Leonie looked at Jason, who shrugged.
“You can go,” she said.
“Okay.” I was mystified but grateful. “I’ll just grab the bike from my car.”
She nodded. To Jason: “Make her some eggs?”
He opened a drawer and took out a skillet.
I carried the bicycle up the front walk and propped it against the porch rail. Leonie stepped from the doorway to run her fingers over the warped frame, regarding it as though it was an extension of her daughter’s body.
“I’ll pay for it,” I said.
She shook her head. “I apologize for how I spoke to you before.”
“There’s no need.”
“I was upset.”
I nodded.
“I mean,” Leonie said, “she keeps insisting it wasn’t your fault. So.”
She sighed.
Hot, acrid breath washed over me.
She was drunk, I realized. At nine in the morning.
“Do you have children?” she asked.
It had felt cleaner and simpler to pare back Clay Gardner’s attachments to the bare minimum. A wife, yes; he needed the gloss of stability and conventionality. A man of his socioeconomic status would be a catch. He might even be on his second marriage.
But kids?
In the city?
In these uncertain times?
No, thank you.
That was how I’d presented myself to Beau, at least.
Now I had other worries. Leonie might sober up and regret letting me off easy. I’d mentioned staying at the hotel. She could go to Jenelle Counts to track me down. Jenelle knew I’d met with Beau and Emil Bergstrom. And they had Clay Gardner’s fake email address and burner phone number. If Leonie turned those over to an attorney, the whole façade would unravel.
The cynical side of me saw an advantage in establishing common ground.
“Two,” I said. “Girl and a boy.”
“So you understand, it’s upsetting, to see your child like that.”
“Of course.”
“How old?” she asked.
“Four and fifteen months.”
“That’s a fun age.”
“It can be.”
“Trust me,” she said. Her voice was hollow. Fingernails scraped idly at the doorpost. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”
I climbed behind the wheel.
Whomp-whomp.
I leaned back and closed my eyes.
Three hours later I sat up abruptly. My neck was damp, my stomach growled, and the windows were fogged. But the headache had subsided some, and the pulsing sensation was gone.
I lowered the windows to air out the car, feeling in the rear footwell for the snack bag. The jerky had spilled out: hard, shiny, greasy nuggets everywhere.
I stared at the torn packaging.
“Fuck me.”
And below that, in much, much smaller letters:
All-Natural Organic Grass-Fed Cannabis-Infused Beef
Hi Protein ☺ Nitrate Free ☺ Keto Friendly
I wasn’t caffeine-deprived. I wasn’t concussed.
I was high.
Most edibles wear off after three to four hours. I hadn’t consumed that much jerky, and five hours had elapsed.
I gave it another thirty minutes and started the car.
I took it extra slow.
Creeping around the gnarly hairpin, the roadside memorial came into view.
I stopped.
The dead bouquet in the Jack Daniel’s vase had been refreshed. Bright-yellow fists, a native coastal species, the seaside woolly sunflower.
On the outskirts of Millburg, my phone flickered to life.
I left Amy a voicemail and dictated a text.
On my way home. Stopping for gas. Hopefully back by eight. Will keep you updated. Love you.
I pulled into the 76 station, started the pump, stuffed the old snack bag into the trash, and walked up the block to Fanny’s Market.
The same clerk was at the register. He folded over his crossword. “Welcome b— Hey now. What happened to you?”
“Swann’s Flat happened.”
I dispensed coffee from the self-serve urn and filled a basket with non-infused snacks, paying close attention to the fine print.
While he rang me up, I said, “You might want to warn people about that jerky.”
“Hm?”
“Uncle Hank’s.”
“Something wrong with it?”
“I didn’t see it was laced. The packaging needs to be clearer. And you should have a sign up on the display.”
“I’ll convey the feedback.”
“Are you Hank?”
“No. But he’s married to Fanny. Twenty-eight fifty-seven.”
Outside I examined myself in the selfie camera.
Maggie Penrose had done a neat job, trimming the gauze to keep it out of my eye. It hung askew in the corner of my forehead like a postage stamp, the goose egg beneath bulging.
Behind me was the giant bulletin board with its shriveled mosaic of faces.
Have you seen me.
Hailey Ray and Sam Rosenthal and Becka Candito shared space with others lost behind the Redwood Curtain.
Sixty-one-year-old Elise Verdirame with her red glasses. Thirty-two-year-old Serena Harper with a heart tattoo on her shoulder. Wally Muñoz who liked the 49ers so much that he wore both logo cap and logo shirt.
Nick Moore, twenty-one, big, toothy grin.
In two photos his hair was scraggly, his eyes red with flash. The third photo had been taken outdoors in bright light. He’d shaved his head and was shirtless, torso lean and sunburnt.
A silver pendant in the shape of a rooster gleamed against his chest.
A puka shell necklace cut a white line against his throat.
Shasta’s necklace.
I could’ve been wrong. The picture quality wasn’t great.
But...
I put my phone and snacks and coffee on the ground, untacked Nick Moore’s flyer, and shook it out of its protective plastic sleeve.
Identifying features: Three-inch surgical scar on his right knee. Anchor tattoo on the upper right arm, the word f a s t across his left knuckles.
Date of last contact was June 2024. About one year ago.
No reward posted.
Anyone with information should please contact Tara Moore. Email; phone, area code 559.
I looked closely at the necklace. Hard to say if it matched Shasta’s. A shell is a shell, and I’d never seen hers strung together, only picked the individual pieces out of the dirt.
I couldn’t be sure about the rooster, either.
Fading. Pixilation.
A different rooster? Another bird altogether?
Maybe Nick and Shasta each had their very own puka shell rooster pendant necklace. Maybe everyone under twenty-five did. Maybe puka shell rooster pendant necklaces were on-trend. I think I’m well informed for a dude in his forties. But who could say what The Kids were into?
Maybe I was still stoned.
I took the flyer inside and laid it on the counter.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Do you know anything about this person?”
The clerk folded over his puzzle. “Not more than what it says here. Why?”
“I thought I recognized him.”
“Stare at that wall long enough, you’re bound to start seeing things.”
“The contact person is Tara Moore. Is that his wife, his mother?”
“I couldn’t tell you. There’s folks coming through here all the time. We let them use the board but I don’t get involved.”
“Can I get a copy of this?”
“That’s all we have. Feel free to take a picture. Just put it back when you’re done.”
“Okay. Can I borrow your pencil for a sec?”