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***
“How much longer?” Emily asks, slumped in the seat across from me munching potato chips.
After landing in Denver, we rented a car and crossed two states to reach Sargent. The landscape hasn’t changed: long stretches of fields, pastures, and slight bumps so low you can’t even call them hills.
“I don’t know, we should be close. The shops are starting to appear, so we’re probably entering the downtown area,” I tell her looking around.
We drive by single-story houses with huge lawns. Some well cared for, others less so, but I get the idea it’s one of those towns where everyone knows everyone and helps each other. A grocery store, a hardware store, and a mechanic run alongside one street, their red brick buildings resembling two-story apartments. Then we pass more single-story homes with huge lawns, tall trees that shade the porch swings, and stretches of fields without a living soul.
“No, I think that was the whole downtown back there,” Emily confirms my thoughts. “How small is this town?”
“I have no idea, but if we can’t find information about Emma, we can always go knocking door to door. It shouldn’t take long.” I chuckle.
I turn the car and stop in front of the only grocery store in sight. It’s a small convenience store, and the writing on the window says third-generation Andersons own it. I imagine if this girl really lives around here, they’ll surely know her, or someone from her family.
“Do you have at least a last name?”
“No, unfortunately, I couldn’t find anything but a name and a road sign indicating this place,” I explain. “She has no contacts and never responded to the messages I sent her. She probably doesn’t trust some stranger who offers her a contract online. It’s sketchy.”
“Right, and showing up at her house is less like a psychopath.”
“Yes, but I’m hoping my face convinces her I’m not a creepy dude.”
Emily raises an eyebrow in an expression of defiance that makes me smile.
“At least I hope she doesn’t think I’m a creepy dude. You’re here too. You should be reassuring.”
We get out of the car and go inside, ringing a bell on the door and attracting the attention of an elderly gentleman behind the counter. I think he’s Anderson’s first or second generation. Emily walks through the aisles as I approach the counter.
“Good morning. Can I ask you for some information about a person who lives in town?” The smile leaves my face when I see the man’s indignant expression.
“This is a grocery store. Does it look like an information office to you?” he mumbles grumpily.
“No, certainly not, but maybe you know the girl I’m looking for, Emma.” I show him my phone, where there is a video of Emma during one of her performances on TikTok.
“You have a video of Emma on your phone?” he asks, shocked. “How did you get it? Who are you?”
Wrong move, apparently. I should’ve thought about it before showing that to a seventy-year-old who probably has no idea what TikTok is.
“No, it’s not what you think.”
Emily approaches me with two bottles of wine, chips, and various snacks in her arms and smiles at the man who, given the amount of stuff she’s buying, devotes all his attention to her.
“My friend, Evan, is a bit rude at times.” She reaches out a hand to introduce herself. “Nice to meet you. My name is Emily, and I’m here with my colleague looking for Emma. She’s a terrific singer, and we would like to offer her a contract to record an album.”
The man seems to calm down as he reads the items’ prices and begins inserting them into the cash register. By hand, without a scanner.
“And why does your colleague have a video of Emma on his phone? Is he a pervert?” he questions her with a challenging tone.
“No, absolutely not. Emma sent the video to us to let us know how good she is. She’s outstanding, but we must meet her in person if we want her to sign the contract.”
“If she sent you the video, couldn’t she also tell you where to meet her?”
The man finishes handing me the receipt, and I pull out a hundred dollars to pay. He checks that it’s not fake, making a show of it as if I were the best forger in history. He holds up the bills against the light, scrapes them with his fingernail, observes them under a small lamp with blue light, and then slips them into the register, lifting up the tray of coins and sliding them under the black plastic. He doesn’t even bother to give me the change because the bell rings, and the sheriff enters the store after two laps around our rental car.
“There, ask him what he has to say about it,” the man tells us, happy he doesn’t have to decide how to answer our inquiry.
Emily turns to the middle-aged man with a slim physique and an ironed uniform.
