“I’ll have a soda water,” Clare says, pushing the menu away. “I’m waiting for someone.”
Clare spins on her stool to study the room. She unlocks her phone to call up photographs from Malcolm and Zoe’s engagement party. The space in the pictures is hardly recognizable from the one Clare sits in now, the mahogany of the bar gleaming then, the rows of bottles behind it lit up and shining. The article refers to The Cabin Bar as the city’s “it” spot—a cozy space that mirrors Lune Bay’s relaxed, seaside vibe.
It’s been forty minutes since Austin texted her. He’s late. The bartender sets her soda water down hard enough to spill some of its contents. As Clare takes her first sip the door opens and Austin enters, striding her way. He is dressed all in black, skinny in his fitted jeans, a leather shoulder bag and a newsboy cap rounding out the ensemble.
“Nice hat,” Clare says. “Talk about on-brand.”
Austin smiles, then yanks the hat from his head and drops it on the bar, lips pursed. The sort of man, Clare guesses, who cannot take the same jokes he doles out.
“Teetotaling?” Austin points to her drink.
“It’s not even noon.”
“It’s summer.”
“It’s September,” Clare says.
“I guess it is. Technically still summer by the sun.”
Austin sets his leather satchel atop the bar and waves to the bartender, who ignores him so intently that Clare can only guess this routine: Austin the unwanted regular, the guy who orders one drink, then proceeds to overstay his welcome. He uses this place as an office, the affable bartender last night said. Finally the bartender pauses in front of him and Austin is able to order a beer. Clare stifles a laugh.
“I was thinking,” Austin says, twisting on the barstool. “Maybe you need a tour guide. Someone to show you around Lune Bay.”
“I’m not here to sightsee. You said you found something for me.”
“Yeah.” He rests his hand on the buckle of his bag. “There really is nothing out there on any Clare O’Kearney. I went on a deep dive last night. I pride myself on my research skills. And I’ve got nothing. Nothing.”
“Is that why you texted me?”
“I’m hoping I can get you to drop a few more hints.”
Of course Austin is trying to rattle her. In her time doing this work, Clare has learned to always assume that people are withholding, that they have secrets they’re trying to keep from you. And Austin seems like a boy playing a part. If she cannot outwit even him, then Clare has no business doing this job. She runs a hand through her hair.
“I met with Detective Germain this morning,” she says. “He told me something interesting. He said you once worked as Jack Westman’s driver. I found that to be a pretty big omission from our chat last night.”
“It’s common knowledge,” Austin says. “It’s not an omission if it’s a widely known fact.”
“But you didn’t tell me.”
“I figured you would have done your homework,” Austin says. “Gone down the Austin Lantz rabbit hole, if you will. It’s all out there for the taking. And you contacted me, remember? So I’d wager you should already know my basic history.”
Clare rests a finger on her lips. “Point taken. Anything else I might have missed in my homework?”
“I’ve got a rich brother. He’s very generous with me.”
“And yet you’re too cheap to order more than one drink.”
Austin laughs without a hint of humor.
“I’m back to my alias theory,” he says. “Ms. O’Kearney.”
“Listen,” Clare says. “I think you and I can help each other. I really do.”
“I’m all ears.”
Clare leans closer. “I guess we’ve both been omitting a bit. What I didn’t tell you last night is that I used to work for Malcolm Hayes. I knew him as Malcolm Boon. After he left Lune Bay, he took up the cause of looking for missing women. And he hired me. That’s how I got started in this work. Obviously I didn’t know—”
“Jesus Christ.” Austin slaps his hands together. “You’re kidding, right? You have to be kidding me. Oh my God.”
“I’m not kidding,” Clare says, shifting impatiently on the stool.
“This is incredible.”
With a flourish Austin opens his satchel and pulls out a silver laptop. He flips it open.
“You’re not going to find anything searching for Malcolm Boon,” Clare says. “He was good at managing his own alias.”
Own alias. Austin catches that slip, eyeing Clare, smiling, his face aglow with the light of the monitor. The tapping at the keyboard makes Clare antsy. She sips her drink again and glances at the bar. A whiskey would dull these nerves, but no. No.
“Can we focus?” Clare asks. “I worked for Malcolm. And you worked for Jack Westman. So maybe, I was thinking. Maybe we could exchange questions. Like you suggested we do last night. Keep going. I go first.”
“Fire away,” Austin says, closing his laptop and raising his right hand. “The whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God.”
“When did you work for Jack Westman?”
“Right before he died. I lasted a month.”
“Why did you quit?”
“I was too busy with school. He needed someone at his beck and call.” Austin narrows his eyes, scrutinizing her. “My question. When’s your birthday?”
“I’m an Aries,” Clare says. “That’s all you get.”
“What’d you do before this work?”
“I was a cleaner at a hospital.”
“That’s quite the career shift,” Austin says.
“Just like going from limo driver to investigative journalist, I guess.”
His beer arrives. Austin studies Clare with a twinge of longing in his gaze. He likes her. She will use that to any advantage she can.
“I think a lot about that job,” Clare says. “The cleaner job. I did it for about five years. People talk about being a fly on the wall. In a hospital, doctors and nurses, orderlies, pastors, whatever, when they walk in the room, everything stops. Patients and their families. Everyone stops talking, stops crying. But if a cleaner comes in, it’s like you’re not even there. I remember once entering a room to
