuous pictures of their table. Then she opened up a text window to Joel.

Cece

We have a 911 situation on our hands.

It took her cousin almost three minutes to respond to her, but when he did, his response of a single question mark was an epic disappointment. Cece exhaled and tried again.

Cece

I’m at a bar in Oak Harbor and Hal is here.

Joel

What are you doing in a bar?

Cece

HAL. IS. HERE. He’s drinking again.

When Hal had first come back from the rehab center her uncle had paid for, there were accountability parameters in place centered around Hal’s continued employment and the use of the hotel’s charter boat. Their agreement was dependent on Hal’s consistent check-ins with his sponsor and his attendance at the local sobriety meetings. There was also the condition regarding his church attendance each Sunday, followed by a standing invitation to the Campbell family brunch at the hotel. Only Cece hadn’t seen Hal dish up a hearty plate of bacon and eggs more than a couple of times in the last six months or so. She was careful whenever she broached the subject to Ingrid, as if suggesting that Hal could be anything other than a fully recovered, well-intentioned, church-going citizen of Port Townsend was completely asinine. Ingrid was often quick to defend the sobriety milestones her father had hit over the last three years—the chips he’d collected and documented by text—and, of course, his progress toward buying his own fishing boat.

Yet whenever Cece saw Hal as of late, she didn’t think he resembled the healthy man Ingrid described in their phone calls. And Joel always had some defendable excuse when it came to his girlfriend’s father. As far as she was concerned, her cousin’s radar for Hal’s duplicity act was badly in need of repair. Hopefully tonight would fix that once and for all.

“I haven’t seen Hal at church on Sundays for a while now, or at family brunch for that matter,” she’d mentioned to Joel a few weeks back when he’d breezed through the hotel lobby from logging the last of his sea hours with the captain.

Joel’s expression had been puzzled by her comment, as if she was crazy for questioning anything having to do with a man who’d neglected her best friend for years, leaving her alone at all hours of the night in a dilapidated tugboat so he could keep his flask full. “He’s been working hard to save up money for a boat, Cece. Give the guy a break. You’d be tired, too, if you were crabbing seven-hour circuits overnight every weekend.” Nearly a year ago, Joel’s father had cut Hal a generous deal—for only the price of fuel, he’d allowed Hal to use his boat in the off hours for crabbing, in which Hal was able to keep one hundred percent of the profit. According to Ingrid, this was the money he’d been saving to buy his own fishing boat.

---