Page 22 of We Already Dug the Grave

No.

No. She reached out to me. She did our signal.

I needed to think.

The Huddle Hut was packed, and I checked on my tables before pushing through the swinging door into the kitchen. “I’m taking a quick break.”

“Not a good time.” Larry’s dark brows steepled. “Barb’s having a smoke. She’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Deja’s got it covered,” I said, annoyed. I never took breaks. Well, not usually. But I needed to check on something or I would lose my mind, and it was too busy in the restaurant to focus.

“No. Deja’s brand-new and we’re slammed.”

“She’s got it covered. I won’t be long. Less than a minute.”

Before he could answer, I spun on the heels of my sneakers and rushed back through the door and around the side of the building.

Barb stood near the green dumpster, the unofficial cigarette zone, her chin tilted up as she blew a stream of smoke into the sky. Even with the stink of hot trash wafting from nearby, I couldn’t resist inhaling a deep breath. Barb’s menthols reminded me of a good part of my childhood. Aunt Ruth and Bunny would sit on the front porch nursing sweating glasses of iced tea while Bunny chain-smoked and I eavesdropped.

“You can’t be out here,” Barb said, but her tone was playful.

“It’s fine. Deja’s got us covered.”

“Sure.” Barb snorted, because while we both liked Deja, Larry was right. Deja was new, and a weekend breakfast shift at Huddle Hut was a baptism by fire.

Barb’s liner-rimmed eyes narrowed on me. She held out a pack of Marlboros.

“No thanks.” I pulled my phone from my back pocket.

She shrugged and took another pull. “You’re on the phone a lot today. You got you a boyfriend?”

“No.” I entered my passcode and tabbed over to my recent apps.

“Girlfriend?” Barb asked.

“No. I don’t date.”

“What?” Barb sounded as if I’d personally insulted her. “A pretty young woman like you? Why the hell not?”

A flash of russet hair, a dusting of freckles. I shook my head and shrugged. “Dating never ends well for me.”

I clicked open Instagram, pulling up my recent searches.

I thumbed to Frances’s profile. I needed to see it once more. How she’d signaled for me.

Only. “The fuck?”

Her grid was still pristine. Curated. Exactly the same, except every photo where she flashed our signal was gone. Deleted.

They’d been there. I hadn’t imagined them. No way.

There had to be a reason for this. I scrolled deeper into her grid.

Frances must’ve deleted them. She knew I was looking, but must’ve feared someone else was too. Maybe whoever had sent that message to me…whoever had her freaked out enough to send our signal in the first place…

Unease prickled the hairs on my neck, and I opened the search engine and once again entered Blake Willis. What was I missing? Before I could scroll through the links, the back door swung open, and one of the dishwashers stuck his head out. “Hey Milly, Larry says you’d better get in here. The hatch is backed up, and he’s about to lose it.”

Shit. I needed answers, but I also needed my job.