“How are you?” I walk deeper into Coco. No customers are milling around—just like the last time I visited—and for a moment, I wonder how Marissa turns a profit.
“I’m good, thanks. Um, Marissa isn’t here. She had to run out for a bit.”
“Oh, no worries. I just stopped by because I left my sunglasses here yesterday.”
“Are you sure?”
“Almost positive. Mind if I look around?” I don’t wait for permission as I glance behind the counter where customers are rung up, my eyes scanning the shelves, which hold tissue paper, bags imprinted with Coco’s logo, and glossy white boxes. “So, how long have you worked here?”
“Oh, just about a month.”
“Where are you from?”
“Um, Georgia originally.” She’s clearly uncomfortable with my intrusion—I see her flinch when I pull open a drawer that contains scissors, tape, and other odds and ends—but she doesn’t try to interfere. The air of authority I’ve put on is suppressing her desire to stop me.
“Hmm? No accent?” I move to a table and shift aside a mannequin head, wondering if it’s the one that frightened Polly on the night she slept at the shop.
“I only lived there until I was nine. Then my family moved to Milwaukee.”
I catch sight of the three-digit price tag on a simple woven bracelet. Now I get how Marissa turns a profit.
“What made you move to the East Coast?”
“School. I went to American University.”
“Ah.” I reply. Polly is too close to me; I can see the tiny freckles on her nose. I flash to the way she stood next to Matthew yesterday. At the time I read a strange intimacy into their body language, but now I’m wondering if she’s just someone who doesn’t get the concept of personal space.
I keep peppering her with questions while I examine the room.
Polly finally asserts herself. “I’m happy to scour the store for you, but maybe you left your sunglasses somewhere else?”
I give her a wide, innocent smile. “Let me just check this last area. So, have you always been interested in retail?”
“Uh, well, I’m—”
I finally hear the noise I’ve been waiting for: the jingle that means the front door is opening.
“Hell-o!” a woman calls out in a cheerful voice. “Marissa? Polly?” She steps into view, and it’s almost comical to watch the struggle play out on Polly’s face: she needs to greet the customer, but she doesn’t want to leave my side.
“I’m just going to use the restroom,” I tell Polly, walking toward a door that I assume leads into the private area of the shop. “Then I’ll get out of your hair.” I can’t resist adding, “Cute scarf, by the way.”
Polly finally detaches from me to do her job, and I swiftly survey the small back room. It’s filled with UPS boxes and racks of clothes and a long table with two chairs. On the wall are several hooks. A coat is hanging from one, with a leather purse looped beside it.
Bingo.
“Oh, these trays are so fun!” Polly’s customer trills. “Are they John Derian?”
Take your time, I think as I creep over to the purse and unzip it.
It’s a big hobo-style bag, but everything is organized: wallet, makeup case, keys. I open the wallet and pull out Polly’s driver’s license, using my phone to snap a picture of her full name and address. There’s nothing else of interest in her wallet, so I move to the inner pockets of the bag. One contains AirPods and a tin of Altoids.
Tucked behind the Altoids is a plain legal-size white envelope. Slowly I slip it from the bag as Polly chatters away, explaining John Derian’s decoupage technique.
The envelope isn’t sealed. I lift the flap and peek inside, glimpsing a rough-looking sheet of paper, full of creases that someone tried to smooth out before folding the paper into thirds.
I slide it out, and as I unfold it, I realize it wasn’t just crumpled up—it was also torn into jagged pieces, before being taped back up. As if someone wanted to destroy it, but then reconsidered.
I know what it is even before I see the typewritten message, the one everyone assumed was meant for Marissa: I’m not letting you go so easily.…
“Perfect! If you can give me just a minute, I’ll ring this up for you,” I hear Polly say, her voice growing louder as she approaches the back room.
I snap a quick picture of the note, then return it to Polly’s bag and step toward the door just as it opens.