“South Bend,” I murmured, and Jamie nodded.
“So where do we start?” I asked.
“We do our own interviews, retrace the cops’ steps. First, I bet they were sloppy, and second, you were Laurel’s friend, so you might see things they didn’t. We can start with any of them.”
“I’ll call her mom tomorrow,” I said. “From what I’ve heard, she can be hard to get ahold of. Might as well start trying. And I want to talk to Laurel’s landlord. Ask about her habits, how she could afford rent without a job.” I didn’t say it, but what I really wanted was to walk into her apartment, into the private heart of her. It felt like the closest I could come to seeing her again.
Jamie nodded. “Pick me up tomorrow morning at nine. I’m at the Motel 6 in Yonkers.”
I blinked. “Really?”
“Nothing but the best for Stitcher’s third-highest-rated true-crime podcast.” He stood up, dropped two twenties on the table, and pointed at the police files, still splayed out in front of me. “I made these copies for you. Do you mind trying her mom when I’m around? I’d like the audio for the episode.”
“No problem.” I watched him prepare to go with a dense ball in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t want to open up to Jamie about my life, but I also didn’t want him to leave. I wished he would just sit across the candlelit table and let me look at him. Let me catalog his changes; convince myself there were none too many. Just exist in the same space again, breathe the same air.
I’ve always had such strange desires.
Jamie gave me an imaginary tip of the hat. “Night, partner. See you bright and early.”
***
The next morning, I slid the rental car into what passed for a valet circle in front of the Motel 6, texted Jamie, and waited. It was a bright, sunny day, but the heat was dialed down a notch, a small promise of the coming fall. I’d tossed and turned all night in the down-stuffed hotel bed, unable to exorcise thoughts of Jamie or Laurel. Now I was bone-tired. I pressed fingers into the delicate skin under my eyes. Puffy. Great.
Before I had much time to wallow in vanity, Jamie strode out of the sliding glass doors in dark sunglasses, holding two large coffees. My heart gave a little lift before I stretched over the passenger seat and popped the door for him.
“Morning.” He dropped inside and held out a cup. “You still drink this, right?”
I took it gratefully, the cup hot against my fingers. “Inhale it, more like.”
Jamie yanked the door closed. “That’s the Shay I remember.”
I took a sip and almost spit it out. It was sweet and milky.
“What?” Jamie frowned. “Two sugars, fill the milk a quarter way, right?”
It was my old coffee order, the one Cal thought was gross and childish, though the latter was only subtext. I’d been practicing mature asceticism by drinking it black, so the sweet sip was a shock to the tongue. It turned out I still liked it this way.
I fit the coffee cup into the drink holder and threw the car into drive, pulling away from the motel. “I have no idea how you can remember the way I like my coffee. Don’t you need that mental real estate for something more important?”
Jamie shrugged. He wore all black today—slim-fitting jeans and a well-tailored shirt I could tell cost money. He’d shed Texas so well. “I remember everything about you,” he said casually, leaning back and propping his feet on the dash. “Probably because we knew each other during a formative time. Imprints on the brain, you know?”
I kept my eyes trained on the road. “Half a pack of sugar, splash of milk. Any more than that and you’ll toss it.”
He laughed. “Guilty.”