Page 71 of Gone Tonight
Instead, the opposite is happening.
I’m stunned she went back to Ethan. After the night of their one-year anniversary, when I bought that bottle of Russian vodka and offered him a drink and watched him nod a little too eagerly, I figured we’d seen the last of him.
The two women at table five stand up and head for the cashier. I wait until they exit, then walk over and begin to clear their dirty plates. I notice someone approach out of the corner of my eye and my stomach drops. I have a feeling I know what’s coming.
Melanie reaches for the empty juice and water glasses, stacking them up.
“Thanks,” I tell her.
“Why should you have all the fun?”
I really do wish I’d been able to accept the invitations Melanie extended in the past. But alcohol leads to letting down one’s guard, and women like to confide in each other. I would’ve slipped and made an unforgivable error. Maybe not the first time, or the second, but eventually.
Catherine is used to accepting what I say. Our dynamic was established when we were parent and child, and even though things are more equitable now, she still doesn’t challenge me when I draw a line.
Melanie and I don’t have that history.
Another rule for when you’re always on the verge of disappearing: Don’t get close to anyone or they might try to find you.
“It’s dead in here. How about we take a break and grab a cup?”
Since I won’t meet her out, Melanie is trying to get us to have a drink—in this case, coffee—right here.
“I wish.” I give what I hope sounds like a regretful sigh. “I was going to try to duck out early. I’ve got a ton of errands.”
Melanie is a smart cookie. She must sense how much I like her. My rebuffs have to feel confusing to her.
But all she does is say, “I’m here if you need anything.” Then she reaches for the napkins crumpled on the table and clears them away. Other than the difference in our skin shade, her hands could be my hands. When you’re a waitress, you keep your nails short and neat. And forget about wearing rings or bracelets to work—prongs or nooks can catch tiny bits of food. The last thing you want is to have to dig someone’s sticky French toast crumb out of a crevice in your best piece of jewelry.
I wasn’t really planning to leave early, but now I’m stuck. I go to the counter, where Sam is trying to fix a stool that is getting wobbly on its base, and ask if I can head out. His grunt seems to be in the affirmative, so I walk to the small employee room. I spin the dial on the locker, putting in my code, and when the door springs open, I pull out my bag. Then I look behind me.
Sometimes I keep things here that I don’t want my daughter to see. When I learned Catherine had been offered the job at Johns Hopkins—shortly before James’s parole hearing—I checked out a book and stored it here.Understanding Alzheimer’s.It strengthened my decision to put on a charade to keep Catherine safe after James won parole. It even gave me specific ideas for symptoms to fake.
There’s something else tucked in the back of my locker, too. A burner phone. It wouldn’t be a catastrophe if Sam found it—there’s nothing that links it to me, and I could always say a customer left it and I was holding on to it to return.
Still, I’d prefer it be kept a secret.
I’ve had this phone for a long time. Many years. I’ve never made a single call from it, though.
I didn’t buy it because I intended to use it.
This phone is a trip wire.
If someone calls this number and starts asking questions about me, I’ll know one of my last lines of defense is down.
I check the messages every time I come to work. Now I plug the burner into the wall socket, turn it on, and wait until the tiny screen activates.
Three words appear that fill me with terror:One missed call.
I frantically navigate to the call log to see where and when the number originated. It came in last night around 7 p.m. and caller ID shows it was from a guy named John Quinlan.
No message.
I stare down at the phone, half expecting it to ring again. That sound would feel like a bomb detonating in my hand.
It’s silent.
Wrong number, I try to reassure myself. I occasionally receive them since the number for this phone is almost identical to that of a busy law firm in Philadelphia, with just the last two digits transposed. This John Quinlan was trying to reach the law firm and when he heard the computerized voice saying only,“Leave a message at the tone,”he realized his mistake and hung up. That’s why he hasn’t called back.
