Page 75 of Keeping Kyler
I stand up, fishing my phone out of my back pocket. “No can do. Ky has this murder charge hanging over him like a storm cloud, and I want to get to the bottom of things sooner rather than later. It’s cool, though. Don’t worry. I’ll call Rose and see if she can borrow her mum’s car.”
He puts his hand on my wrist. “Hold up. I don’t like the thought of you going there by yourself. That place is a little rough. Ky would kick the shit out of me if he discovered I let you go there by yourself. How about I go with you and you arrange for Rose to pick you up? I think I can still make my date on time if I don’t have to drive you back.”
“Ooh, a date,” I tease as if I’m ten again. “Anyone special?”
He snorts. “Hardly, unless you’d call a regular fuck buddy special?”
“Jeez, do you have to be such a pig?”
“Would you rather I lie?”
“No. Definitely not.” I give him a push toward the door. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. I’ll message Rose from the car.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Faye
The sky is painted an eerie purple-gray color by the time we pull up in front of the diner where Wendy Moore’s high school friend works. I had phoned before we left the house to check she was working tonight, and someone up there must be looking out for us, because she is. While she was a little hesitant when I first suggested coming here to talk about an article I’m writing for the online school magazine, I managed to convince her when I mentioned it’d be a paid interview—that had been Keven’s suggestion.
A bell tinkles as we push open the door. An older lady with dark hair approaches us with a forced smile. “Table or booth?” she asks.
“Booth, please,” I reply, following her to an empty one at the rear of the diner. She hands us a couple of menus. “Could you let Stacy know that Faye is here. I spoke to her earlier on the phone.” Mercifully, it’s not too busy, so we should have time for a decent conversation.
A few minutes later, the waitress returns with a skinny blonde in tow. “I’m Stacy. You’re Faye?” the blonde asks, and I nod, extending my hand.
“Thank you for agreeing to speak with me.”
Her handshake is limp and damp, and I resist the urge to wipe my hand over the front of my jeans. Makeup is caked on her face, and hollow crevices line her forehead. Her eyes and lips are wrinkled at the corners, and she smells like smoke and cheap perfume. “And who are you sweetheart?” she asks Keven, thrusting her enhanced chest forward. Her uniform is short and tight, and if she strains any farther, I reckon her top will split right open. From the way she’s devouring Keven with her eyes, I get the sense she really wouldn’t mind all that much.
“I’m her cousin,” is all Keven offers up.
“Nice tats.” She licks her lips while focusing on the ink creeping up his arm. Sliding into the seat beside him, she flicks her stringy bleached-blonde hair over her shoulder and gives him an eye fuck. Mascara has clumped her lashes together, and the thick layer of jet-black liner rimming her eyes has smudged, giving her a panda-eye effect. I know from the pictures I found online that Stacy was quite the looker in her day, and I feel a pang of sympathy. There’s no ring on her finger, and if her appearance is any indication, life has taken its toll. She’s not actually that old, and it’s pretty sad.
The other waitress smirks at Stacy’s feeble attempts at flirting. “We’ll take two coffees and two muffins,” Keven says, ignoring Stacy’s intense gaze. “Would you like anything, Stacy?”
“How about you?” she answers, giving him a saucy wink.
“Afraid I’m not on the menu.” Keven’s mouth pulls into a grim line, while I attempt to smother my snigger of amusement.
She pouts. “I’ll take a coffee, Shell.”
I pull out my folder and remove my pen and pad. “As I explained on the phone, I’m writing an article for the school magazine on the class of 1989. We’d like to find out what life was like in Memorial High back then, what kind of plans you had after graduating, and whether you have achieved your goals, etcetera.” I deliberately don’t look up. I doubt working in a sleazy diner was top of her list of ambitions.
Stacy is remarkably chatty, and I only have to ask a few questions every now and then to keep the conversation flowing. Shell brings our coffees and muffins as I try to steer the conversation in the direction I need it to go.
“Wow, that’s great, Stacy,” I say, when I finally get a word in edgeways. “You’ve given me tons of great material here. I was hoping you might be able to give me some information on a few of the girls you were friends with at the time, and perhaps some of them might be willing to talk to me as well.”
She takes a slurp of her now-cold coffee. “Wendy Moore is the only one I still talk to, and our contact is sporadic at best.”
Jackpot.
I try to temper my excitement at the fact that Peyton and Addison’s mum is the only one she’s still in contact with.
“Oh, I think I know her. She’s Peyton’s mom, right?”
Her brow puckers. “That’s the dark-haired daughter? I always get mixed up. That woman has had more kids than I’ve had hot dinners.” She throws back her head, cackling to herself.
I fake ignorance. “I thought Peyton was an only child?”
