“Were you working here last night?” I ask the guy behind the counter, trying to refocus.
He peers at me. “Why?”
“There was an accident, down the road.”
“An accident?” He looks toward the windows. “What kind of accident?”
“Car accident. I’m wondering if maybe the occupants of the vehicle were in here beforehand.”
“Where?” He blinks at me. There’s a clouded look in his eyes.
“In here,” I say more loudly, tapping a finger on the counter. “I need to know if some people were in here.”
“No, no.” His eyes jump to life for a minute as he shakes his head hard. “Not in here.”
“How would you know?” I ask. “I haven’t even showed you their pictures yet.”
He squints slightly, registering his misstep. “Fine, show me.”
I hold up my phone, alternating between the two images I have— one of Derrick, one of Keith. “Two white men early thirties, around ten p.m. last night.”
He leans forward but still barely glances at the pictures. “Nope,” he says. “Not in here.”
“Take a closer look.”
He grunts, but looks at the pictures again. This time his eyes meet mine more forcefully.
“They weren’t in here. Like I said. And I’ve been on since eight p.m.” He checks the time on his phone. “I’m supposed to be off by now. Fucking morning guy is late again. Anyway, I knew every person who came through that door last night except a bunch of high school girls.”
“What about security footage?” I point to the video camera mounted over his head.
He snorts. “That shit’s just for show.”
“Great.”
There’s a sound then from the back— a door, footsteps. “You can ask Bob if you want.” A man emerges from the chips aisle, rubbing the back of his head. In a navy-blue T-shirt and jeans, he is fit, with dark brown skin and short hair, just slightly gray at the temples. The gray is the only sign he’s not in his twenties. I feel an irrational twitch of anger, seeing how well Bob Hoff has aged. All that time Jane hasn’t had.
“Yo, Bob, you see these two guys in here? Maybe when I was taking a piss.”
Hoff pulls up short at the sight of me. I get it— if I were him, I’d be worried about the cops around here, too. Also, I can feel myself glaring at him. Seems highly unlikely he’ll recognize me as Jane’s sister, though.
I hold up my phone, try to ignore how hard my heart is beating. “I’ve got pictures, if you don’t mind taking a look?”
“Sure,” Hoff says. He sounds nervous. Of course he is, after what happened the last time he said he saw something. He leans in, eyes creasing. “Didn’t see them.”
“Okay,” I say. And then to myself: Leave it. But I can’t. “Are you Bob Hoff?”
He exhales and shakes his head slightly as he stares down at the floor. “Listen, my mom is sick, cancer. She needed someone to take care of her during chemo. Otherwise, I’d never have come back. I don’t want any trouble with the cops. I don’t want any trouble with anyone. And for the ten thousandth time, I did not have anything to do with any dead girls.”
Dead girls. Like they were some stolen stereo equipment.
“One of those dead girls was my sister, you know.” It’s shot out of my mouth before I’ve thought it through. And I sound pissed. I feel pissed.
“You’re kidding me,” Bob Hoff whispers. “This is never going to fucking stop.”
“I just want to know what you saw that night,” I say, dialing back my tone. “I’ve looked through the file— you never made a statement.”
“Oh, I made a statement,” he says.
“It’s not in the file, Mr. Hoff.”
“I made a statement,” he repeats, eyes flashing.
“Then why isn’t it there?” I ask.
Already he’s shaking his head. “No way,” he says. “I gave my statement back then. You can’t find it, that’s your problem. I didn’t have anything to do with those girls. And I didn’t see those two men in here.”
Hoff does seem awfully sure about the statement. I wonder if I overlooked it, going through Jane’s file so quickly. The Gaffneys’ interviews were there— they had nothing to do with anything, and didn’t know anything either— as well as the statements of their alibi witnesses.
“Now can I go?” Hoff asks. “Or are you going to arrest me for telling the truth?”