She smiled at some customers without seeing their faces as she stepped around a table, seeing the young man she had loved, who had dragged her into his trouble, and the man he was now. He was still handsome, extremely good looking, and he took up more than a bit of space. It wasn’t just his size; even though he was tall and had filled out from a slender young boy to a mature, fit man, he seemed quieter, too, calmer and more dangerous.
She swallowed and shoved her shaking hands into her apron pockets, her sneakers quiet. She wore a cap-sleeved blouse, and though the day was cool, she was sweating under her arms and on her back. Even her forehead, she knew, had beads of sweat. She stopped at the table, taking in Vic. His eyes never left her for a moment, tracking her every step all the way over to him. Maybe that was why she was such a mess now.
She swallowed again. “How did you find me?” she asked, wondering if her voice sounded as weak to Vic as it did to her own ears.
He extended his hand to the empty chair across from him. “Can you sit for a minute?” His voice was the same but deeper, too. He’d grown up, but then, so had she.
She put all her attention into her hand as it touched the chair back, and she sat down and scooted the chair forward, taking in the noise and chatter in the cafe as she folded her hands together in front of her on the table.
Then he smiled at her, and there was softness there. “You look good,” he said. “You cut your hair.”
She reached back almost on instinct and pulled at the short ends of her cropped hair. She had also added auburn foils to give it a different shade of dark, changing her appearance as best she could. “A while ago,” she said. She had done it with a pair of kitchen sheers the day after she ran away fifteen years earlier.
“It looks good. You look good.”
She forced a smile to her face, remembering that magic pull she’d had to Vic all those years ago. She’d have done anything for him. She’d done everything he asked of her.
“You too,” she added to be polite.
“Fiona, the food order has just arrived and they need someone to sign for it,” said Barbara, the plump waitress who manned the front service counter. She leveled an appreciative glance Vic’s way and then back to Fiona. She could almost read the woman’s mind, maybe wanting to question her later on why mister tall dark and handsome, who had asked for another woman by name, was here sitting with her as if he knew her. Or maybe she wanted an introduction. Neither was going to happen.
“Sign for it for me,” Fiona said. “Just make sure everything is there this time. He shorted us on the bread last week and only brought half the avocados. Make sure he waits while you compare what he delivered to the order on paper.”
“Okay, sure, but what about the front counter?”
“Have Denise take over until I finish up,” she added in a tone she knew was dismissive, but she didn’t want Barbara lingering or poking around the table, trying to eavesdrop.
“Sure,” Barbara said and this time hurried away. Fiona tracked her as she stepped around the counter and said something to slender, mousy Denise, and the entire time she knew Vic had never stopped watching her.
It took everything in her to gather the courage she needed to turn back to Vic. She forced another smile, as her fingers were locked together so tight she could feel the muscles bunch in her shoulders.
“You changed your name?” he asked, and she had to fight the urge to turn around and see whether anyone was listening. It was that paranoia that had dogged her the first five years, but the last ten she’d settled into a comfortable life. Yet here was Vic, dragging up everything she’d wanted to keep dead and buried and all the memories that went along with it.
“Not formally,” she said. No, anything official would have brought up red flags and questions from people she didn’t want butting into her business. Her tax return still had her real name, unavoidable and minor. She hid it from everyone.
He nodded, narrowed his eyes as if thinking, and then opened his mouth to say something. “Can you take a walk with me?” he asked, then just waited her out, watching her. She didn’t know why he would ask that. The younger Vic would have prodded, encouraged. This Vic seemed to use so few words.
“I really need to get back to work.”
“It’s important, and I’d rather not talk here.”
Maybe it was the way he was watching her with sincerity that had her alarms ringing. She wasn’t sure why, but a thick lump was sticking in her throat, forcing her to swallow past it. “Sure,” she said. “Just let me grab my coat.”
Chapter 10
He waited outside, leaning against his car, watching as Badra, or rather Fiona, as she was going by now, said something to the mousy brown lady with glasses behind the counter. Whatever she said, the woman was nodding, and Fiona shoved her arms into a rather plain all-weather jacket. It was dull brown, nothing that would stand out, but so much about her screamed that she was making herself into somebody else. It wasn’t just the name or the short hair or the fact that she had dyed it a brighter shade than its original jet black; it was in nothing specific but everything about her.
The door opened and she stepped out, looking both right and then left as she crossed over to him. “Okay, where to?” she said as she looked up the street again.
Vic pushed away from his car, and he noted her glance to him and her expression. “It’s mine,” he said, not sure why he needed to clarify. She said nothing, just nodded and then fell in beside him as he started walking.
Her hands were in her pockets, and the top of her head barely topped his shoulders. “How long have you lived up here?” he asked, wondering whether there was someone special in her life. Was she married? Did she have a family of her own?
