The Longest Night 3 by Heather Knox

Author:Heather Knox [Knox, Heather]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: ABDO
Published: 2018-10-15T04:00:00+00:00

QUINN LEADS ME THROUGH A COFFEE SHOP PAST MISmatched couches of three different vintage orange-and-green floral patterns, reminiscent of the ’70s, and one of olive green crushed velvet. Each host to tables from vastly different eras—mid-century modern, someone’s garage sale a few decades ago, an Amish woodworker a year ago—and various low-slung faux-leather chair seating, some corners of seating finished with aquariums and all punctuated by years-old coffee rings. Retro diner, office, and elementary school chairs in various states of disrepair—some glittery blue vinyl, some a sickening aqua or yellow metal, all with quasi-threadbare cushions—scatter around two-person tables painted with cribbage and chess boards, their pieces occupying small wooden boxes on the bookshelf that boasts a smattering of abandoned books and board games whose missing pieces have been replaced by customer-made variants. No two lamps, nor their shades, so much as complement one another and, in that, the entire place glows with a homey warmth.

Along the eastern exposed brick wall of the original architecture, local artists—likely long since passed through this area—have displayed their work. Despite the eclectic assortment, all seem curated with a semi-industrial aesthetic: stormtroopers join a Victorian family for a black-and-white portrait, Darth Vader assuming the role of father and sitting with a lightsaber, the only flash of color, across his lap; a panel of a noir comic wherein a woman holds a shotgun, the scene built of mosaic tiles from what could be DIY band flyers or other advertisements or fragments of the artist’s other work; a black-and-white-and-shades-of-gray painting of a couple wearing gas masks in a romantic embrace, the date 05.05.03 underneath. Each other wall plays host to similarly dissimilar art, curated by the owners and staff over many years. Some names I recognize from gallery debuts Zeke insisted I accompany him to when etiquette mandated he accept invitations to social engagements; others hung desperately, perhaps awaiting discovery by a wealthy patron or as a favor from one of the staff.

No doubt, this place exists because of, and for, regulars. Quinn motions for me to follow her through a thick fabric curtain into a labyrinth of back rooms, some storage, most with closed doors. She stops in front of one such door and puts out her hand to stop me as she dips inside and lets the door click immediately behind her. She emerges maybe two minutes later.

“It is done. Morgeaux will stay here until it is safe for her to return to her life—if she wants to return to her life. Otherwise she can start over here,” she explains, indicating the coffee shop with her hands as we make our way further into the labyrinthine series of rooms.

“Morgeaux?”

Quinn shrugs. “She had a name tag on. Come on,” she says, opening another closed door which leads out into the night at the rear of the coffee shop. “We should talk.”

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