by Unknown
“Jesus, Trey. Stop.” Jace huffed. “She wasn’t murdered.” He said it, but his voice wavered. “She’s just—I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going on. I stopped at the police station this morning and the detective in charge said the DNA will take a few days.”
“Oh. Terrific. A ‘detective’ is involved now,” he said, using air quotes. Then he looked at his watch, an expensive thing he liked to show off and called a timepiece. “Andy and Kyle from VistaBuild have been here all week getting liquored up on every bank’s tab in the state and they’re heading back later today. They’re taking the weekend and planning for final financing by Monday. The last thing I need is this story hitting the wire.”
The last thing Trey needs, even though this wasn’t about him.
“Nice, Trey. Thanks.”
His shoulders dropped. “You know what I mean. I’m sorry, man. I hope everything is okay with Tessa.”
Jace pressed his lips together. There was other scandalous shit going on behind the walls of this bank. But no, nothing compared to a possible murder. And he knew that once the story broke Tessa’s name would be leaked, and then of course Jace’s name and his association with the bank would be too. And then the online comments on the article would follow, where everyone would say either that he was a heartless prick, partying it up at the bar while someone attacked his wife, or worse—that he was behind it.
He had to find a way to control the narrative. There was no way he’d come out of this as a grieving husband. Especially once it came out that he didn’t even know his wife—literally and figuratively.
“Go home, Jace,” Trey said, an edge to his voice. “Take a few days, next week too. Sort this out.”
“But VistaBuild. They’re coming back in today. What if they go with us on Monday?”
This was Jace’s project—he’d groomed them from start to hopeful finish.
“We’ll have Rosita do the heavy lifting. Andy was particularly impressed with her, so I feel comfortable with her handling everything if we get the call Monday.”
Rosita must be happy as a clam that Tessa was missing. Boy, wasn’t this all working out in her favor?
“So, I lose my wife, and now my job too?” Jace asked. “This is my responsibility.”
“You didn’t lose your job. But if this story gets out, I don’t want you perp walking to your car when news vans and cameras show up later this afternoon. Because you know they will.” He stopped talking for a few seconds, then slammed both hands on his desk. “Dammit!” he said, louder than Jace would’ve liked.
Jace looked behind him to see the curious faces peering at him through the glass, likely wondering what was making Trey so upset. Hailey, the twenty-three-year-old college kid who worked part-time as a teller while getting her MBA, had her hand over her open mouth in shock. Mickey and Carla, the full-time tellers, both quickly looked away when Jace made eye contact.
“Way to have my back, Trey,” Jace said. “After everything I’ve done for you.”
He stared at Trey hard, letting the statement hang in the air. The truth was, if Jace was a ruthless climber, he could’ve had Trey fired months ago, and slid not only into a promotion, but right into Trey’s job as the boss.
People should be sympathetic. His wife was missing.
Trey softened for a hot second, realizing Jace held the cards. “Just take the rest of the day, Jace. It’ll all work out.”
Trey was still pissed, but Jace didn’t have time for that. He got what he wanted, in theory—time today, to figure out things about Tessa. He hadn’t expected to lose the project, though.
Jace turned and opened the door, and walked out while Trey called out “I hope they find her” behind him. He said it, but his words didn’t ring sincere.
Like he was naked in a dream giving a speech, Jace felt his cheeks go hot as everyone around him avoided eye contact, likely wondering what pissed Trey off this time. Back in his office, he shut down his computer, grabbed his wallet, and walked toward the door. Rosita stopped him with a hiss from her own office, and when he looked at her, she waved him in. He sighed, not wanting to do this with her, now, here, but for some reason, he went in.
He knew why. Rosita was undeniably attractive, with a whole J-Lo thing going on. They’d worked together for just about a year, and each day since then she’d made sure that he knew she was available to him. Mistakes were made, even recently, but what could he really say? She was a climber. If it came out, she’d scream #MeToo and sexual harassment for having relations with someone who was her superior at work.
