Don’t Talk to Strangers: A Novel by Amanda Kyle Williams Page A

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     to know my Tracy wasn’t alone.”
    “Her name was Melinda,” I said. “She was thirteen too.” I didn’t tell her Melinda’s
     body had landed there a decade later or that what Tracy had endured she’d probably
     endured alone at the hands of a violent predator.
    I stood up, laid a business card on the table. “My mobile number if you think of anything.”
     I paused on my way to the car, turned. “Thank you for talking to me, Josey. I’m sorry
     this happened to you. I really am.”
    The sun was sinking on a long, long summer day. I’d grown up like this in Georgia,
     long rides with my dad and brother, short ones with cute guys I couldn’t wait to kiss—top
     down on back roads, soft air on my skin. I felt completely exhausted after the visit
     with Josey Davidson. How badly that woman must want a do-over. The weight from those
     regrets must be staggering. Sometimes you only get one chance to do right by someone.
     I thought about Rauser, reached for my phone, then changed my mind.
    I could see the lights from downtown Whisper just ahead, and the glowing sign on the
     diner. I parked in front, saw cobalt-blue booths inside under the long glass wall.
     A couple of customers sat on metal stools with the same bright blue vinyl seats. A
     ladle-shaped neon sign lit up the roof, high enough to be seen from the highway. THE SILVER SPOON , it read. HOME COOKING 24 HOURS A DAY . I couldn’t remember when I had eaten. God, I absolutely hate it when I hear someone
     say that. Even worse when someone says they forgot to eat. How the hell do you forget
     to eat? I hadn’t forgotten. The clock had simply outrun me.
    I went in and took a stool at the counter. There was a cook behind an oblong opening
     and one server behind the counter. “What can I do you for, little lady?” He wiped
     the counter and handed me a laminatedmenu. He was weathered, twenty years past middle age. A lock of silver hair fell onto
     his forehead.
    “What’s good?” I asked.
    “Well, it all depends,” he said. “If you’re in the mood for dinner, the stuffed bass
     is excellent. Just came out of the lake today. Breakfast, we got some fresh peaches,
     and Harry back there has been folding them up in some mean pancake thing.” He looked
     side to side like he was about to give up a state secret, said, “Total food porn.”
    “Ah. Is it legal?” I whispered.
    “Barely.” He put a glass of water in front of me and a mug and saucer. I thought about
     the bug woman and her little thermos of coffee. “Harry, the little lady wants to try
     some of those pancakes you been making.”
    The cook gave me a nod from the kitchen. The server filled my coffee mug. “Name’s
     Gene,” he informed me. “You just passing through?”
    “Visiting,” I said, and took a sip of rank diner coffee that had been sitting too
     long.
    Gene persisted. Probably had this conversation with everyone new to his counter. “You’re
     a little ways out of the touristy areas, aren’t you?”
    “Business,” I said.
    “What kind of business you in?”
    “Consulting,” I told him, vaguely but politely. I think he took the hint. He polished
     the counter, then wiped down the booths before the cook called “Order up” from the
     back. Gene picked up a plate and set it in front of me—a huge pancake folded over
     like an omelet, peaches and whipped cream oozing from the center. Gene put out individually
     wrapped pats of butter and a small metal pitcher with maple syrup on the counter.
     I drizzled syrup over the pancake and cut a piece with my fork. It was dense and cakey
     and made to absorb the flavors around it—the syrup, the peaches that had been sautéed
     for just long enough to tease out the natural sugars, the stiff whipped cream with
     a hint of vanilla. My face must have registered the party in my palate.
    Gene grinned. “What’d I tell you? Harry wants to go to some fancy cooking school so
     he works a lot of shifts to save up. We