“About eight years,” she said. “What are you doing here, Vic? What do you want from me?” She looked up at him as they stopped at the corner, waiting for the light to turn.
“I had a reporter stop by and see me, and she was asking some questions about you.” He noted the alarm on her face, the fear in her eyes. It was a spark of panic as she glanced over her shoulder and appeared to startle. The walk light flashed on, and he slipped his hand up to her shoulder. “Come on, let’s cross.”
He got her across the street, and they kept walking, but he could tell she was now upset, spooked.
“What did this reporter want?”
“She was doing a story on me and said she had come across something. Someone tipped her off about what happened in Phoenix.”
She stepped around him, in front of him, and pressed her hand to his chest to stop him. “What? Why now, after all these years?”
“Come on, let’s keep walking.” He actually reached for her hand, which she pulled away and then fisted. He wondered how long she’d go on hating him. “The story was about my contracts, my business.” He knew she was watching him, not with curiosity but with accusation, as if she wanted to ask him, What the fuck have you gotten yourself into now? “It’s nothing like whatever you’re thinking,” he said.
“I doubt very much you have any idea what’s going through my head. Vic, when we were young, I loved you so much, and probably because you were walking trouble. It was always trouble. You were steeped so deep in it, it was a part of you, and maybe that was why I was so attracted to you, but there’s one thing about that kind of trouble: It can and will destroy you.”
So she spared him little feeling. He expected that, just not quite this way. “I’m successful, all legit, with businesses in several states. It’s most likely someone trying to hurt my business and put a stop to my expanding into Oregon,” he said. He’d stepped on a lot of toes, and he didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before now. It could be some jilted contractor, someone he had outbid who was now trying his best to hurt him in business, to try to gain the upper hand. He ran his hand across his chin as they walked past an empty lot, a boarded-up building with fencing around it.
“So whatever business you’re in has now touched me again. Seri
ously, Vic, why after all these years can’t you just leave me alone?” She sounded so sad.
He went to touch her, as they had both stopped and were facing each other, but he thought better of it as he dropped it to his side. “The last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt you, and that was why I came to find you, because of this reporter’s digging, because of the story she wants to print. I’m not going to let her, I promise you.”
She stepped backwards and swayed, pressing her hands to her face, groaning. “And how are you going to stop her? I just want to be left alone. I never asked for this, and I thought all of it was behind me forever. For the first time in years, I’ve been able to relax and stop looking over my shoulder and worrying and wondering. I don’t want to go back to that. I have a business. That place is mine, and no one here knows the trouble I came from, what happened, and I don’t ever want them to.”
“You changed your name, you have a new life, and you don’t want anyone digging up where you are, but, Badra—”
“Don’t call me that. That’s not my name. I’m not that stupid girl anymore. My name is Fiona.”
Of course she wasn’t. She was doing her best to hide and not attract any attention. “Fiona…it doesn’t suit you.” He just studied her for a second, taking in her hands, her fingers. He noticed no ring, but that could mean nothing. “Do you have a family, kids, a husband?” Would they know, or had she buried her secret, her past, from everyone?
She looked away, her lips tight, and shook her head. “No one.”
He was sad for her, but relieved more. “You need to understand that if I can find you, this reporter will, too.”
Chapter 11
She should hate him.
The only thing Vic had ever attracted was trouble. He’d destroyed her life, and she’d spent the past fifteen years running and hiding. But here he was outside her cafe again, standing on the sidewalk with his cell phone to his ear, talking to someone named Tom. Who the hell was Tom? That was all she could think as she locked up the back door.
Her employees were gone, but with their suspicions and interest in this tall dark stranger and most likely her own odd behavior, it was just a matter of time before Barbara or one of the other girls inquired about Vic and asked questions she didn’t want to answer. At least tonight she wouldn’t be faced with that burden. She’d cross that bridge when the time came, if it came.
A tap on the glass startled her, and she strode to the front door to find Vic waiting. She unlocked the door to let him in and locked it behind him, double checking again that the closed sign was set out. She needed a plan, and she needed Vic to leave. There was so much bad about him that she couldn’t allow herself to ever get sucked into it again.
“I spoke with my investigator,” Vic said. “He’s checking into who was behind this lead, bringing up that night. It’s most likely to hurt me, but I’m not sure why they’re trying to hurt you. It makes no sense bringing you into it.”
It had made no sense before, either, except for the color of her skin and the fact that her name was Badra and her mother was Muslim. She’d seen the hate in those cops’ eyes even though they knew nothing about her.
“This world we live in makes no sense,” she said, though she thought she’d shaken her hate for a world of bigots long ago. Obviously, she was still having issues. She had to stifle a giggle.
“What’s so funny?” Vic really looked confused.
“Nothing, that’s the problem, but sometimes it hurts too much to do anything other than laugh, because this world and the shit that happens is so ridiculous. When is everyone going to finally get it that we’re all people, we’re all the same, and stop looking for something that sets us apart?” Her hand was shaking, her stomach was knotted. She thought she was going to be sick.
