Then she comes around the desk to hug me. She’s so short I feel like I’m hugging an overenthusiastic Smurf. “What’s the name of your shampoo? Your hair smells divine,” she says. “I’d smell it properly, but I’m too lazy to get my rolling ladder.”
“I don’t know. One of those all-in-one things,” I say.
Juniper sighs. “I have a five-step coconut-friendly hair repair routine and my hair smells like printer ink got married and made babies with paper glue.”
“It looks nice,” I offer. “Very… blue.”
“Thank you. Did you hear I got married?” She flashes her ring. Instead of a diamond, it has a tiny sparkling book on top.
“I didn’t but congratulations. Do you remember how you broke up with me in a letter? We were seven. I didn’t even know we were together. And your letter had ten pages,” I smile.
Juniper snorts. “Oh my God, yes. Didn’t I send you another letter too, about the rules? You were supposed to whisper sweet nothings to my ear every Monday at lunch.”
I laugh, but then I falter.
Those letters might still be under the loose floorboard in my old room. The one I never went back to after Dad died.
What I have left from that house could fit in a duffel bag: one photo album, a wrench Dad gave me with my initials scratched into it, the blanket from our first date Cole had re-named our “special kissing blanket,” three mugs, some clothes, a pillow, Dad’s Bible, Mom’s jewelry box.
That’s it. The bank took the rest. The memories. No real investigation into Dad’s death, no autopsy. Nothing I could push for without money or influence.
Meanwhile, kids like Justin Clancy were arguing over which gap year spot had better Wi-Fi. I knew none of them killed my dad, but when I stood outside that house for the last time, saluted Dad with his favorite beer before leaving Baywood and Cole, it kind of felt like it. Those kids didn’t have a clue what it felt like to stand at the curb and realize your whole life fits in a duffel bag.
I told myself none of it mattered. But sometimes I wonder if my background did affect Cole — not consciously but deep down. I tattooed our first date on my skin because I was so sure about us, but Cole never said anything about us being… permanent. Of course, he always had something to fall back on. A big family house, holiday traditions, Sunday roasts. A trust fund if he went to uni.
All I had was him.
Juniper studies me kindly and then offers me a mischievous smile.
“We just got a new section on regional crimes. Thought you might find it inspiring.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Inspiring?”
Juniper grins like she’s about to ruin someone’s reputation for sport. “Come on, I’ll give you the tour. It’s super exclusive. Members-only. Well, members and anyone who asks. Or doesn’t ask.”
She leads me down an aisle that smells faintly of old paper, tapping the spines as we pass. “This one here? In ’72, Mr. Pell — not our Steve, thank God — got arrested for goat theft. Claimed it was a ‘rescue mission’ because the goat looked lonely. The judge was not persuaded.”
I smirk. “That’s a felony where I come from.”
“In ’95, the Henderson brothers tried to rob the hardware store wearing ski masks. It was July.”
“The famous Henderson brothers,” I smile. “Not great at subtlety.”
“Or heat stroke prevention.”
Laughing, we move on to other topics, like Harold’s wife threatening to take off his bulletin board and the upcoming karaoke night at Mickey’s that apparently always ends with Steve Pell singingI’m Too Sexy.
Before I leave, I ask to use the printer. The file I requested after seeing Cole’s dad talking with Willard has finally come in.
Name: Andrew Charles Hudson
DOB: Oct 12, 1975
Education: Yale, Political Science; JD from Duke
Occupation: County Legal Counsel (formerly); semi-retired; rumored consultant
Family: Married Elaine Bennett, 1997. Two kids: Elizabeth (2000), Cole (2002)
