the fridge and the cabinets.
“So . . .” I begin, pressing for a sign
she’ll explain what the food is for.
She twirls around to face me. “Dinner. Every
night from now on. No excuses.”
Shit. I’m supposed to be on my way to meet Logan right now and,
instead, I’ll be dining in. With my mom. What is this world coming
to? I think Hell has officially frozen over.
“Um, actually,” I start, glancing away so I
won’t see the hurt in her eyes, “I was planning to go to Bernie’s
tonight.”
“Sweetie, if you wanted to go, you should’ve
just told me. We could’ve gone. I don’t want you going out by
yourself with that killer still on the loose.”
“No, I meant—” But I stop myself, because if
she finds out what my original intentions are, there will be
another murder in Sandy Shores. “Fine. Let’s go.” At least Logan
will see us, and see why I was sidetracked.
By the time we drive to Bernie’s, find a
parking spot, and are seated at a table, over forty-five minutes
has passed since we unloaded groceries. My eyes discretely scan the
restaurant. I’m at an advantage; we’re seated at the bar because
Mom wants a drink—surprise!—so I can see the entire place.
And Logan is nowhere in sight. Which worries
me. The police still haven’t found Jake’s killer, and I have a gut
feeling Logan knows who did it. He won’t flat-out tell me he knows,
but he won’t look me in the eyes the few times I’ve asked him. And
he fidgets. That’s a definite sign, right?
So, what if Logan was jumped by the killer?
If whoever murdered Jake was blatant enough to leave his body in a
parking lot, then why not be obvious during daylight hours, too? I
have this crazy idea that Logan is linked to the person who stabbed
his friend, and, whoever they are, they might be after him,
too.
Thirteen • Logan
I t’s now been over an hour since I left Chloe’s room and she
hasn’t shown up. What does that mean? Did she purposely refuse to
come because, deep down, she wants nothing to do with
me?
For the fifth time, Heather, the waitress,
stops by my table. “Nothing yet?” she asks, noting the empty seat
across from me.
“Fuck this,” I mumble to myself, standing up
and leaving Heather behind.
“Sir?” she calls behind
me. I honestly didn’t want to alarm her, but shit, I just wasted an
hour of my life and hers. An hour she could’ve had someone else
sitting there, eating, ready to give her a tip soon. Instead, she
got me, a loser guy who was supposedly meeting someone. Now I
just look like a dumbass.
Oh, Chloe, Chloe, Chloe. What am I going to
do with you? Do you really want to help me, or is this all just a
pity party?
I want to fight against my
conscience, but after the way I acted toward her the other day,
part of me seriously doubts whether she’ll continue to fight for
me, the recovered me. Even though I
still have a long ways to go in that department, I’m slowly getting
there. I was a fool to run off like that and search for my
drugs—drugs I told her to hide. Then, I had to shrug her off,
basically telling her to get lost, after she took the time to
search for me.
If this is her approach toward quitting, I
don’t blame her; I’ve been a selfish asshole all along, and she
doesn’t deserve my antics. She doesn’t deserve any of me.
I pass through the alleyway beside Bernie’s,
strutting toward the rear parking lot—the last resting place of
Jake. I glance up at the clear, blue sky, as if he might be
hovering somewhere up there, watching. I hope not. I hope he’s
moved on to bigger and better things.
“Rest in peace, buddy,” I say, stopping long
enough to stare at the yellow tape sectioning off the crime scene.
The horrible memory of his dead body, stabbed and bleeding, will
stay with me forever. And God knows I should’ve come forward, I
should’ve told the police I had a general idea of who did this so
his family would’ve had some closure. But I didn’t.
“So . . .” I begin, pressing for a sign
she’ll explain what the food is for.
She twirls around to face me. “Dinner. Every
night from now on. No excuses.”
Shit. I’m supposed to be on my way to meet Logan right now and,
instead, I’ll be dining in. With my mom. What is this world coming
to? I think Hell has officially frozen over.
“Um, actually,” I start, glancing away so I
won’t see the hurt in her eyes, “I was planning to go to Bernie’s
tonight.”
“Sweetie, if you wanted to go, you should’ve
just told me. We could’ve gone. I don’t want you going out by
yourself with that killer still on the loose.”
“No, I meant—” But I stop myself, because if
she finds out what my original intentions are, there will be
another murder in Sandy Shores. “Fine. Let’s go.” At least Logan
will see us, and see why I was sidetracked.
By the time we drive to Bernie’s, find a
parking spot, and are seated at a table, over forty-five minutes
has passed since we unloaded groceries. My eyes discretely scan the
restaurant. I’m at an advantage; we’re seated at the bar because
Mom wants a drink—surprise!—so I can see the entire place.
And Logan is nowhere in sight. Which worries
me. The police still haven’t found Jake’s killer, and I have a gut
feeling Logan knows who did it. He won’t flat-out tell me he knows,
but he won’t look me in the eyes the few times I’ve asked him. And
he fidgets. That’s a definite sign, right?
So, what if Logan was jumped by the killer?
If whoever murdered Jake was blatant enough to leave his body in a
parking lot, then why not be obvious during daylight hours, too? I
have this crazy idea that Logan is linked to the person who stabbed
his friend, and, whoever they are, they might be after him,
too.
Thirteen • Logan
I t’s now been over an hour since I left Chloe’s room and she
hasn’t shown up. What does that mean? Did she purposely refuse to
come because, deep down, she wants nothing to do with
me?
For the fifth time, Heather, the waitress,
stops by my table. “Nothing yet?” she asks, noting the empty seat
across from me.
“Fuck this,” I mumble to myself, standing up
and leaving Heather behind.
“Sir?” she calls behind
me. I honestly didn’t want to alarm her, but shit, I just wasted an
hour of my life and hers. An hour she could’ve had someone else
sitting there, eating, ready to give her a tip soon. Instead, she
got me, a loser guy who was supposedly meeting someone. Now I
just look like a dumbass.
Oh, Chloe, Chloe, Chloe. What am I going to
do with you? Do you really want to help me, or is this all just a
pity party?
I want to fight against my
conscience, but after the way I acted toward her the other day,
part of me seriously doubts whether she’ll continue to fight for
me, the recovered me. Even though I
still have a long ways to go in that department, I’m slowly getting
there. I was a fool to run off like that and search for my
drugs—drugs I told her to hide. Then, I had to shrug her off,
basically telling her to get lost, after she took the time to
search for me.
If this is her approach toward quitting, I
don’t blame her; I’ve been a selfish asshole all along, and she
doesn’t deserve my antics. She doesn’t deserve any of me.
I pass through the alleyway beside Bernie’s,
strutting toward the rear parking lot—the last resting place of
Jake. I glance up at the clear, blue sky, as if he might be
hovering somewhere up there, watching. I hope not. I hope he’s
moved on to bigger and better things.
“Rest in peace, buddy,” I say, stopping long
enough to stare at the yellow tape sectioning off the crime scene.
The horrible memory of his dead body, stabbed and bleeding, will
stay with me forever. And God knows I should’ve come forward, I
should’ve told the police I had a general idea of who did this so
his family would’ve had some closure. But I didn’t.
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