“Hey,” she whispered, then motioned for him to close the door.
He did, only because she had a floor-to-ceiling glass panel next to her door, so anyone could see inside at any time. There was no way he’d be in a totally closed off room with her after the incident.
Her office was unabashedly Rosita. She couldn’t break protocol and make it as wild as she wanted, but her touches were everywhere. Two leopard-print frames, one holding a picture of her and a bunch of girlfriends on the beach, fruity drinks in hand and wearing bikinis, naturally, and another of her with her two nephews. Her desk lamp was red and gold, and there were red-framed pictures of zebras and cheetahs on the walls. All her tchotchkes were either red or gold or leopard, from her pens and penholder to the small pillow on her chair that she used to support her back after sitting for most of the day.
She stared him up and down, tapping a pen against a notepad on her desk. “So, what happened? What did Trey say?” Her dark eyes glowed. Her perfume hung in the air like she’d just sprayed on a second coat.
Jace shrugged, deciding to play it off like it was his idea. “I asked for the rest of the day. He told me to go home now and sort it out. So that’s what I’m doing.” He purposely left out the part about how Rosita was suddenly in charge of his project, even though he was sure that it’d be discussed between the two of them the second he left.
Those lips pressed together, and she nodded, attempting to look sympathetic. “I’m sure everything will be fine, sweetie.”
He hated when she called him that. It was beyond inappropriate, especially now. “I forgot my bagel.”
Such a stupid thing to say, but he wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. He not only wanted to search online for the soon-to-be-released article, but he wanted to snoop in his house, in case there was something about Tessa that he’d missed. What he didn’t want to do was stay in that office and ask what he’d been dying to know—why Rosita was at the bank early this morning, and why she’d lied to him about it. He didn’t want to bully her—asked and answered twice already—but he was going to get to the bottom of it, one way or another.
He went back to his office and grabbed his cup, no doubt holding lukewarm coffee, took his bag with the bagel off his desk, and left. Like a heat-seeking missile, he sped out of the office with the intent to try to figure out who the fuck Tessa really was.
Of course, he was stopped in the parking lot.
“Jace? Where are you going?”
Fuck. It was Andy. Jace turned around.
“Hey, Andy. Where’s Kyle?”
Andy pressed his lips together in disappointment. “Sick kid, he hit the road back home pretty early. His wife had a meeting she couldn’t miss at work, so he has to deal with the doctor and all that stuff today. You have kids?”
“No, no kids.” Jace began to perspire, and he knew he looked flushed, but he had to keep it together for his prospective client. “I’m sorry, man, but I’m not going to be in the meeting today either. My wife—she—something happened. I’ve really got to go.”
Andy held onto his arm. “Is everything okay?”
What was Jace supposed to say? He went for sympathy. “I don’t know. She’s missing. She wasn’t home when I got home last night. I have to work with the cops today.”
“The cops? Jesus. Does this have anything to do with the blood I saw on your shirt last night?”
Andy’s expression tol
d Jace that he was already playing judge, jury, and executioner. It’s always the husband. It took all of Jace’s grit not to tell him to fuck off and mind his own business. “I told you I get nosebleeds.”
“I see.” He held out a hand for a shake and raised his eyebrows. “Well, I suppose I’ll deal with Rosita. Kyle and I spoke at length last night after we left you guys at the bar. We’re impressed with your terms. Maybe we’ll see you next week, then?”
Jace shook his hand and nodded. “Great. You’re in good hands with Rosita.” He tried really hard to unclench his jaw. “I’ll see you next week.”
8
TESSA
Damon brings me a glass of Merlot, drops a menu, and then disappears in the back. It reminds me of that stupid, cliché phrase I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave.
