She watched me absentmindedly nibble the muffin top I was still holding, and somehow she knew what I was thinking. “Hollis. Roots are okay. Roots are a good thing. I put down roots and look how happy I am. Sweet kids, awesome hubby, nice little house with the best next-door neighbor. Who wouldn’t want those roots?”
I started to respond, but was interrupted when a car came down the street and passed the Hibiscus. Wait. Not a car. A Jeep. Paulie Henderson’s Jeep.
Forget roots. Who cared about roots at a time like this?
“I have to talk to Paulie,” I said, practically tripping over myself in my hurry to get to my car. I fumbled out my keys and dove inside, turning the ignition before the door was even closed. “Let’s record later,” I yelled.
Paulie drove like his pants were on fire and he could only put them out in the river across town. I had my pedal pushed to the floor trying to keep up with him. I nearly took out Wickham Birkland’s already-smashed Mercedes at the four-way stop at Tutor and Oak, causing him to lay on his horn and shout something I was glad I couldn’t hear, his face contorted with righteous rage. I was guessing the path that Paulie had taken, since I couldn’t see him anymore. I let my intuition—honed by years of sleuth reporting in one of the toughest cities in America—guide me. Actually, there were so few streets in Parkwood, I let the obvious lack of choices guide me, but calling it honed reporter’s intuition sounded better.
My phone rang, and I dumped my entire bag on the floorboard trying to get to it. It was my mom. Why was she up so early?
“Not a good time, Mom,” I said.
Her voice was way too loud over the speaker. “Are you on a date or something?”
I made a face. “Who goes on a date at seven o’clock in the morning?”
“It could be a breakfast date. And that was not a denial. I think she was on a date, Rut.”
“It’s about time,” Ruta yelled. “Is it a good date?”
“No, it’s not a date at all. I keep telling you, if I have a date, I will call you.” Not necessarily true—I would probably only call if I’d had a good date— but it was what they needed to hear. They were convinced that I was lonely and needed a man to pick up my spirits. “And I’ve also told you, if you keep hassling me about men, I’m going to stop answering the phone.” Totally not true, but they didn’t believe me anyway.
“You mean to tell me if we’re dying in a ditch you won’t pick up just because I might mention a boy?” Aunt Ruta called from the background, her voice way louder than Mom’s.
“You don’t have to yell, Aunt Ruta. You’re on speaker. I can hear you just fine. And if you’re dying in a ditch, call the police. Why would you call me first? I’m five hundred miles away.”
“To say goodbye,” Mom said. “Wouldn’t you want us to say goodbye? I would expect that from your sisters, but not you.”
“Of course I—That’s not the point.” I turned onto another side street, winding my way into town the way I thought Paulie would do. “If you called for actual help, maybe you wouldn’t have to say goodbye. They could save you.”
I paused at a four-way stop, unsure which direction to go, and deciding straight was still the best option.
“So, speaking of boys—” Aunt Ruta said.
“No, I’m not speaking of—you know what? Forget it. I’ll answer the phone when you call, no matter what. Goodbye!”
“But you don’t even know yet why we called,” Mom said.
“You mean it wasn’t to harass me about men?”
“Well…” Mom hesitated.
“It’s about Trace,” Aunt Ruta yelled. “So, yeah, kinda.”
I rolled my eyes, just like I used to do when I was a teenager and they would butt into my love life. It was a habit. Mom and Aunt Ruta had almost taken my breakup harder than I had. They loved Trace. They started cutting out magazine photos of models in wedding dresses by the time we went on our third date. “Nope, it’s not about Trace. We broke up. End of story.”
“End of chapter, perhaps,” Mom said. “Which is why we called, actual—”
“No. Mom.” I adopted my best patient voice while cutting off two cars and nearly plowing into a woman on the sidewalk. “Trace and I are no longer together. And that is the end of the story. No Thanksgivings, no Christmases, no birthdays, or National Ice Cream Days, or July 4ths or Cheese Appreciation Day. We’re done, and you just need to accept it.”
“Before you say that, you should probably hear us out, Hol—”
“Mom,” I said, trying very hard to keep the fourteen-year-old whine out of my voice. “I have to go. I’m working. I’ll call you later. I love you.” I raised my voice, “And I love you, too, Aunt Ruta.”
“Hollis—”
“Gotta go! Bye!” I ended the call, knowing full well I would regret the decision in short order. But I had Paulie to concentrate on, and I couldn’t get sidetracked by Trace.
I passed the Jeep before I realized it had stopped. And even then I only recognized it because I saw Paulie sauntering to the old, musty gas station that sat right between a used car lot and a body shop.
Wait.
I slowed, gazing in my rearview mirror. A body shop, and his Jeep was definitely parked there. Why? Did it need work? I hadn’t gotten a chance to see it up close yet. Maybe this would be my chance to arm myself with information before talking to Paulie.
I rolled to the next driveway—a tattoo parlor slash independent tax service—and turned around. I parked in the used car lot and waited until Paulie had disappeared inside the gas station, then made my move.
A skinny man with a beard that reached his sternum
