Page 42 of Bad Intentions

My mood churned—he could be with Alysha and Victoria. Hopefully, at the fair. Hopefully, with other people. Maybe it was nothing.

It wasn’t until ten or so that the crowd poured in after the fair had closed. I noticed a young woman, about thirty, sitting by herself. Nothing unusual, except she watched everyone who went in and out of the bar, like she was waiting for someone.

She nursed a beer for an hour, only a quarter of it gone.

“You need anything, love?” I asked.

She shook her head, dismissing me.

It was almost one, only a few regulars left and a loud group of carnies in the back when I talked to her again. She looked tired, deflated, a little strained.

“You all right, love?” I asked. “Anything I can get you?”

She lifted her chin. “I’m fine,” she said. Said it like I bothered her.

I was about to walk away when she cleared her throat. “Hey, question for you.”

“Shoot.”

She reached into her purse, took her wallet out, and pulled a small photograph out of it. “I’m looking for my husband,” she said. “He should be in town for business. But I can’t get ahold of him. Have you seen him around? Maybe he stopped by?”

I took the picture from her hands, and a chill ran down my spine. “That’s your husband?”

“Jimmy, yes.”

“Is that right?”

“Well, we are not married. Yet. We are out of Ohio. He went on a business trip weeks ago. Was supposed to call. Never did.”

I looked at her in the picture, then at the little baby boy, around two, and her husband-to-be, Jimmy. Though he was no Jimmy. Not according to his driver’s license. The one he gave me when I checked his ID two weeks ago said Derek Sickler.

25

JOSIE

YOU ARE EXACTLY WHERE YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE, says a giant sign on the door, making my crappy mood instantly dissipate.

I press the doorbell, but it doesn’t work, so I knock. Music comes from behind the door. The hallway of the two-story apartment building on the river side of Burnville smells like incense. I’m definitely at the right place.

I don’t hear the footsteps, but the door suddenly swings open, and Rika appears in the neon-pink light that saturates the dim hallway behind her.

“Come in,” she says.

She’s wearing wide mandala-patterned harem pants and a long knitted sweater with sleeves almost hiding the tips of her fingers.

Without waiting for my reply, she walks back down the corridor. “Leave your coat on the hanger!” she shouts, turning the corner.

I hang my parka where she told me, noticing several coats of hers that I recognize. Boots and shoes are scattered on the floor by the wall. Old wallpaper, high ceilings, creaky hardwood floors—all courtesy of the Burnville design of the last century. The posters on the walls are all new and framed, some artsy stuff, illustrations, vintage movie posters.

There is a guy splayed on the flowery couch in the living room, his arms on the back of it, knees wide apart.

“Trevor, my neighbor from the second floor,” Rika introduces him as she takes a seat on the floor, legs crossed in a yoga pose, as she nods to the empty armchair next to her.

Trevor is in his fifties—an unusual pick for a friend. His fair hair down to his shoulders is a mess. He has a tiny piercing in his ear and a goatee blending into several-day stubble. He’s wearing old, ripped jeans and a long-sleeved tie-dye shirt. One of his bare feet is tapping against the patterned rug to the rhythm of the music, which I can’t figure out. Soul? Blues? Folk? It trickles from a giant old-school speaker set in the corner.

I peel my eyes off him and look around, my lips freezing in a silent “oh,” because Rika’s living room is the coolest I’ve seen in this town. Artwork, statues, plants, wind chimes, drapes, neon lights, a chandelier-looking light in the corner. The faint smell of incense and paint thinner saturates the air.

Trevor takes a puff from a vape pen and offers it to me. “Want a hit?”