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“Not at the moment.” But Simone’s smile explodes in Kwame’s mind with the force of fireworks and knocks him off guard. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t disappointed that he hadn’t heard from her since the panel last week. They hadn’t been able to chat afterward because it ran long, and she had to rush off to grab her son from a friend’s house before dinner. Her exit amounted to a quick and chaste peck on the cheek and a breezy “thanks again for having me.” But he thought she might hit him up with a text along the lines of: I had fun catching up. Or: It was so good to see you. Or: I’ve always loved you. Okay, that would have been a stretch, but he would have taken her throwing him a bone with something, even an emoji. As usual, Simone has the power to make him feel pathetic without even trying. But if there is a move to be made (and he’s not delusional enough to think that there is), it’s Simone’s to make.

He’s not holding his breath, though, what with the great pains she’d gone to at lunch to show how happy she was. He could tell how hard she was trying, but Kwame hadn’t taken that as an effort to prove something to him, as much as to herself. Kwame has his doubts, as bright and blinding as the rock on Simone’s finger. And that’s not because he wants to hate on Simone or her life. There was just something missing. The old Simone, his Simone, would never have been cool with being some kept woman. And she for sure wouldn’t have settled for a life just writing a column in some Podunk local paper about the top tips to keep kids safe and happy on Halloween or the healthiest lunches you can make in less than five minutes. She can’t possibly enjoy writing that kind of schlock. Or maybe she does. He barely knows her anymore. But the old Simone would have hated writing fluff every couple of weeks for an audience of about two. It just seems so boring, so safe, two things she never was. But that’s what money does. It makes you soft. Or maybe marriage does that. Or both.

Now he has to take a long swig of the beer he didn’t intend to drink to pull himself together. Once he’s managed to swallow, he repeats himself, mostly as a harsh reminder. “No one special at the moment.” He makes a mental note to hit up that cute pharmaceutical rep; he needs to move on or at least go through the motions of it until he can swing the real thing.

“That makes two of us. No special lady for me at the moment either. But we got time.” Jedidiah tips his beer toward Kwame to toast all the conquests they have yet to make.

“So you just never saw Wade again? Any idea where he could have gone that night?” Kwame asks, steering the conversation and his mind away from Simone.

“I have no clue. That night, nine turned to ten, which turned to midnight, and still no Wade. I didn’t even know what to do or who to call. Our prefect—that’s what they called the upperclassmen who were in charge of certain dorms—was an evil son of a gun; had a Confederate flag in his room he didn’t even try to hide, so I knew it was pointless to go to him. Soon as the sun came up, I walked all the way to the police station in town and told them Wade was missing. They didn’t even fake like they were concerned about him. Insisted he’d ‘run off.’ I waited a full day and then called his parents, who were beside themselves, as you can imagine. Emmett Till was still haunting us something fierce, and every Black mother feared they were going to be the next Mamie. And it wouldn’t be surprising since…”

Jedidiah stops here as if he’s deciding whether or not to continue. Kwame leans forward eagerly, nudges the recorder closer to the old man, as subtle as he can.

“Since… what?” Kwame treads carefully, like he’s approaching a spooked deer. He absolutely cannot have Jedidiah clamming up now.

“Close as we were, Wade had some secrets. We all do, I suppose.” Jedidiah continues with obvious reluctance born of a lifetime of loyalty. Where the stories were flowing freely earlier, there’s now a noticeable, halting reticence. “I suspected he might have been sweet on this girl who worked at a diner some of those Tate kids hung out at. I personally never wanted to set foot there. Went there one time and couldn’t even enjoy my slice with the stares I was getting, so I swore I’d never set foot in the place again. Which was a real shame, because if that wasn’t the best pie I ever had in my life. I still have dreams about it. Crust was so flaky, and the fruit perfectly tart, you’d be surprised it was all white folks in that kitchen. Sorry, sorry, I digress… Wade would go to Doughboy’s sometimes. Don’t know if he shared a booth and chummed it up with the white boys, but it wouldn’t surprise me. He was way too trusting, in my mind. Wouldn’t put it past him to believe he could mess with a girl and get away with it.”

“So you think maybe Wade went to Doughboy’s that night? To see her?”

“Maybe. There’s only so many places we could go, you know? I told the police they should talk to that girl, but they didn’t, far as I know. Or maybe they did and it didn’t lead anywhere. Who knows. No one seemed inclined to keep me in the loop about anything. And I sure wasn’t going to hang around the police station pressing. Even Wade’s parents, who took the bus sixteen hours up from Montgomery, didn’t get any information. His momma just clutched the shoes they found at the reservoir.”

“The waitress… you remember her name? Maybe I could find her, see what she knows?”

Jedidiah shakes his head as if it can dislodge this information. “Margaret, maybe… Mary… I dunno. It definitely started with an M, though. I believe the diner was family-owned, if it’s even still around. Or if she’s still around. She’d be pushing eighty, so you never know. She had this crazy red hair. I’d never seen hair that color, and curly as all get out. Marion? Gosh, I wish I could remember.”

Kwame takes a deep breath to steady himself. “And what about Lawrence Hartwell? Did you know him at Tate? I think he woulda been there around the same time as you.”

