“It’s a three-hour drive from Traverse City to Lansing. If Wes took her, he wouldn’t have had much time,” Bette thought out loud.
“No, not really. And it’s hard to believe someone wouldn’t have seen him. We’ve got alerts out to other departments. Any officers working Highway 127 have been asked whether they spotted his car that day. He didn’t get any infractions, so there’s that.”
“Has the Traverse City house been searched?” Bette asked.
Hart shook his head. “No. The house is in his wife’s name, and we don’t have probable cause to get a search warrant.”
“Then he has unlimited time to destroy any proof that Crystal was there and there’s nothing we can do about it?” Bette fumed.
“There’s no evidence that he took Crystal to Traverse City. His wife was home on Thursday when he returned,” Hart said. “I’m pretty sure she would have mentioned it if he brought his girlfriend with him.”
“But what if all the evidence is in Traverse City? It might be our only chance—”
“We’re doing the best we can, Bette. Right now, we can’t search the Traverse City house.”
25
Then
Crystal looked up from her coffee.
She’d covered the morning shift at Sacred Grounds, the coffee shop she’d worked at for the previous year, and then settled into a table to work on a research paper due the following day.
Across the cafe, a woman stood rifling through her purse.
“I’m so sorry. I know I put cash in here this morning,” she said.
The woman set her purse on the counter and laid it on its side, revealing a hollow stuffed with a paperback book, Clip balm, a notebook, a scarf and more. The paperback slid to the floor, and Crystal eyed a copy of Rebecca by Daphne De Maurier.
Crystal had read the book at least five times.
The woman huffed and searched for her wallet, returning an embarrassed gaze to the man behind the counter.
“I’m so sorry, I must have left it on my table. What an idiot. I won’t be able to pay for this.”
“Wait—” Crystal called, jumping from her chair and grabbing her purse. She pulled a ten-dollar bill from the inside pocket. “Here, let me,” she insisted, handing the money to the barista, Rick.
“No, I couldn’t,” the woman started, her face red as she looked at Crystal.
“Don’t give it a second thought,” Crystal insisted. “I’ve been in the same situation more times than I’d care to admit. I’m covering this,” she told Rick.
“Sure. Thanks, Crystal.” He put the money in the register and handed her the change.
The woman continued to blush, pushing the contents of her purse back into the leather bag.
Crystal knelt and grabbed the copy of Rebecca from the floor.
“This is one of my favorite books,” Crystal told her, handing her the book.
“Really?” the woman’s face brightened. “Mine too. I’ve already read it, but that first line…” She sighed. “It gets me every time.”
“‘Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again’,” Crystal quoted.
The woman closed her eyes and nodded. “Such a great book.”
“Would you like to join me?” Crystal asked, gesturing toward the table she’d been occupying near the window. The sun slanted through, casting a shining light on the metal chairs.
“You don’t mind?” the woman asked, slinging her purse over one shoulder and picking up her sandwich and coffee. “I’m so embarrassed I forgot my money. This has been the day from hell for me.”
“Tell me about it,” Crystal said, leading her to the table. “I’ve been working on an assignment for my Environmental History class and my brain is about to quit on me.”
The woman sat across from her.
She was older than Crystal, closer to thirty than twenty, with dark curls that looked odd against her pale face. Her eyes were light and her eyebrows too. Her hair should have been lighter, Crystal thought.
“Are you studying at Michigan State?” the woman asked, sipping her coffee, which she drank black.
Crystal nodded. “I’m majoring in English.”
“To be a teacher?” the woman asked. “Or an MFA - something like that?”
Crystal chuckled and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I’m not sure yet. I love reading and writing. There are some wonderful poetry and creative writing instructors at Michigan State, and I’m inspired to follow in their footsteps. I love spending my days talking about the languages of love, the ways other people express themselves. It’s such a lost art, writing. I wish there was more of it,” Crystal admitted.
“Like what? Writing letters to our lovers?” the woman cocked a sharp pale eyebrow.
Crystal thought of Wes and her body grew warm.
“Exactly. And parents too. I started writing letters to my mother when I was twelve, the year after she died. I wrote her a letter every month. I told her about my days in school, the boys I had crushes on. I wrote her poems. I cried onto the pages. There was something liberating about knowing she’d never hold the paper in her hands. I’d never have to look her in the eye after I told her my secrets.”
Crystal paused, surprised at how much she’d revealed to this perfect stranger in a matter of minutes. “I’m sorry,” Crystal laughed. “Apparently, you’re repaying me for the sandwich by pretending to be my therapist.”
The woman laughed, throwing her head back and revealing her long delicate throat.
Crystal could see the sharp bones of her chest. She was beautiful in a cold, crystalline way, like a marble sculpture in a museum.
“I’m Greta,” the woman told her, extending a hand.
Her hands were cold, her fingers narrow and bony.
“Crystal. I guess I should have at least introduced myself before I started revealing my deepest darkest secrets.”
“Not at all,” Greta told her. “There’s no better person to divulge our secrets to than a stranger. My hair stylist knows more about me than my lovers ever will.”
Crystal widened her eyes. “Well then. Pretend I’m her.”
Greta laughed, took another swallow of her coffee, and leaned back in her chair.
“Well, for starters, I side-swiped someone this morning, and I didn’t leave a note,” Greta confessed.
“Yikes. That doesn’t sound like fun.”
“The asshole deserved it,” Greta continued. “He blocked me into my parking spot at the pharmacy. I went into the store and looked for him, but he’d disappeared. I had to get out. I had to be to the bank by ten. I did my best, but unfortunately he paid for his carelessness with his passenger side mirror.”
Crystal smiled and shook her head, lifting her own coffee and sipping the sweet milky drink. She’d never taken her coffee black. Everything is improved by milk and sugar, her mother used to say. Their father would sigh and moan about the milk and sugar added to tea, cereal, oatmeal, you name it. But Crystal and Bette lapped it up like kittens.
“Karma,” Crystal told her. “Sometimes fate forgets and we’re forced to bring the balance ourselves.”