It’s the same inside. A mix of blandly functional and effusively homey. The aforementioned maple syrup sits in an antique bookcase right by the door, lined up in sizes ranging from shot glass to gallon jug. Next to it is a bourbon barrel filled with plush moose and bears, and a wire rack of postcards. I give it a rickety spin and spot the same card Wilma Anson showed us. I recoil at the sight of it, nearly bumping into yet another wood-carved moose, this one with knit hats placed on its antlers.
The store becomes more utilitarian the farther back we go. There are several aisles bearing canned goods, boxed pasta, toothpaste, and toilet paper, most of it cleared out in anticipation of the approaching storm. There’s a deli counter, a frozen food section, and a checkout area bursting with the convenience store staples of lottery tickets and cigarettes.
When I see the girl manning the cash register, my heart skips two beats.
It’s Megan Keene.
Even though her face is in profile as she stares out the window at the front of the store, I recognize that fresh-scrubbed prettiness from the photo I’d seen an hour ago. For a moment, shock holds me in its grip.
Megan isn’t dead.
Which means maybe none of them are.
This was all some big, horrible misunderstanding.
I’m about to grab Boone and tell him all of this when the girl behind the cash register turns to face me and I realize I’m wrong.
She’s not Megan.
But she is definitely related to her. She has the same blue eyes and picture-perfect smile. My guess is a younger sister who blossomed into the girl-next-door sweetheart Megan seemed to be.
“Can I help you?” she says.
I don’t know how to respond, partly because the shock of seeing who I’d thought was Megan is slow to leave me and partly because Boone and I never discussed what to do or say when we reached the store. Luckily, he answers for me.
“We’re just browsing,” he says as he approaches her. “Saw the moose outside and decided to stop in. It’s a nice store.”
The girl looks around, clearly unimpressed by the shelves and souvenirs she sees every day.
“I guess,” she says. “My parents try their best.”
So she is Megan’s sister. I’m proud of myself for guessing that, even though the resemblance is so uncanny that most people would.
“You get a lot of business on the weekends, I bet,” Boone says.
“Sometimes. It’s been a good fall. Lots of people have come up to see the leaves.”
I notice something interesting as the girl talks. She isn’t looking at Boone, which is where I’d be looking if I were her. Instead, she keeps glancing my way.
“Are you on Mixer?” Boone asks as he takes out his phone.
“I don’t think so. What’s that?”
“An app. People link to their favorite businesses so their friends can see.” He taps his phone and shows it to the girl. “You should be on it. Might be a way to bring in some extra business.”
The girl looks at Boone’s phone for only a second before glancing at me again. It’s clear she recognizes me but isn’t sure from where. I get that a lot. I only hope it’s from my film and television work and not one of the tabloids filling the magazine rack within eyeshot of the register.
“I’ll ask my parents,” the girl says as she turns back to Boone’s phone.
“It’s a great app. The guy who invented it lives nearby. He’s got a house on Lake Greene.”
Until now, I’d been wondering why Boone was steering the conversation toward Mixer. But when he taps his phone again and brings up Tom Royce’s profile, I understand exactly what he’s doing.
“His name is Tom,” Boone says as he shows off Tom’s picture. “You ever see him come into the store?”
The girl studies Boone’s phone. “I’m not sure. Maybe?”
“He’s very memorable,” Boone says, prodding. “I mean, it’s not every day a tech millionaire comes to your store.”
“I’m only here after school and on weekends,” the girl says.
“You should ask your parents then.”
She gives a nervous nod before looking at me again, only this time I think she’s seeking someone to rescue her from the conversation. She seems so vulnerable—so goddamn young and in need of protection—that I’m overcome with the urge to hop the counter, pull her into a tight hug, and whisper how sorry I am for her loss. Instead, I approach the register and nudge Boone aside.
“You’ll have to excuse my boyfriend,” I say, the word slipping out before I can think of a better alternative. “He’s trying to distract you from the reason we really came inside.”