But he didn't leave right away. Instead, he surveyed the apartment. “In daylight this place looks bigger,” he mused. “Would probably benefit from a quick paintjob,” he said, brushing his hand against the wall.
I didn’t want to talk about painting the walls or whatever else he considered casual conversation.
“I was out this morning,” I told him. “Ran into Billy. We went to this bakery on the Main.”
“Sucré,” he offered.
“Yes,” I agreed.
Judah put the toolbox on the counter and leaned against it, arms crossed across his chest. “How is he?”
“Fine.” That’s the word, isn’t it? I was beginning to use it like a true citizen of St. Franc.
He narrowed his eyes.
I'd been deciding since the car ride home whether to say it. In the car with Billy's cigarette smoke still in the air and the empty telephone pole in my rearview mirror, I'd told myself I wouldn't. I'd told myself it was nothing, it was a flyer, missing personsflyers went up on poles all the time in towns like this — it didn't mean anything. Itcertainlydidn't mean what the cold specific feeling in my chest was suggesting it meant.
Then I'd gotten home and sat with it for three hours and here he was, in my kitchen, and he was a pastor. Whatever else he was — whatever the locked doors and the fundraiser that wasn't only a fundraiser hid — hewasa pastor. People brought him their worst things. That was the design of him.
“There was a flyer,” I said. “On the telephone pole outside the bakery. A missing girl.”
Nothing changed in his face.
“Celeste Taylor,” I said. “Missing since July 8th.” I paused. “I think I saw her at the fundraiser.”
Silence. The ceiling fan turned. Outside the window the heat pressed against the glass.
“What did she look like? I don’t think I remember a Celeste,” he said.
“Dark, long hair. She was wearing a light dress. Greenish, I think.”
“Kept to herself most of the night?”
My chest did a thing. Hope. “Yes.”
He nodded slowly. “That was Father Tran's granddaughter. Visiting from New Orleans. Helena. She left town early this morning. First bus out.”
I looked at him. “So, she’s not…”
“Missing?” Judah licked his lips, before letting his mouth curl into a reassuring smile. “The girl you saw is not. The girl on the flyer, however, is a different and most unfortunate matter. Do you want to talk about it?” He came over and took a seat on the couch next to me. “I can check in with Father Tran if that would put your mind at ease.”
The cold thing in my chest loosened. Not entirely — but enough.
“No,” I said. “It's fine. I just — the date on the flyer was recent and I thought—”
“You noticed something and you followed it.” He looked at me with something that might have been approval coming from someone else. “That's not a fault.”
“I felt stupid,” I admitted.
“Don’t.” His voice softened as he leaned back, an arm on the back of the couch. Casual. “The world needs more people who look at flyers.”
There was the other thing — the fact that when I walked out of the bakery, the flyer was gone, but I decided not to mention it. If he said it was all right, I trusted him.
“I should probably go,” he said, but he didn't move. His eyes kept watching me, less gentleness in them now.
“You don't have to.” The words escaped before I could reconsider them. “I mean — I have coffee. Or tea, if you'd prefer.”
He smirked. “You are so pure,” he whispered, his gaze darkening.
