Page 71 of Thicker Than Water
At Customer Service, there’s a skinny, pimply teen manning the counter. He’s staring at nothing, chewing on a pen cap, and there’s a smudge of blue ink in the corner of his lips. My first thought is to ask for his manager, but I reconsider; someone this young (and maybe a little dumb) might be willing to cross more boundaries.
“Hi,” I say, as bright and cheery as I can muster. “Is Henry working today?”
I omit his last name on purpose—Henry and I aresuchgood friends.
“Henry Hendrix?” I add, like it’s just occurred to me to be more specific.
The kid’s pen cap clicks across his teeth as he yanks it out. “Um. Let me look at the schedule, I can pull it up on my phone.”
I smile at him. So easy.
“Nah, he’s not on till tomorrow,” the boy says. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He’s just confirmed for me that this is the location where Henry works. Now I can ask what I really need to know. “There might be something else you can help me with. Henry said a co-worker drove him home last Friday. He left something of mine in the person’s car and I’d love to get it back if they’re here today, since I came all this way and everything.”
“Uh, who drove him home? I can check to see if they’re—”
“That’s the thing, I’m not sure. He’s been so hard to get ahold of lately.” I make a show of rolling my eyes. “You know how Henry is.”
“Not really. We work different sections.”
“Oh. Well, is there anyone who might remember—”
“Hey, Tony?” the boy calls to someone behind me. I turn to find a man with an orange apron over a plaid button-down. “Do you know who drove Henry home last Friday?”
“Hendrix?” the man clarifies. “He doesn’t work Fridays.”
“Oh, but he did that night,” I step forward to say. “His car was in the shop, and his co-worker gave him a ride. I’m trying to figure out who it was because he left my—”
“Sorry, ma’am,” the man cuts in. I cock an eyebrow. “Hendrix doesn’t work Fridays.”
“But schedules change all the time, right?” I try. Because I can’t exactly say,I heard this straight from the police.“Sorry, I don’t mean to pester you. It’s just—Henry was very clear that his co-worker drove him home that night.”
“Hendrix doesn’t work Fridays,” he says—for the third time. “Ifone of his co-workers drove him home from somewhere, it wasn’t from here.”
“Are you sure?” I bite back my frustration. “Could you check with the manager maybe?”
The man smirks. “Honey, Iamthe manager.”
Then he strides away, too fast to feel the heat of my gaze.
I swivel back to the teen smiling obliviously, the ink like a bad piercing at the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah,” he says, glancing at his phone. “Henry wasn’t on the schedule last Friday.”
They checked this guy out,Wyatt assured me. But I’ve been here two seconds, and Henry’s alibi, already flimsy, has now completely dissolved, quicker than salt in water.
“Thanks,” I mumble to the boy. Then I storm away.
How did this happen? Clearly Henry lied about his alibi—but wouldn’t the police have verified his timeline? They’ve certainly been obsessed with Jason’s.
And it’s not just Henry who would’ve had to lie. Wyatt said they spoke to the friend who backed up Henry’s claim.
So what the hell happened?
As I pound across the store’s concrete floor, my phone’s already in my hand. When the doors slide open to let me out, my fingers pull up Wyatt’s name.
I have to tell him the cops are wrong.
