“Rental,” Gideon said. “Booked with a forged out-of-state license. I’ve got Eric pulling DMV traffic cams within a hundred-mile radius, but if they dumped the car, it could be anywhere.”
Again, that sharp, helpless anger. “And Boris didn’t get anywhere?”
Gideon’s voice dropped. “No. He wondered if it was linked somehow to him, but he can’t find anything to link Molly at all, and it wasn’t a direct attack for ransom like he might expect. He’s pissed. Like, nuclear-level. He wants her home, and he wants us to find her because his Little is upset.”
I sighed. “Which is why he called us. We can probably do what he can't without treading on toes he can't afford to antagonize.”
Gideon was already flipping through the folder. “Eric’s starting with Ruby. It looks targeted to me, and Molly might have been the easier target.”
I glanced at my phone. I had to collect Lottie. “Let me know what you need from me.” Gideon clicked his fingers as if remembering something. “Abby wants Lottie’s phone number so they can hang out.”
I nodded my permission. I knew Gideon had her number but wouldn’t give it out without asking. For a brief second, I wondered if I should ask Lottie first, but she’d agreed to let me make the safety decisions. “She’d enjoy that.”
I didn’t run back to my car, but it was a close thing.
Chapter fourteen
Lottie
Fiona made it look easy. She bounced behind the counter, pulling espresso shots and swirling milk foam like she’d been born doing it, even though I knew she didn't work here as a rule and was just training me. The coffee machine hissed and steamed, and I was sure I’d mess it up, but she walked me through every button and lever, never once making me feel silly for asking twice.
“First, you tap the grounds in super even,” she said, demonstrating with a practiced thwack. “Then you twist this part until it locks and hit the button for a single or double shot. See how it goes kinda gold on top? That’s called crema. It means you did it right.”
I nodded, hands a little shaky, but she just grinned and let me try it myself. The handle was heavier than it looked. I pressedthe grounds, twisted it into place, and hit the button. The coffee poured out, slower than I expected, and for a second, I panicked that it was clogged, but Fiona just hummed her approval.
“Perfect speed. That’s how you know it’s not bitter.”
Her aunt watched from the back, tattooed arms folded, but her smile was warm. “You’ll get the hang of it quick, kiddo."
"If you want to steam milk, use this wand. Just don’t burn yourself, yeah?” Fiona said.
I nodded. She showed me how to hold the pitcher, angling it for the right swirl, and the first time it screamed like a banshee, but after a couple tries I got the hang of it. The foam was so thick it looked like whipped cream. I was weirdly proud.
We practiced making lattes and cappuccinos, and every time I did something right, Fiona gave me a gold star sticker on the back of my hand. By the third one, she’d stuck two extra on the sleeve of my hoodie. “You’re a natural,” she declared.
Then it was milkshake time.
She pulled out a big silver blender and set jars of sprinkles and syrup on the counter. “We normally make three kinds,” she explained, “but if someone orders a weird one, just ask. The trick is to get the ice cream soft enough to blend, but not runny. Watch because I’m making the first one with Lottie-friendly ingredients.”
I grinned as she used low fat milk, sweetener, and the low-sugar ice cream, and hit the button.
In seconds, it was thick and frothy and smelled like actual heaven. She poured it into a tall glass, topped it with artificially sweetened whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles, and stuck in a striped straw.
“First customer is always you,” she said, sliding it across. “Taste test.”
The sweetness hit my tongue and I almost moaned. It was so good. Like birthday parties and cartoons and days when nothingbad ever happened. I had to close my eyes for a second just to let myself feel it.
“Good, right?” Fiona beamed. “We’ve got a safety card here.” She pointed me to a recipe card. It wasn’t just low sugar. It warned which toppings to avoid if customers had gluten allergies and she showed me the separate small freezer to prevent cross contamination. “We can’t guarantee anything obviously, but this way people can make informed choices.”
I went back to grab some cookies for the display when my phone buzzed. Puzzled, because no one ever called me, I stared in aggravation at my uncle’s name on the screen.
This had to be the sixth time.
But he obviously wasn't going to give up, so I decided to get it over with.
He sounded exactly the same as I remembered. Same oily, fake-careful voice. “Charlotte? It’s Stephen. Long time, huh?”
I couldn’t get my mouth to work. “Um…hi. Is something wrong?”
