Secrets In Our Scars by Rebecca Trogner

Author:Rebecca Trogner [Trogner, Rebecca]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-02-07T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

When I was in elementary school, the summers dragged on like decades. Time stretched out forever until I thought it was standing still. Until my aunts would take me shopping for notebooks and pencils and binders and new clothes and I’d be going to the first day of class. Only then would time resume its normal pace.

With Roy gone, all the things I used to fill my time with now seem empty, minutes are like hours, and like when I was little, it seems my time of waiting will never end.

Every morning and evening I check the news sites to make sure nothing horrible has happened. I suspect he’s in the Middle East, specifically in the regions where every day’s a page out of Dante’s Inferno. Gavin keeps reassuring me he’ll come home in one piece, but I’m not fooled; he’s concerned and probably wishes he was with Roy instead of babysitting me.

So I’m stuck in this horrible limbo-land waiting for Roy to return while I go over the receipts from yesterday and line up the straggler pickups remaining for today. I wave as Mae and Stella, with their pocketbooks in hand, stroll out the door.

In two hours, I can lock up and hop in the Buick and head to Safeway for movie snacks and Coke. I’m down to my last six-pack, and that always makes me nervous. It’s like gas in the tank; I’m never comfortable when the needle is on the left side of the half mark. Vincent’s meeting me at the house with the first two Thin Man movies. Nick and Nora Charles never get old. And when we’re stuffed with junk food and can’t stay awake a minute longer it’s off to bed. Not a bad way to spend an evening.

Thirty minutes till closing, when I’m in the back getting organized for tomorrow morning, the bell rings. “Be right there,” I call out. Who would show up this late in the day? Mary, my last customer, had left twenty minutes ago.

Yanking my ponytail free—it’s giving me a headache—I pop out of the back room. A man stands at the counter looking around. It’s not uncommon for a tourist to wander into the shop.

“May I help you?”

He turns to face me. His languid smile is followed by a flash of his blue eyes. “I hope so.”

I’ve seen him before. If only I could place where.

“I’m looking for the Lost Hound.”

“Oh,” I smile, relieved. “The art studio.” He nods. “I’ll show you.” And go out the door and onto the sidewalk. “After you pass the church”—its bell tower makes it a natural starting point for directions—“it will be the second street, Jay Street. Take a right and go down the hill; you’ll see it at the corner.”

“Ah.” He steps in close, and I’m forced to look up. The afternoon sun shines through his hair, causing reddish highlights to gleam.

I’m good with faces. Why can’t I place him? “Good luck.” I step quickly toward the door.

“Maybe I’ll stop by again.

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