“Larry? Yeah.” Jedidiah’s eyes narrow. “How do you know Larry?”

“Uh, just a name that came up in my research.”

“Hmmm, okay. Sure, I knew Larry. Well, knew of him. We didn’t have many run-ins. He was on the debate team with Wade, though. And he ran around with this rich kid, Roger. Roger Macon. Hell, they were all rich. But Roger was a different stripe of rich altogether. Old money type. From steel or railroads, maybe? Probably slaves too. Roger and Larry ran the campus like they owned it. Which I guess their families probably did, come to think of it.”

“You said Larry was on the debate team with Wade. Is it possible that’s who he was meeting up with the night he went missing?”

“S’pose anything’s possible. I asked Larry and his buddy Roger about it the next day. Maybe the first time I ever spoke to them directly, and they said they hadn’t seen him. But I don’t put anything past them. One thing I’ve learned is not to put anything past anyone.”

This sentiment, this entire conversation, seems to have exhausted Jedidiah, and Kwame takes his dropping lids and resignation as a sign to start packing up his recording equipment. He asks to use the “little boys’ room” before he hits the road. Once Kwame’s in the lime-green-tiled bathroom, he googles with one hand while he pees with his other, an impressive display of multitasking. First, he tries to find Roger Macon, which is easy enough. A long obit pops up from the Kansas City Star. Roger was apparently a state politician of some renown who died of cancer in 2015. Kwame can’t say he feels the least tinge of sadness at that, though he is frustrated at the literal dead end.

This is reminding Kwame of a story he did early in his career on the Tuskegee Airmen, trying to track down the remaining soldiers for interviews before they died—a literal race against time, the one force you can’t outrun. If he’s going to find people to talk to about Wade’s disappearance or have any chance at all of figuring out what happened, it’s clear he’s up against the clock.

Next, he searches for the diner, Doughboy’s, and discovers it’s still open, according to their Facebook page. It’s a long shot, but worth it to see if anyone is still around who might know or remember a redheaded waitress who worked there six decades ago. It helps that it seems it’s remained in the family. With any luck, this woman is still wiping counters and baking pies there in her eighties. Stranger things have happened. He also wants to see if he can track down this Sly person. All roads are pushing him to return to the scene of the crime. And he’s all the more convinced, based on Jedidiah’s enduring conviction alone, that Wade did meet a grim end. A crime waiting, itching, to be solved. Kwame has no choice but to follow this investigation where it leads. Back to Milwaukee. And if that happens to lead back to Simone too? He can chalk that up to fate, and who is he to fight that.

“I really appreciate you taking the time to see me, Jedidiah,” Kwame says when he returns to the patio, offering his host an enthusiastic handshake that organically evolves into a warm hug, natural as ever.

“I should be the one thanking you, young man. There’s no one left for me to talk about Wade with, and this was a real nice journey down memory lane for me.”

Back in the rental car, Kwame pulls out his phone. His thumbs hover over the keyboard for a moment before he types. Hey, I’m coming to your neck of the woods for work in the next week or two. Any chance we could meet up?

He tucks his phone away so waiting for an answer won’t be a distraction during his long drive. But it doesn’t stop him from praying that Simone’s answer will be yes.

CHAPTER SEVEN SIMONE

Simone isn’t snooping. She has good reason to be in this cramped room tucked in the back corner of the first floor of Poppy’s turn-of-the-century Tudor mansion. Her primary goal is to get it cleared of its junk so it can become a cozy little haven for the nurse she has her sights set on hiring to take care of Poppy. Even if it’s just for a few hours a day, Simone knows this poor soul is going to need a place to retreat to have a cup of tea and regroup. Most of the house will no doubt be off-limits; Poppy has very strong feelings about who’s welcomed in what rooms—pretty much no one, at any time, especially strangers. This obviously makes it hard for Simone to imagine how she’s going to convince Poppy to allow in professional help, something he’d previously declined with the words “over my dead body.” She accepts that her efforts to organize this room and her detailed research into home health options are an exercise in optimism as much as anything else. But it also gives her cover for her other goal: trying to find Poppy’s old Tate yearbooks to see if she can find a connection to Wade Freeman.

Simone’s been thinking about the poor missing kid since her lunch with Kwame last week. She’s also, against her will and better judgment, been thinking about Kwame too. Simone had fully expected to hear from him by now.

Last night, or really, early this morning, when she’d officially given up on sleep, she’d come precariously close to being the one to reach out first. She was saved by writer’s block. If she couldn’t think of the most perfectly crafted message to send, she wouldn’t send anything, and she couldn’t come up with any words that would make sense. I’ve been thinking of you? Nonsense. Even though she has been thinking about him, it doesn’t mean anything. Simone loves her husband, and her life. Things have been more hectic than usual, and Alex is definitely off since taking on his new role, but she’s not looking for anything more from Kwame than their old friendship, and the thrill of possibly chasing a story together. Which is why she’s trying to find the yearbooks. They could help answer some of Kwame’s questions, and then she’d have a valid reason to be in touch again. Besides, she’s genuinely curious if Poppy had any connection to Wade. If he did, maybe Simone can use the yearbooks to jog his memory and interview Poppy herself. The journalist in her can’t help herself.