I peruse the menu, wondering if I should try to get a job in a place like this. Waitressing or bartending for quick cash sure beats chasing realtors and builders to try to get them to use me to stage open houses. I never graduated from high school, and I lied in the past telling people I attended RISD for design. Still, I think I have a knack for decorating. Maybe I really can try to set something up here. Make up a business name, pay a fee, and advertise. Sweet talk my way into getting one client and use them as a reference to get more. I mean, really, how many people ask for school credentials? Sure, doctors and lawyers hang their diplomas on the wall, but how many diplomas does anyone see for a writer or a coffee shop owner or a personal trainer? I can just pay twenty bucks for business cards online and no one would be the wiser.
People always assume the best in others. I take this to another level.
When Foster Father Number Whatever, probably Three, favored me over the others, I assumed it was because he wanted to help me. I’d get the clean clothes while others had to trade to be seen in different outfits. I’d get the non-moldy parts of the bread. I got a fiver when he handed everyone else a single dollar. I got to get repeatedly raped while he left the others alone. He told me it was because I was his favorite. At fourteen, I was too young to know the scope of the abuse. At the time, I felt better knowing I was eating well while the others fought over a bag of cheesy poofs. Survival of the fittest. He abused me out of love.
Then Denise came into the house. She became his new favorite. Out of nowhere, my bread was green—when I was allowed to eat. One time, eating the leftover pieces of whatever they could find that they called dinner, when I asked for more, my foster dad hit me in front of everyone. No one said anything for fear of repercussions. Yet, the more he hit me, the more I sought his approval. I wanted to be the favorite again, so I kept going back. I know he loves me.
That’s when it started for me. He hits because he cares.
Damon reappears from the swinging door that leads to the kitchen and stops in front of me. He takes two glasses out of the tub of rinse water by the sink under the bar and dries them with a rag, then flings it over his shoulder and smiles at me, that smile, which for some reason has the fairy tale in motion in my head. He’ll be sweet and kind and rescue puppies, then he’ll be jealous and controlling but that’ll just show me how much he loves me, and how much he fears me leaving. That’s love.
Stop, I tell myself. Don’t do it this time. Break the cycle.
The Asshole is about to find out that even I have a breaking point. He may have put his hands on me often, which sometimes felt tender to me, even when it hurt. But the current bruise under my right eye is from a coffee mug. Came home early from entertaining clients, didn’t like that I was eating ice cream (“you’re becoming a fat fucking bitch!”) and whack, right across the right side of my face, and I faltered like a sack of potatoes. When I came to, he was gone, left a note that he was going back to the bar. That, a bunch of insults, and a warning about what would happen to me “next time.”
Except there won’t be a next time for him. The clues are there. The cops will find them.
I have help in ways he would never expect.
Patience, my love.
“So, have you decided on something to eat?” Damon asks.
I take a sip of my wine and place the glass back on the coaster, then fold my arms on the bar and look up at him. “What’s the house special?”
He laughs. “We just use the menu. The chef is cranky.”
I giggle like a schoolgirl. Stop! “Me too.”
“Nah,” he says with a smirk. “I can tell you’ve already got everything figured out.”
Moron. “Oh yeah?”
“Yep.” He removes the towel and wipes the bar in front of me, then puts a placemat and place settings on top. “Look at you—out-of-town girl, funky haircut, dressed nicely. And you’re alone. Confident. Not glued to your phone. I like that.”
Not a moron. “Well, how do you know I’m not meeting my date here?”
“Because this is a wine bar, I’m a bartender, and let’s just say I’ve seen my share of Tinder hookups start this way. You don’t always turn your head to the door when it opens. You don’t give a shit who’s walking in.”
Observant. “And how do you know I’m from out of town?”
“I didn’t. You just told me.” He smiles again. “People here have a look. One that you don’t fit.” He makes a funny face and mocks someone texting on a phone, then brushes his hand against his shoulder and nods his head back, like he’s flipping hair out of the way.
He’s funny.
He’s probably wonderful. Stop!
I grab the menu and scan for ten seconds while he waits.
“I’ll have the organic roasted chicken, but instead of brussels sprouts can I replace that with literally anything else?”
He grabs a pen from behind his ear and jots it down in a pad. “We have asparagus or maple-roasted carrots.”
