Page 8 of Bad Intentions

“I decided to keep an eye on all the suspicious people coming in for breakfast,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him, which gets a low laugh out of him and the other policemen. “Anything exciting going on, Chief? Any despicable crimes?” I ask, cringing at my own words but trying to sound nonchalant.

“All is good,” he says. “All quiet.”

Just like Grandma said. Which means that no body was found.

No body.

No body.

But how?

The logical conclusion is that the man who arranged a meeting with me is still alive. I don’t know how, but he’s out there, and considering he got hit by a car and I witnessed it and didn’t call the police, I might be in trouble.

A chill goes through me. What if he’s out for blood now?

Sue pushes past me with a tray of plates, the thick smell of breakfast saturating the air.

“A stack of pancakes for Chief,” she says, setting one plate in front of him. “All-American breakfast for you, handsome.” She serves the next plate to one of the officers. “And a ham-and-cheese omelet! Anything else I can get you, gentlemen?”

With a practiced smile that quickly disappears and without really waiting for a reply, she takes the tray and walks through the swinging doors back into the kitchen.

I nod to the officers, steal a glance at the blue-haired girl who scrolls on her phone, and walk back into the kitchen, too.

Sue expertly loads the dirty dishes into the dishwasher trays. She’s nonstop, just like Givens. The busy streak is over. The other waitress has already finished her shift. In a minute, Sue will be out in the main area taking more orders, or serving more plates, or having a chitchat with the locals. She juggles her duties like a Cirque du Soleil performer.

“How’s Karen?” she asks.

Everyone always asks. Daily. It’s like they are waiting for something to happen to my grandmother. Sue has known my grandma all her life. She belongs to the tiny camp of supporters who stuck with Grandma after the incident.

“She’s good,” I reply and walk to the office.

The diner’s office is a small, windowless room, ten by ten feet, with a desk and an old laptop, but mostly filled with boxes, as it serves as a partial storage unit. I take a seat in the chair and pull my phone out.

I want to google “hit and run” in the area, but if worse comes to worst, and the police ever check my phone—that’s highly doubtful, but all sorts of crazy scenarios have been spinning in my head all night—I can’t have the search history like that in my browser.

Desperate for any clues I’ve missed about who the man is, I open the texts from the unknown number. I scroll through several dozen messages from the days before, rereading them. One is a screenshot of an old picture, taken in a photo booth. It’s Mom, high-school age, and a handsome guy next to her, several years older. Is this the “unknown” in the picture?

I read my message underneath:

Me: Who is in the picture?

The evasive response follows:

Unknown: Do not tell anyone that we are talking. ESPECIALLY your grandmother.

And the next one.

Unknown: She is hiding things from you.

6

JOSIE

When I walk into Carrigan’s Tavern, a bar on Burnville’s west side, I notice her right away. That girl with blue hair is like a strobe light shining in the darkness.

I had dinner at work, in my office-slash-storage room, then stayed until closing. I should’ve gone home, but Grandma texted around nine saying she was going to bed, so I decided to stop for a nightcap. I haven’t had a night out having fun since the night in Pittsburgh that turned into a disaster.

The girl with blue hair is behind the bar, all business. A bunch of men already take up most of the seats around the half-moon bar counter, and she only gives me a glance when I take one of the bar stools at the very edge of the counter, my back to the door.