“What’s that?” Roland gestures to the frame Clare holds to her chest.
“It was on the wall.” Clare sets it down on the table and rests a fingertip on the glass overtop Austin’s image. Somers watches her, wide-eyed. Clare withdraws her hand before Roland can see it shaking. “Who’s that?”
“The kid next to me?” Roland leans over and squints. “Can’t remember his name. He was a busboy for while. That’s the worst job, next to maybe dishwasher. They never last long.”
“How old is this picture?” Clare asks.
Roland lifts the frame to study it closely. “Let’s see. Marco’s in it. He was head chef for a few years. Best we ever had. Quit after the shooting. He claimed it gave him the shakes to walk through the dining room to the kitchen. ‘Then use the frigging back door!’ I’d tell him. But he couldn’t hack it.”
“So this was taken before the shooting?”
“Yeah. Must have been.” Ronald narrows his eyes at Clare. “Why? You know that kid?”
“You don’t know him?” Clare asks.
If he is acting, if he is pretending not to know Austin, erasing any connection that might exist between them, Clare can’t tell. Her skin prickles with sweat. It is not just the back and forth of this exchange that unnerves Clare; it is the idea that Austin has omitted this fact too. The fact that he worked at Roland’s. His house is supposed to be her next stop. Clare rubs at her temples.
“Wait,” Roland says. “The cooks used to call him Texas, I think. No way that’s his actual name.”
“Austin?”
“Yes!” Roland snaps his fingers. “Austin, Texas. Right.”
“Austin has been covering this case for years,” Clare says. “As a journalist. And he was Jack Westman’s driver for a while. Surely you’ve come across him since he left his job here?”
Roland raises his hands in defeat. “I’m not playing dumb, I promise you. Do you know how many reporters I’ve had in here since the shooting? Cops? Weirdos? Daughters of old friends who write crime blogs and want the inside scoop? Actors? Novelists?” He jabs a finger at Clare. “I told you that. I had a novelist in here the other day. You can draw whatever lines you want, but I’m not going to say I remember some kid I barely remember.”
“But look.” Somers taps at the photograph. “Three women in this picture, two of whom we’ve just discussed. Two of whom are missing. That’s a lot of coincidence for one picture, I’d say.”
Roland shrugs. “You two are the detectives.”
“You’re right,” Somers says. “And right now, I’m getting the urge to start really digging. Like, getting my shovel out.”
The bartender has paused, frozen in place, listening.
“Hey now,” Roland says. “My father used to say that half this town worked on our patio at some point over the years. We’d hire rich kids, his friends’ kids, summer jobs when the patio is hot, winter jobs so they could pretend they’re paying for their own jaunts to Europe. You know how much turnover I have? Hundreds of girls have worked here in my tenure. So did they meet here? Probably. Who knows? You knew they worked here. There’s no revelation.”
“Seeing them all together like this,” Clare says. “It really does feel like a revelation.”
“It’s a lot to take in.” Somers points to Stacey’s photo. “This case has been on my desk for a long time. I hate unsolved cases, particularly ones involving young women. So if you remember anything that might be related to them, I’d appreciate you telling me. Telling us.”
Roland releases a long exhale. “I don’t know anything about Stacey. She wasn’t from Lune Bay. Kendall? She just wanted to party. She wasn’t interested in being a doctor. Her father might have come a bit unglued. He’s been around here a few times, now that I think of it. His kid probably just took off to get out from under him.”
“Right,” Somers says.
The door opens and a family enters, scanning the restaurant and then smiling at Roland when they spot him.
“Listen,” Roland says. “We’re about to open. I’ve got to get to work. But you’re welcome back anytime.”
Somers closes the file. Clare collects the frame and returns to the stairwell to rehang it. She sets the back of her hand to her too-warm cheek. It’s totally plausible, Clare thinks, that Roland’s is simply the epicenter of Lune Bay, a place for young people to break into the workforce. She straightens the frame on the wall and leans in close. A coincidence. But there is something in the way Austin stands next to Roland, one man in a sharp suit and the younger one in a uniform dirtied by the toils of his work. It seems to Clare that they are edged just slightly closer together than everyone else in the photo, the way friends might be. Clare shifts her gaze between the two smiling men. It might all be a coincidence, Clare thinks, or it could be pieces of this puzzle falling into place.
The taxi pulls away and Clare stands in front of a modern white oceanfront house, all stucco and glass. Tight quarters, Austin called it. This is not tight quarters. Clare hears movement inside before the large steel door clicks open. Austin wears shorts and a T-shirt, bare feet. Behind him the house is all white on the inside too, the moon lighting a path on the ocean out the far window.
“Clare O’Kearney,” he says. “I’m glad you came.”
“Is this your house?” Clare asks.
“I called to see about posting bail, but someone beat me to it. And yes, it’s my house.”
He steps aside to allow Clare in. She follows him to the living room. He gestures for her to take a seat on the same oversize couch he does. Clare chooses a small chair across from him instead. Only
