Page 6
Her expression changes. Not disbelief, because Birdie knows better than to dismiss me outright, but concern deep enough to make her green eyes lose their usual sparkle. “Cass.”
“I know how it sounds.”
“It sounds like you’re scared.”
“I am scared, but that’s not the whole story.” I look through the rain-streaked window and see our reflections instead of the street. My chestnut hair has come loose from its braid, my freckles stand out against skin that looks too pale, and worry has wiped away the easy smile Connor says helps me avoid trouble. “He’s my twin. We don’t read each other’s minds or feel each other’s pain, and I’m not saying there’s anything mystical, but I know him. I know his routines. This isn’t right.”
Birdie walks closer and braces her hip against the counter. “A twin thing?”
“Yes,” I confirm.
“A real twin thing, or the twin thing you use when you beat him at Scrabble?” she asks.
“That was superior vocabulary,” I argue.
“You played za,” Birdie reminds me.
“It’s a legal word.”
“It’s an insult to pizza,” she counters.
I exhale through my nose, grateful for her attempt even though the fear remains. “This is real. Connor was trying to reach me yesterday, and now no one can reach him. He wouldn’t miss work. He wouldn’t disappear without telling me, especially with Dad depending on both of us.”
“Could he be at Oak Grove?”
“I called. He isn’t there, and Dad is fine.” As fine as a man with early-onset Alzheimer’s can be on a rainy Wednesday, which means he remembered a formula from forty years ago but forgot where Connor lives. I don’t add that part. Saying it would open another ache, and I have no room for it beside the fear surrounding my brother.
Birdie picks up my phone, turns it over once in her hand, then gives it back. “What do you want to do?”
The question calms me more than any reassurance could. Birdie doesn’t tell me to wait until tomorrow or insist Connor is safe because we need him to be. She gives me a direction, and action has always made more sense to me than sitting with questions.
“If he doesn’t answer by closing, I’m driving to Seattle,” I decide.
“We’re driving to Seattle,” Birdie corrects me.
“You have three chairs to strip tomorrow,” I remind her.
“The chairs have waited eighty years. They can wait another day,” she insists.
“Birdie,” I protest.
“Cassie.” She folds her arms and lifts her chin, every inch of her petite frame prepared for battle. “You’re not going alone when you’re worried enough to interrogate traffic lights. I’ll pack snacks, you’ll invent increasingly terrible explanations, and Murphy will punish us by sleeping on my clean laundry.”
From the mystery shelves, Murphy gives a low chirp.
“He agrees,” she adds.
“He heard the word snacks.”
“His motives can be corrupt and his conclusion correct.”
Another customer enters, bringing damp air and the scent of rain. The next half hour passes in a blur of recommendations and receipts as I remember that Mrs. Brennan’s grandson likes dinosaurs and find a large-print mystery for a man holding every cover at arm’s length.
Throughout it all, I listen for my phone.
At five thirty, the screen remains empty.
Birdie turns the sign from OPEN to CLOSED while I count the cash drawer. Murphy jumps onto the counter, watches my hands with unusual focus, then nudges his head against my forearm.
