Page 17 of The Followers

“Pretty Little Liars: Inside the Lives of Social Media Superstars”

At the coffee shop, Liv sat in the corner near the windows where she could be alone and see across the street to the bakery. Per Molly’s Instagram stories yesterday, she would be arriving at some point this morning to pick up cupcakes for her daughter’s party.

The Steaming Bean was filled with smiling tourists and townspeople—a couple with a baby in a stroller, two old guys playing checkers, and a group of students studying and laughing near the window. The brick walls of the cafe boasted a cheerful array of local art and photos. But Liv’s attention was on the document on her laptop where she kept information about Sam Howard.

New name: Scott Wander

From: Ohio?

Recently married.

Wife: Molly Sullivan of An Invincible Summer

Used to be a hermit living outside of town, per wife

Owns river rafting business

Has Gabriela? Need to find out.

Okay, not impressive. Maybe Oliver was right. Liv had no business trying to solve a crime that had stumped the police and the FBI. But she was here for seven more weeks, working a job that only used 30 percent of her brain, so she might as well see what she could learn.

She added another item to the list:

Is he dangerous? Specifically: is Gabriela in danger? PRIORITY.

“Is this seat taken?” a man asked.

Liv waved a hand without looking up from her laptop. “No, you can take it.”

She expected him to take the extra chair and use it for another table, but he sat, placing his coffee cup on the table between them. Surprised—and a little annoyed—she looked up. It was the man who had tried to hold the door open for her while she was on the phone. A local, she guessed. Messy brown hair under a baseball cap, beard, his threadbare T-shirt almost see-through in spots. Back in Pittsburgh, she might have thought he was homeless, but this scruffy, outdoorsy look wasn’t unusual here.

Liv turned back to her laptop. Random men didn’t approach her because they wanted to get to know her. She’d been told over and over that she had the kind of vibe that kept the world at a distance. Not just resting bitch face—resting serial killer face, as Oliver sometimes teased. Whatever. Baseball cap guy needed a place to sit in a crowded coffee shop, she had an extra chair. As long as he left her alone, it was fine.

“You’re new here, yeah?”

She lifted her eyes to his, holding in an exasperated sigh. “Maybe I’ve lived here my entire life.”

He leaned forward, motioning toward her with his muffin, eyes crinkling as he smiled. “No, you don’t look like a Durango girl.”

She glanced down at herself, wondering what gave her away. Maybe it was her clothes—she always dressed in shades of gray and black. People here were more casual and colorful, with denim cut-offs, cargo shorts, flip-flops. Or maybe it was her pale, pale skin—everyone in Durango seemed to come in shades between golden-tan and toasted-brown.

“Maybe I’m a tourist,” she said, scanning the street outside the bakery for any sign of Molly Sullivan. Nothing yet.

“I’m guessing not. Tourists don’t hide alone in corners with their laptops.” His voice held the hint of a laugh.

“I’m not hiding. And I’m here for work.”

At least 75 percent of her wished he would go away; she needed to keep an eye on the bakery, and she didn’t want to get distracted. The rest of her—the part that was all too aware of how long it had been since she’d been this close to anyone who wasn’t one of her patients—wanted him to keep talking. He was attractive, sure. She had realized that with a second glance at his face: warm brown eyes, beard threaded with golden-red. But it was more than that. She was lonely. She hadn’t seen Oliver in person for over a year, and he was the only person she could truly relax around. She wondered what it would be like to let down her guard, even for a moment.

Unfortunately, she tended to get nervous around good-looking men and words became even more difficult to shuttle from her brain to her mouth.

The guy seemed perfectly at ease, though. He leaned back and took a large bite of muffin. “Where are you from?”

“Fresno.” The same lie she’d told Molly the day before. She glanced over at the bakery: still no sign of Molly.

“You don’t seem like a California girl.”

“Probably because I grew up all over.” Not a lie.

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