“Will that work?”
“It might.”
Kavita says nothing, her eyes fixed blankly ahead.
“Let’s go with option two, then,” Clare says. “I think a direct hit is our best bet.”
Kavita exits the passenger side and circles the car to cross the street. Clare must dart to catch up. Kavita stands immobilized in the entranceway until Clare reaches around and tugs at the door to find it locked. CLOSED, the sign reads, a white menu with embossed calligraphy framed at eye level. Clare cups her face to the window to peer inside. An older man shuffles behind the bar, counting the bottles on the row of shelves behind him. Clare recognizes him from the restaurant’s website. Roland Song, the owner. She knocks and makes an unlock gesture when he looks her way.
Can you let us in? she mouths to him.
The man dries his hands on a towel and comes to the door.
“We don’t open until five,” he says. “Brunch on weekends only.”
“Mr. Song?” Clare asks, handing him a card. “I’m wondering if we can speak to you for a minute.”
“About what?” he asks. He registers surprise when he catches a glimpse behind Clare. “Kavita?”
“We’d like to speak with you,” Clare says.
“A PI?” he says, regrouping with a forced smile. “That’s a first. I’ve seen lots of cops and reporters, obviously. Last week I had a novelist show up. He wanted me to reenact the scene for him. You know, for inspiration. You ever get any of that, Kavita?”
Kavita shakes her head, eyes down. Roland steps aside and waves them in. Inside, the restaurant is small, tables for two with white linens spaced at close distance. At the back Clare spots the booth where the shooting happened, reupholstered but otherwise unchanged from the crime scene photographs. And behind that, a wall of glass overlooking the ocean glittering in the midday light. A patio door marked with a CLOSED sign, the chairs and tables on the outside deck stacked in a corner. Clare takes Kavita by the arm and leads her to a seat at the bar. Roland’s hair is gray, aging him at first glance. But up close Clare guesses he might only be fifteen years older than she is. Late forties.
“You look good, Kavita,” he says. “It’s nice to see you.”
“Yeah. Thanks, Roland.”
An awkward silence passes between them. Now that they are sitting still, facing each other in broad daylight, Clare notices the stains on Kavita’s cardigan, the small moth holes along its sleeves. Her hair looks unwashed, the beds of her nails dirty. Clare can guess that Kavita did not look this way when she worked here, that the years since have ravaged her. Fucked up her life, as she said.
“You hungry?” Roland asks.
“I just ate,” Clare says.
“My best cook’s already clocked in. Lots of deliveries today. Can I get him to whip you something up?”
“No,” Kavita says.
Kavita appears to be trembling on the stool. She looks on the verge of tears.
“Okay,” Roland says. “You won’t eat. And you show up here with a private investigator? Not sure what this is all about.”
“Clare is working the case,” Kavita says, shaky.
“Is that so?” Roland turns to Clare.
“Not directly,” Clare says. “I’m looking for Malcolm Hayes. Zoe Westman’s husband. Kavita and I crossed paths earlier today. I’m just doing some due diligence on his former connections. The Westmans were regulars here?”
Roland takes the cloth and begins wiping the counter again. “The definition of regulars.”
“Can you expand on that?”
“They were in here twice a week for dinner, every week. Family dinner when the girls were younger. They liked the familiarity, the view. Jack Westman sold my father the land to start this place. The Westmans were part of the restaurant’s inception forty years ago. I watched those girls grow up. Zoe and…” He snaps his finger. “My God. What’s the sister’s name?”
“Charlotte,” Kavita says. “You know her name.”
“Right. Charlotte. I’m an old man, forgive me. For some reason it escapes me to this day. Always did. It’s terrible.”
Kavita shoots Clare a sidelong glance. That’s a lie, her look means to say.
“She wasn’t quite as dynamic as her older sister,” Roland continues. “Charlotte was the quieter one? She and Zoe’s husband seemed to get along well, the Malcolm guy you’re talking about. I remember that. They seemed tight. Not sure how Zoe felt about that.”
It occurs to Clare that she should have her notebook, that she should be writing all this down. But it feels too forced, restricting the flow of conversation. She will have to log it all to memory instead.
“Was Malcolm here that night?” Clare asks.
“No,” Roland answers. “It was just—”
“All I want,” Kavita interjects, “is for you to tell us what you remember from that night. Tell us the story. It would help me a lot to see things from your perspective.”
Roland straightens, glancing at Clare. “The story? What is this, Kavita? It was five years ago. And you were there.”
“I know I was. But I feel like I don’t remember it properly. There are these holes for me. All this crazy stuff that’s happened since. You know? I’ve been in therapy for the past while because, well. Because things are difficult. My mind is screwing with me. I don’t know. I don’t want to say I have PTSD, it’s not that serious. But I can’t focus.”
“Hey.” Roland puts on a soothing tone and sets his hand on hers atop the bar. Clare notices Kavita’s fist clench under his grip. “It was terrible, what happened. Terrible. But it’s been a long time. You’re young. You were so young. Let it go.”
“I can’t,” Kavita says.
Clare watches this exchange, Kavita’s anxiousness against Roland’s shifting demeanor. She can’t pinpoint the source of the insincerity between them.
“Please?” Kavita says.
Roland releases a long sigh. “What is there to say? It was a weeknight. What? A Tuesday, I think? Colleen’s birthday, wasn’t it?” He pauses, but Kavita says nothing, so he directs the story to Clare. “Colleen Westman, Jack’s wife. Zoe and Charlotte’s mother. See? Charlotte. I remembered.
