The walk to the shopis short and a nice reprieve from the chaos of the house.
After a ten-minute argument with Margot over which towel rack is actually whose, I relish the five minutes of solitude.
Mom has already dropped hints that I’ll have to figure something else out transportation-wise when school starts in the fall. The tiny high school is a mile and a half away, which is not doable in the dead of winter. I’ll have to find a bus route or another ride—and seeing as I’ve made no efforts to befriend anyone my age, that’s unlikely.
She wants me to get back behind the wheel. But she won’t force me. For now.
The bell over the door gives its signature ding when I push into the shop, but Nora’s characteristic “Welcome in!” is absent.
It only takes a moment to see what has her attention.
A tall, broad-shouldered man in a crisp black suit stands opposite Nora at the counter. He can’t be older than forty. The cornerof a badge on his belt is visible, but he has the rigid stance only officers have. I’ve met enough to recognize it. Logically, I know the detective being here has nothing to do with me, but I can’t shake the itch running over my skin.
I make a split-second decision to beeline for the back office and wait for him to leave, but before I can, Nora calls my name.
I force what I hope is a passable smile onto my face and slowly make my way to the counter. I linger on the far side as I peel off my jacket and set my bag aside.
“You know I wish I had more to give you,” the detective says.
Nora lets out a sigh. “Not your fault.”
“If I get an update, you’ll be the first to hear,” he says.
“I appreciate it,” Nora says. “You’re pretty much the only one left who’d bother.”
The detective tenses. For a beat, his features twist to match Nora’s—pained and stiff.
“We’re still looking for him, Nora,” he says.
Nora clears her throat and the sound is thick, like she’s forcing back tears.
“Well, you know how to reach me,” she says. The detective doesn’t need another cue to take his exit, exchanging goodbyes with Nora and giving me a sad smile and nod before heading out the door.
As soon as the bell dings, Nora turns my way.
“Another day in paradise,” she says. She drops onto the stool and melts into the counter, head in her hands. When she lifts her chin, blond curls that have sprung free from her ponytail dangle in her face. “How are you?”
“Are we going to ignore the fact that you were talking to a cop when I came in?”
Nora sits up straighter and folds her arms. She lets out a little humph, shaking her head, but she’s smiling.
“Well, well, well. It’s nice to finally meet you, Jo Griffin. Took long enough.”
I shrug, dragging the second stool from under the counter and climbing onto it.
“What was that about?” I ask.
Nora waves a hand dismissively. “He’s the detective on Finn’s case.” She meets my eyes briefly. “My brother.”
I glance toward the corkboard, though it’s too far to make out any clear details. I know where all the posters are without needing to check. Off-center is the out-of-town girl, Aisha. To her right, the girl whose parents I met after the parade: Ingrid. Two boys on the left, who disappeared a few years apart. And Nora’s brother. Finn.
“I didn’t know—”
“You’re not the only one who doesn’t advertise her traumas,” Nora says, and from anyone else, it might be harsh. From her, it’s more sad than anything.
I’m sorrygets stuck behind my lips. It’s reflexive, and it’s usually well intentioned, but I’ve heard it enough times to know it’s the wrong thing to say. And to know there isn’t a right thing to say.
I look toward the posters again.
