It was that thought that actually worried Nola, who didn’t like this feeling, of being worried, of the lack of control that came with it. In her pocket, she started doing that thing she used to do when she was little and Royall would bring over those friends who would stare at her a bit too long, using her nails to pinch the skin on her thigh, distracting herself with pain.
Today, in her pocket, she pinched herself even harder. This case . . . it was more than just a case . . . which, really, was the issue. From her first days as Artist-in-Residence, like any painter, Nola had been taught to remain objective. But considering her tie to Mint, she was anything but. No way could she ever repay him for what he did that day she needed him most.
At the back of the restaurant, a middle-aged man with thinning blond hair and trendy oversized eyeglasses was sitting alone at a private booth, clicking at his laptop. His sharp black suit made it look like he had money, but even from here, Nola spotted his shoes. Cheap. Scuffed. Worn. Not a customer. An employee.
“Richard Merante,” Nola announced.
“Yup yup, gimme a sec,” Merante said, still clicking at his computer, an ancient IBM ThinkPad with a University of Michigan sticker and one that read, I’m not superstitious, but I am a little stitious. There was an iPad right next to it. At the middle of his nose were two red indentations—from when he’d lower his eyeglasses to read. Needs bifocals. Too stubborn to get them.
Nola slapped the laptop shut.
“Hey!”
She pulled out her stolen badge, nearly ramming it into his face. “I need you to answer some questions.”
He didn’t look surprised. “Another detective? I assume this is about Wojo?” he asked, referring to the valet who’d been killed two nights ago.
“Actually,” Nola said, no longer pinching herself as she slid in across from him in the booth, “it’s about a bit more than that.”
In the corner, by the bar, a waitress with a hacking cough was restocking martini and shot glasses. Nola shot her a look that sent her back to the kitchen. Nola took a final scan of the room. All clear.
Yet what she couldn’t see was the valet out front. The high school kid with the yellow rubber bracelet was no longer staring at Instagram models. He was dialing a number he’d memorized.
It rang twice before someone picked up.
“Yeah . . . um . . . you said to call if— That you’d pay for—” The kid cut himself off, keeping his voice to a whisper. “I saw her,” he said into the phone. “The girl you showed me . . . with the white hair . . . she’s here. I saw her.”
The young valet went silent, listening closely to the instructions on the other end. “Yeah, no. Don’t worry. She’s not going anywhere.”
15
Elmswood, Pennsylvania
Now
“You’ve been here before?” Roddy asked.
“Years ago,” Zig said, tugging the steering wheel, his car creeping past the valet stand and the low cobblestone wall that lined the curved driveway of Barron’s Steakhouse.
“With your wife? Back when you were married?”
Zig didn’t answer.
“That place where you live now, that’s not far from your old neighborhood, is it?” Roddy added. “And Nola’s old neighborhood, too, when she was little.”
For the entire forty-minute ride here, this was what their trip was like: Roddy shouting out everything that came to his brain, peppering Zig with question after question. But as Zig steered into a nearby parking spot, he had to admit, Roddy wasn’t wrong. He might be a bit of a social misfit, but his cop instincts were solid. His conclusions were solid. His concern for his sister seemed solid—authentic. But still, for Zig, there was something about Roddy . . . like an itch in Zig’s head, something that just set off his primal radar. Heart or no heart? Zig still wasn’t sure.