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“And another Shirley Temple for the kid in the high chair,” I say, reaching into my back pocket for my wallet. “I’ve got his dinner covered too.”
Bea slides a paper receipt in front of me with the total written on the bottom. Very old-fashioned, no point of sale system here, cash only, the works. I put down a few bills. “Thanks a lot for everything,” I say and begin to step away.
“Don’t forget your receipt for your records,” she says off-handedly before scooping some ice into a cup.
I crack a smile and grab the receipt. As I fold it in my hand, I realize there’s some more writing on the back.
A hastily scribbled phone number and a smiley face.
I glance at Bea. Did she really just slip me her phone number? She keeps her head down.
“Uh, thanks,” I say. “Have a good night.”
“You too.”
I say my goodbyes to my fellow officers, excusing myself with exhaustion and needing to get on the road before I’m too sleepy to drive. The truth is, I’m trying to parse through what Bea has told me. It’s hearsay, sure. I mean, how much credence can you give to bar gossip? Still, though, I can’t shake the feeling I pushed Constance too hard earlier when all she really wanted from me was help.
And if she moved back home to take care of her dad…
Man, I feel like a jerk.
On my way to my car, I crumple the receipt in my hand and toss it in a nearby trash can. And once I’m driving, I find it impossible to turn the car around to head back home.
No, I’ve got something I have to do.
7
Constance
Someone is knocking at the front door. I look at the clock on my nightstand. It’s nine-thirty. Makes me uneasy. These aren’t the old days. No one needs to show up at your door without calling ahead of time. And it’s rare that Dad and I get visitors.
I decide at first to leave it alone, pulling my eye mask back over my face.
But then I hear shuffling footsteps in the hall, the wooden floor creaking.
Dad.
I bolt out of bed and run out just in time to keep him from heading down the stairs. “Dad! You should be in bed.”
Dad blinks. His black-rimmed glasses are all smudged up. “Connie, what are you doing up? You have school tomorrow.”
I sigh. Not the worst of his memory issues by any stretch of the imagination. Still, though, a reminder of his condition. I take him by the arm and begin to spin him back around to his bedroom at the end of the hall. “I have to go answer the door, you should lay back?—”
He yanks his arm away from me, harsher than he probably means. “I’m not lettingyouanswer the door. A little girl answering this door this late at night, that’s?—”
The doorbell rings.
“That must be Uncle Bill again,” he says. “Bet his truck broke down.”
I don’t have the heart to tell him Uncle Bill’s been dead for six years.
Dad pushes past me and starts down the narrow staircase.
I follow close behind him. “Dad, seriously, I got it.”
He ignores me and makes it to the door before I can cut him off. He opens it just a hair. “Hello?”
“Uh, hello, sir.”
