“Martha, I need to see the guest book.”
“You already signed it, sweetie. Remember, when you came in?”
“No, I need to see past visitors. From this weekend.”
“I’m not sure I can let you do that, honey—”
“Someone in this building let a man in to see my mother who is not authorized. He said he’s a family friend, but he is not a friend. He’s dangerous, and I need to know if he was here.”
“Dangerous? Sweetheart, we don’t let people in who aren’t—”
“Please,” I say. “Please, just let me look.”
She stares at me for a second before leaning over and grabbing the book from her desk. She slides it across the counter and I whisper a thank you before flipping through old pages filled with signatures. I come across yesterday’s section—the day I spent wasting away on my living room couch—and skim down the list of names, my heart stopping when I glimpse the one I was desperately hoping not to see.
There, in messy script, is the proof I have been looking for.
Aaron Jansen was here.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The phone rings twice before that familiar voice greets me.
“Aaron Jansen.”
“You asshole,” I say, not bothering with an introduction. I’m storming through the parking lot in the direction of my car. I had called into my office voice mail the second I handed over the guest book and replayed Aaron’s last message to me from Friday night.
You can call me back directly on this number.
“Chloe Davis,” he responds, the hint of a smile in his voice. “I thought I might hear from you today.”
“You visited my mother? You had no right.”
“I told you I’d be reaching out to your family in my voice mail. I gave you fair warning.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “No, you said my father. I don’t give a fuck about my father, but my mother is off-limits.”
“Let’s meet. Obviously, I’m in town. I’ll explain everything.”
“Fuck you,” I spit. “I am not meeting with you. What you did was unethical.”
“You really want to talk to me about ethics?”
I stop, inches from my parked car.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just meet me today. I’ll make it quick.”
“I’m busy,” I lie, unlocking my car and easing inside. “I have appointments.”
“I’ll come to your office, then. I’ll wait in the lobby until you have an opening.”
“No—” I exhale, closing my eyes. I lean my forehead against the steering wheel. This back-and-forth is pointless, I realize. He’s not going to give up. He flew to Baton Rouge from New York City to meet with me, and if I want this man to stop digging around in my life, I’m going to have to speak with him. Face-to-face. “No, please don’t do that. I’ll meet you, okay? I’ll meet you right now. Where do you want to go?”
“It’s still early,” he says. “How about coffee. My treat.”
“There’s a place on the river,” I say, pinching the skin between my eyes. “BrewHouse. Meet me there in twenty minutes.”
I hang up on him before slamming my car into reverse and driving in the direction of the Mississippi. I’m only ten minutes from the café, but I want to make it there before him. I want to be sitting at a table of my choosing the moment he walks through the doors. I want to be in the driver’s seat for this conversation, not riding along as a powerless passenger. Not on the defensive, caught off guard the way I was just now.
I pull into a nearby spot and duck into the little café, a hidden gem on River Road partially cloaked by live oaks dripping in gray-green foliage. It’s dim inside, and I order a latte, my eyes landing on a bulletin board of flyers by the cream-and-sugar stand. Wedged between violin lessons being advertised with those little paper flaps and an upcoming concert poster is Lacey Deckler’s face, MISSING scrawled across the top in Sharpie. It’s stapled on top of another piece of the paper, the corners peeking out. I reach over and push the picture aside with my finger, revealing Aubrey’s poster behind it—already, she’s been replaced, taped over like a broken vending machine.
I slide into a table in the corner, choosing the seat that faces the front door. My fingers tap anxiously against the rim of my mug, and I force myself to hold them still, despite the nervous energy radiating from my every pore. Then I wait.