Page 49 of The Girl from Widow Hills
CHAPTER 14
Sunday, 12 p.m.
MY HEAD WASN’T RIGHT.
It was the lack of sleep. It was my fear of going home. It was the way I partly expected everyone to start disappearing from my life.
And so I wasn’t sure whether I was seeing things that shouldn’t be there—everything through the filter of a dead body near my house, the investigation, the lack of sleep. Whether I was seeing danger in places it didn’t exist.
I knew Bennett would have the most logical assessment. And I was right.
Bennett had talked me down from the ledge when I called him from Elyse’s vacant apartment in a panic, explaining that she wasn’t there, that her car was still in the lot, that her purse and her phone were left behind. Bennett walked through each step, carefully and logically:Picked up by that guy, the bartender—Trevor? Went out drinking. Using a different purse. The forgotten phone would explain why she hadn’t answered our calls . . .
His tone made me put down her cell, stop scrolling through the notifications—me, Bennett, work, repeat—and feel like an intruder. Which, at the moment, I was.
She quit, she was pissed, she went out. It made sense. But I couldn’t shake the other vision: of her running, taken, trapped—waiting for someone to find her.
Which was why I’d been waiting until noon for the bar to open.
I needed to be sure either way. And I didn’t want to call the police over nothing but a person blowing off steam—bringing extra attention to myself.
Now I was drumming my fingers on the wheel, watching for when the light inside Bill’s Tavern turned on. This was where we’d been on Friday evening. The last moment of normalcy before everything spiraled out of my control.
The lot was mostly empty now, the opposite of Friday night, when the cars had overflowed from the lot onto the grassy embankment on the side of the road—the promise of cheap drinks and live music.
At 12:06, I gave up on waiting. The front door was locked, but I cupped my hands to the smudged glass, peering inside the dimly lit interior. I could just make out the shadow of a person in the distance, behind the bar—a faint light illuminating the space from deep within.
Eventually, the man behind the bar came around and turned the lock, but he only partially opened the door. “We’ve got about five minutes before the kitchen is up and running,” he said. He looked about as far from Trevor as possible. Older, unapproachable, irritated by my presence. There was something slightly familiar about him, but I’d been feeling that about everyone recently: the people at the hospital, the residents of Elyse’s apartment building. Like I might’ve seen them all before, in passing. But maybe not. Maybe I was searching for it now, knowing what I’d missed in Sean Coleman.
“Sorry, I’m looking for Trevor?” I said.
The man shook his head. “He doesn’t work today.” Then he let the glass door swing shut.
I moved my foot into the doorway to catch it, then followed him inside as he strode across the restaurant floor. “Do you know where I can find him?”
He paused at the bar before easing himself behind the counter. He looked me over like he was assessing the threat of a person who had barged into a closed establishment. This was when it paid to be small and unassuming.
“I’m not in the habit of giving out employee information,” he said, his words carrying through the empty space. I’d never been in here on a Sunday afternoon, and it seemed so much larger without the crowd and the noise. I could hear dishes from the kitchen, low laughter.
“It’s really important,” I said, standing on the other side of the counter. Then, at the condescending look he gave me, I added, “It’s about a mutual friend. I work at the hospital.” Letting him fill in the gaps. Letting him wonder at the implication, true or not.
Eventually, he took his phone from the back pocket of his baggy jeans. “I can call him myself,” he said, “though I can’t guarantee he’ll answer. He works late hours, as you might guess.”
He dialed from the other side of the bar, looked right at me as he spoke. His face was round and aged, his eyes small and dark. We stared at each other in silence for so long that I was worried the call had gone to voicemail, when he finally broke the silence. “Trevor, sorry to bother you, I’ve got a woman at the restaurant by the name of . . .”
“Olivia Meyer,” I said.
“Olivia Meyer,” he repeated. “She was asking for your contact. She says it’s about a friend . . .”
“Elyse,” I said. This was ridiculous. Couldn’t he just hand me the phone and let me talk to Trevor?
“Elyse,” he repeated, and then, based on whatever Trevor must’ve told him, he did slowly hand me the phone.
“Liv? What’s going on?”
I backed away from the bar, though I was sure this guy could hear. There was nowhere to go for privacy. “Is Elyse with you?” I asked.
“What? No, why would you think . . .” Trevor’s voice was both tense and gravelly, like we’d woken him and he was still trying to get his bearings.
