“Yeah. Guess we’re the A-Team.”
The air tasted like winter, and seagulls circled above Main Street as if they were hoping for something more interesting than theleftovers tumbling from the bakery’s bins. I watched them and tried to wrangle my own thoughts into something useful.
We passed Deva’s place, Deva’s Delights, with its windows steamed up and a couple of town regulars hunched over their breakfasts inside. My stomach growled with the kind of rage that only three hours of library disappointment could generate. Remembering that Deva’s pancakes could drop a grown man in his tracks with happiness only made things worse.
But Alice never went to Deva’s. Not unless Henry dragged her. She liked Cedar Cup, the coffee shop with too many plants and vegan poetry slams. That’s where she went to read, to sit in the window and watch Mystic Hollow go about its business.
The sign for Cedar Cup came into view, painted with a minimalist logo that probably cost hundreds of dollars. Through the glass I could see the blue-haired barista already ruling the counter with a kind of hipster authority.
Inside, the place was a fever dream of design school mistakes. Exposed brick walls met hanging ferns and spider plants, the ceiling was all ductwork and Edison bulbs, and every table had a different set of chairs. I counted at least three units of seating that had probably come out of someone’s attic. There was even a beanbag, which looked like it’d seen action in the disco era and had the stains to prove it.
The smell of coffee and sugar didn’t make me feel better, but it did make me want to order one of everything. Not that I could let myself. Stress-eating only worked when the sugar high lasted more than five minutes.
Blue-Haired Barista waved us over to the register, lanyard jangling with enamel pins. She had a look that said she couldwrite a dissertation on indie bands no one had heard of. Behind her, two more baristas orchestrated orders with the precision of a Broadway cast.
Beth started in before we even sat down. “Morning,” she said, sliding into Detective Mode. “Can I ask you something before you do our drinks?”
The barista blinked, eyebrows an unnatural shade of teal. “Sure.”
“We’re looking for someone,” I said. “Alice Brennan. She comes in a lot. Short, red-brown hair, glasses, always reading.”
The barista didn’t have much of a reaction. “Doesn’t really talk, right?”
“That’s the one,” said Beth.
“She’s here all the time. Usually sits over there.” Blue Hair pointed at a corner by the windows, where a mismatched wooden chair and a squishy armchair stood close to a battered side table.
Beth’s gaze did a full sweep of the shop, cataloguing every detail like she was planning a sting operation.
“Did you see her recently?” Beth asked.
The barista thought about it, tongue poking at her lip ring. “Maybe a couple of days ago? She just read her book, maybe ordered a muffin. Didn’t say much. That’s normal, though. She’d read, then go.”
I tried to keep the hope in my voice, but it ended up sounding thin. “Did she seem weird? Worried? Like she was looking for someone?”
Blue Hair shook her head. “Not really. She’s always quiet. Not unfriendly, just not talkative.” Behind her, the grinder howled, and for a second I wondered if my skull would split from the noise.
Beth ordered her usual, something dark with no room for foam, and I impulse-bought a caramel latte, because if you can’t get answers, you get sugar.
We paid, shuffled toward Alice’s favorite spot, and started the waiting game. Beth never shut off her internal radar. She eyed the line at the counter, the other staff, even the shadowy corners where someone creepy might hang out and watch customers leave.
I, on the other hand, just wanted to curl up in Alice’s armchair and wait for her to materialize. The fabric was printed with yellow flowers, faded almost to beige. One of the armrests sagged, like it had weathered a hundred hours of someone’s fretting. I didn’t want to think about the days ahead without her in that chair, but the more I tried to picture her, the more she slipped through my fingers.
Beth gave me a sidelong look. “You okay?”
“Just taking inventory.” My laugh was brittle. “Remind me, why do people always say, ‘it’s always the quiet ones’ like that’s supposed to make us feel better?”
“Probably because it’s almost always the loud ones. But nobody wants to admit it.”
I almost smiled. Almost.
Our drinks showed up, names scrawled in loopy marker across the cups. Mine was spelled “Emmah,” which might have made Alice laugh, had she been here.
Beth started in on the next round of interrogation, working her way through the staff like a career interviewer. At the espresso station, she buttonholed a guy in an ironic wolf T-shirt. By the pastry case, she caught a woman in bright red lipstick. Their answers echoed each other like a broken record. Alice? Nice girl, quiet, never says much. Likes her books. Sometimes ordered the blueberry scone, but not every visit. No drama, no fights, not even a fussy customer moment.
Each time the story repeated, something inside my chest sank a little lower. She’d been invisible here, as easily missed as a library book with no due date. I wanted someone to say she’d thrown a fit, called for help, or at least made a scene. Instead, no one even remembered what book she’d been reading when she was last in. Apparently, the only distinguishing feature Alice had in this place was her routine.
By the second muffin and the third “Sorry, can’t help you,” I was ready to ask the barista to just hit me over the head with a French press and get it over with.