“I should have looked for you long ago, but I knew you hated me, and I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing you looking at me that way. It was my fault. I was to blame for all of it.”
“Oh, stop it.” She had to turn away, because he wasn’t entirely to blame. She could see that now, though she hadn’t then.
“Badra, I want you to come back with me to Salem. I can keep you safe—”
She whirled around. She couldn’t go anywhere with him. She was good here, and she needed to be home soon before her phone rang and John wondered where she was. “No, you need to take care of this problem with this reporter. Whatever she wants with you, make sure it stays away from me, and keep my name out of it.”
He was nodding, agreeing, so quiet.
She should ask him about his business and why Salem, but she was afraid to know more. She’d learned it was better to know nothing than to have answers she didn’t want to share.
Then he stepped forward and reached out, touching her cheek. At his touch, she had to fight the urge to stay where she was and lean in. It took everything she had to make herself step back, force her foot back again. He dropped his hand.
“Goodbye, Vic McCabe,” she said, waiting for him to leave.
“I’m sorry, Badra.”
She had to shut her eyes. He couldn’t call her that, not anymore, not here. She opened them as he pulled a card from his inside coat pocket and held it between his fingers, holding it out to her. She crossed her arms and squeezed her fists into the cotton of her jacket.
He had to know she wasn’t going to take it. He finally stepped around her and set the card on the counter. “It’s my private number, my house, my cell. Call me anytime if you need anything.”
Then she waited in that spot as she watched the only man she’d ever loved, and hated more, walk away from her and out of her life again.
Chapter 12
Tish was sitting at her desk. A divider separated her from the community columnist on the other side, who was yakking to someone on the phone, and others were in the background talking, phones ringing with all kinds of activity. Tish was ignoring all of it, instead focused on the glassed-in office of her editor, who was sitting behind his desk, his white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, his auburn wavy hair covering his ears. He had on glasses and was reading her story, the amended version she’d finished the night before.
She was sweating.
Maybe Vic was right. She knew deep down that something about her original story would be good and salacious, a must read that would get their small paper notice, would get her noticed. It would be picked up by the wire and reprinted in the big papers. But not her new story. Her source had left out the details Vic had shared the night before. Of course, her source, who had called in on a burner cell and had no name, had yet to call her back to answer her questions on this new version of events.
It took her a second to realize that her editor was waving at her. She pushed her chair back and strode on two-inch wedge heels to his office, and she pushed up the white sleeves of her knit sweater before she opened his door.
“You had a chance to read it,” she said as she stepped in, closing the door.
Wayne, her ultra-conservative older boss, could have been a catch if he only worked out his third divorce. He was a man whose life revolved around this paper, not his wife or kids.
“Not quite the story you were after or pitched. I’m not sure I’m understanding what this is.” He closed up his laptop after tapping a few keys.
“I spoke with Vic McCabe and got his side. I’ve put a call in to the authorities in Phoenix to see if someone there will corroborate the events. My source, too—”
He was waving his hand. “No, no, you were faxed a copy of a story from Phoenix about how Vic McCabe turned a city upside down in one night.”
“Wayne, it was fifteen years ago, and the facts may not have been accurate.” No, she realized everything had been related by the cops, all based on their suspicions. After she cornered Vic in his home, he could have thrown her out, but he hadn’t, and some of the things he’d said bothered her still.
“You don’t know if he’s lying to cover his ass,” Wayne said.
“M
aybe so, but I need time to verify the facts. The Phoenix story was damning and painted a picture of him that could destroy him and his business. I didn’t think we were in the business of printing half truths.”
He gave her a look that let her know she was close to being fired. “We’re in the news business,” he said. “Print the damn story how you wrote it. The facts are, and correct me if I’m wrong, that McCabe had a car and the Phoenix police were called in on a tip that he was carrying a dangerous substance, anthrax. They searched the vehicle and found a bag of white powder. McCabe was dating a Muslim from a Muslim family, and there was every indication that he was going to release anthrax in the general population—and the two were supposed to be getting on a plane.”
“Those are only half truths, and the Phoenix police had been misinformed. The information they received was proven false.” She couldn’t get over the story Vic had told, understanding now how the police department was quick to overreact and even less willing to acknowledge their error.
“Do you have information that shows it was false?”
“Well, of course it was. He’s not in jail or stuffed in some secret maximum-security facility, hidden away by the government. He’s out on the street, making a living, running his business. And he wasn’t dating a Muslim; her mother was, but the girl wasn’t. Her father was English. The entire night was an overreach. The media spin was…” Tragic, if what Vic had said was true. She took in the impatience on her editor’s face. “Not yet,” she finally said. “I’m just waiting to hear back.”
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