“Surprise me.”
Damon goes into the kitchen, and I purposely don’t look at my phone, because I don’t want to be like all the girls that he made fun of. I raise my head to the flat-screen television above the bar and there’s a baseball game on. Yankees versus Red Sox. This will have to do for now, even though I’m not much into sports. I’ve heard everyone around here roots for that team. Rabid fan base, from what little I know.
Every so often I see Damon help other patrons, and I even get a little jealous as two girls hee-haw over everything he says. They’re the girls that you hated in school. Primped to the nines, one with long blond hair and another with long dark hair. Both have their tits on display, wear too much makeup, and want to post everything on Instagram, which they scream about loudly every time they take a picture. Damon plays along, although he always comes back to me, and refills my wine without me asking. Barbie and Bitsy (that’s what I’m calling them) at the other end of the bar don’t like that, and loudly call him over to take pictures of them while they make kissy faces to the camera. He happily takes their iPhone and snaps away, then looks at me as he heads to the swinging door to the kitchen and makes fun of them by pretending to text and flipping his hair again, as he did earlier.
When he comes out, he places a perfectly roasted half chicken in front of me, one that has asparagus and carrots next to it, with a little dollop of mashed potatoes on the side.
“Everything look okay?” he asks.
“Scrumptious.”
I learned that word from my mother, right before I was taken away. The first time I heard it, we all still lived together as a family. Well, me, my brother Kenny and all the half siblings, and whichever boyfriend my mother had at the time. She used the word to describe whatever was in the needle that her own Boyfriend Number Whatever brought home. After she passed out, I asked him what it meant, and he showed me. It was the first time I did heroin. My brother Kenny called 911 when I foamed at the mouth and had a seizure.
I was twelve.
I do remember the feeling I had at first. Warmth, bliss. It’s indescribable, just a feeling. One that can’t be put into words.
Wait. It can. Scrumptious.
It’s a miracle I’m alive. I like to think I’ve straightened out, and I have as far as the drugs, but I’m only straight in the way you smooth out a piece of wrinkled paper. It’s still a rectangle, you can still write stuff on it, but you know it’s damaged and imperfect.
“Do you want anything else?” Damon asks, and doesn’t leave.
I stare at the plate, then pick up a fork. “Are you going to watch me eat?”
“What’s your name?”
“Tessa. Tessa Smyth.”
“Damon Moretti,” he says and holds out a hand. “See, I finally got to introduce myself correctly.” He winks as I shake his hand.
He leaves me to finish my meal, an incredibly juicy chicken with impossibly crisp skin. I inhale both of my veggie sides and scrape the last of the creamy whipped potatoes on the edge of my fork with a knife. Nothing left but bones. Asshole never let me clean my plate. It wasn’t “ladylike.”
My sparkling dish is empty in front of me while I watch the baseball game. A busboy clears it away, as Damon mixes and pours and goes in and out of the kitchen for the dinner rush, which isn’t that busy—I’ve been to places before where the people eating at the bar are shoved from behind with drunk idiots waving dollar bills or flashing cleavage to get some attention. The rush here makes it feel busy, but not like in a big city.
Everyone filters out as the restaurant will be closing soon. It’s Friday night and the young’uns have to start their hookups. Barbie and Bitsy are the last to leave, besides me. They whisper to each other and sneak flirtatious glances at Damon all night. As the cleanup starts in the main dining area, Damon comes out and brings them their check, then brings me mine. Barbie (the blond) announces loudly that they’re going to some bar two blocks away, one that stays open till three A.M., in case anyone else is thirsty?
Subtle.
Alone now, I plunk down what I owe plus twenty percent. I grab my denim jacket when Damon approaches.
“Hey. You don’t have to leave. I want to talk to you a little more,” he says. “I was just trying to get them out of here. I know them. The dark-haired one, anyway. She always comes here and gets drunk and try to get me to meet her somewhere after.” He shrugs. “Nope.”