I was two storefronts away from Sucré when I saw her.
On a flyer.
It was stapled to an old telephone pole outside the bakery, between a notice about a lost cat and a flyer for a lawn service, the kind of thing you walked past a hundred times without registering. But for some, bizarre reason, Ididregister it. Whitepaper. A photograph, slightly grainy — taken on a phone and then printed on a home printer, by the looks of it.
A girl. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. Dark hair. The flyer said MISSING in large letters across the top and beneath the photograph a name —Celeste Taylor, last seen July 8th— and a phone number.
I checked my phone for the date. It was the 12th today. The flyer wasnew.And what more, I hadseenthat face before.
The fundraiser. I remembered the pale dress, the window, the glass that she’d nursed all evening, not daring to touch it. She looked different in the photo but I could’ve sworn thatwasthe girl I’d seen yesterday.
If the flyer said she’d last been seen on the 8th and I had seen her on the 11th—
“You look like you've seen a ghost.”
I turned. Billy was standing behind me with a paper coffee cup in one hand and his sunglasses pushed up into his dark blond hair, looking at me with that expression of his that was always doing at least two things simultaneously.
“This girl was at the fundraiser,” I told him, pointing a finger at the flyer.
He looked at it. Something moved through his face — there and gone.
“I don’t seem to recall,” he mused, narrowing his eyes at the photo. “But then I’d been drinking well before the fundraiser. Can’t remember half of it.”
“She's been missing since the 8th,” I emphasized.
“So the flyer says.” He looked back at me and whatever had moved through his expression was gone now, replaced by that easy charm of his. “Have you eaten?”
“Billy—”
“Because I haven't, and Sucré does a brown butter croissant that isto die for. Besides, you look just sweet enough to enjoya little morning diabetes.” He was already moving toward the door, already holding it open. “Come on. I'll buy.”
Inside, Sucré was cool, air conditioned, and smelled like vanilla and burnt caramel. We took a table by the window — Billy's choice, which put his back to the street and my face toward it. I noticed it but didn't comment.
He ordered in French, which the girl behind the counter clearly appreciated, and came back with two coffees and a plate that had a croissant on it. And something else besides. A slice of cake — small, frosted, dark red.
“Red velvet,” I said as he set it in front of me.
“You’rereallyobservant, M. Has anyone ever told you that?” He laughed and dropped into his chair before breaking off a piece of the croissant. “So. It’s seven and some change. What are you doing out of bed at this ungodly hour?”
I wrapped both hands around my cup. Outside the window Main Street was waking up, a slow Monday assembly. The telephone pole was visible from where I sat. The flyer still attached.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I admitted.
“Ah. A fellow insomniac.” He shot me a smile, ripping off another piece of his croissant. I hadn’t touched the cake. Couldn’t stomach the red.
“The fundraiser,” I said.
“What about it.”
“It wasn't what I thought it would be.”
Billy considered his croissant. “And what did you think it would be?”
“A fundraiser,” I said, deadpan.
“I’m not following.”
“The cherry,” I said.
