River of Glass by Jaden Terrell

didn’t need to be psychic to know what was going through her mind.
    There was a limit to how long you could pursue a cold trail. Even if, God forbid, it were Paulie who’d been taken, there’d come a time when life would intervene. Grass had to be mowed. Rent had to be paid. You didn’t give up, but you moved on. You fit your search—your hope—into the empty spaces around work and bills and washing the car. I could afford to give Tuyet my undiluted attention for a while, but not forever. How long, Khanh must be wondering, before the clock stopped ticking?
    “Khanh,” I said. “He didn’t mean we shouldn’t try.”
    “Please,” she said, her voice small. “Not talk now.”
    I drove a silent grid through downtown, then midtown, around the bypass and onto I-65. Traffic pressed in around us, slowed us to a creep. The silence was a palpable pressure, as if the cab of the truck were a submerging submarine. After a while, I parked in front of an upscale nouveau southern restaurant called Urban Grub. Fish pit, oyster bar, outdoor patio with brick fireplaces. The bar tops were glossy and textured, made from oyster shells and recycled beer and wine bottles. The ambience said rustic funk.
    Too upbeat for our moods, but maybe that was the point.
    “Lunch,” I said. “And don’t say you’re not hungry. I’m hungry.”
    Khanh frowned. “Look expensive.”
    “My treat.”
    “You think poor sister from Vietnam must need charity?”
    “I think poor sister from Vietnam should save her money for medicine.”
    She bit her lower lip, looked down at her lap. “Expensive place, take long time. Cheap food, finish quick.”
    I knew what she was thinking. What if we took an hour for lunch, and then when we found Tuyet, we found we were an hour too late? The if-onlys would kill you.
    I said, “This isn’t gonna be a sprint. Whether we eat here or hit the drive-through at McDonald’s, finding Tuyet is going to take time. Besides, I’ve got a lot of questions. This is as good a place as any for you to answer them.”
    Our server, an aspiring actress with café au lait skin and a smile that could have dazzled a sea urchin, brought two waters and handed us each a menu, casting discreet glances at Khanh’s scars. Taking my cue from Khanh, I pretended not to notice. I ordered the wood-oven trout and the berry and butternut salad. Khanh hesitated a moment, then followed suit.
    When the server had gone, I said, “Tell me everything you know about this guy who bought your daughter’s plane ticket.”
    “I never see.”
    “You know he was Amerasian.”
    “Mother tell.”
    “What else did your mother tell you?”
    “Tuyet say he very handsome. He rich American.”
    “She called him Mat Troi. Last name first, right? That would make him Mr. Mat?”
    She thought about it. “Maybe.”
    “Maybe?”
    “Vietnam name very complicated. Last name first, but last name family name. Nobody use. Mat maybe middle name, Troi first name. Or maybe some other middle name, Mat Troi both first name. Be Mr. Troi or Mr. Mat Troi. Maybe.”
    “Mister and the first name? Is that how it would be on his passport?”
    “Maybe. But Tuyet say American. Maybe have American last name. No way to know.”
    “So all we have is Mat. Tell me that’s not a common name.”
    “Plenty name Mat,” she said.
    “Here too.” I shook my head. “An Amerasian with a common name. And it could have been Matt, short for Matthew. Matt Troy. Did she say where she met him?”
    “Friend of friend, she say.” She blinked hard. Looked skyward. “Probably bar.”
    If she’d known the name of the bar, and if the bar had been in town, I’d have gone there and shown Tuyet’s picture around. But she didn’t, and it wasn’t. I said, “I guess we’re stuck with the Mexican stripper.”
    “You not very respect.”
    “She doesn’t want to be called a stripper, maybe she shouldn’t be one.”
    “You stupid man,” she said. “Think everything simple.”
    I bit