Too late to approach her now. Buttomorrow...
I catch Anna at the coffee machine the next afternoon, timing it for that liminal window between meetings when the office empties out for lunch. She's pouring cream with surgical precision, her movements careful and contained.
"Anna?" I keep my voice light, curious. "Quick question—I was digging into some of Vivian's old press, and I saw this."
I pull up the screenshot on my phone, angling it so she can see.
The cream keeps pouring. Over the rim. Across the counter. She doesn't move to stop it, doesn't seem to notice. Her eyes—locked on my screen—go glassy with something beyond fear.
"You worked with her in Columbus, right?" I press gently.
When she finally looks at me, the color has drained from her face so completely I can see the fine tracery of veins at her temples.
"I..." The word dies in her throat.
She seems to catch herself, forcing her shaking hand to set the coffee pot down with deliberate care. When she speaks again, her voice is a monotone. Flat. Dead.
"Yes. I worked there."
"Anna, did anything happen? I've been trying to understand Vivian better…"
"I don't know what you mean, nothing comes to mind." She says it to the counter, not to me. Each word lands like a door slamming shut.
"Anna, I just need to know if—"
"I have a two o'clock meeting I need to prepare for."
She turns, dumps her ruined coffee in the sink with mechanical precision, and walks—stiffly, but professionally—back to her desk. Not fleeing. Not running. Just... gone.
I stare at her rigid back as she disappears around the corner.
9
Garrett
The booth in the back corner of Murphy's Tap House has been ours for three seasons. Same cracked leather, same initials carved into the table edge by some drunk college kid in 2019, same waitress who knows our orders before we sit down.
Tonight, all five of us made it. Phil Santos is holding court about his daughter's hockey practice. Marcus Webb's laughing so hard beer nearly comes out his nose. Taylor's already two deep and getting louder. And Easton McKenzie—my best friend, my goalie, the brick wall who's kept us in games we had no business winning—is shaking his head at all of them.
"Tell me the tutu story isn't true," Easton says as I slide into the booth.
"Pink tulle over full gear." Phil grins. "Coach didn't know what to do with her. I told him if she can skate in a tutu, she can skate in anything."
"That's because you're soft," Taylor cuts in. "You're raising a mini tyrant."
"I'm raising a girl who knows her own mind." Phil's voice carries that easy confidence of a man who's figured out what matters. "When she's sixteen and some junior hockey assholetries to tell her what to do, she's gonna tell him exactly where to shove it."
"Spoken like a terrified father," Webb says.
Easton raises his glass. "To terrified fathers. May our future daughters never date hockey players."
"Amen," Phil and Webb say in unison, clinking glasses.
"Tank." Easton leans back, beer in hand. "That hit you threw on Torres in the second period—beauty. Daniels owes you."
"Kid needs to keep his head up."
"Kid needs a veteran defenseman watching his back," Easton corrects. "Which he's got. You're good with the young guys. They trust you."
