I make my way behind the counter where magical coffee dreams are made and money is collected.
I greet each of the employees by name and with a smile. I’m a good boss, overly genial and fair. I can be hard when warranted—such as come in late three times and the fourth, the employee would see the temper of a redhead—but for the most part, it’s a very chill work environment.
We have two cash registers and only one person working them, so I step up to the unmanned one and turn the key to fire it up. The line splits, and customers come over to me.
Looking up from the register, I greet the first one with a bright, cheery smile. “Welcome to One Bean. What can I get…”
My words trail off because my stomach sours, and my heart starts pounding as I take in the customer before me.
To every other person in this shop, he looks normal enough—a morning commuter dressed in slacks and a nice button-down with a crew-neck sweater over it. It’s the standard attire for most businessmen downtown and you rarely see men or women in expensive, tailored suits. Seattle’s just way too casual for that. He has a briefcase in one hand and a phone in the other. Ordinary face, brown hair, and brown eyes.
But as I take him in, I don’t have to look hard to know there’s something wrong with him. The vibe I’m getting—while making me distinctly nauseous—is cold, hard… maybe even psychopathic.
I could see him with clearer eyes if I so chose, but I tamp down on that particular gift. It’s not a pleasant experience. Like Mr. Pelman, he’s one of “them” and I learned my lesson where “they” are concerned a long time ago. The less I know, the better. It’s bad enough knowing my dad was a little crazy—I don’t want anyone thinking the same about me. And I definitely don’t want to believe that about myself anymore.
I lock myself down tight, even as a cold sweat chills my body. My vision glazes slightly as I look at him, a cheery smile still in place. “Sorry… what can I get you today?”
He gives his order, which I write on the cup. His voice is hard and gravely, his tone just short of snide. In just that short meeting, I can tell he’s a jerk to most people but that’s not the reason I’m experiencing fear. That’s just surface personality. It’s what lies beneath that has my knees shaking just slightly.
His name, so normal… Dan. If he had a knife in hand and no witnesses, I bet he’d take pleasure in slitting my throat.
And I hate that I know that about him.
I take his money, careful not to touch his fingertips, and hand over his change. I avoid obvious eye contact the entire time, instead keeping a hazy awareness of his body in general. My mouth feels like it’s going to crack as I desperately hold onto my smile.
When he steps to the side to await his order, my gaze lowers to the cash register. I let out a long exhale, returning it immediately with a calming breath.
I lift my head, welcoming smile back in place, and ready myself to greet the next customer.
“Shit,” I mutter when I see the woman standing before me.
My twin sister, Fallon.
“We need to talk,” she says.
CHAPTER 2
Finley
I tell Lisa I need about ten minutes, and she cheerfully says I should take my time. Grabbing Fallon’s tall half-caff, soy latte, and a straight-up black for myself, I wind my way through the tables. She miraculously found one under the staircase that leads to the second floor.
Fallon sits facing me as I approach, but her head is bent over her phone, fingers flying across the screen. We’re fraternal twins and stand us side by side, it’s easy to tell we’re sisters, but no one ever guesses we were born on the same day. Outside of some slight resemblances in the face—nose, arched eyebrows, chin—we’re like night and day.
Whereas Fallon is polished, educated, and accomplished, I’m a college dropout managing a coffee shop. While she wears designer clothes, elegant jewelry, and has monthly spa visits to pamper herself, I like my skinny jeans, Chucks, and t-shirts, sometimes with a flannel on top. Relaxation for me is sitting on the back deck drinking a beer and reading a good book.
As I’ve already mentioned, my red hair looks like a perpetual cyclone circles around it while hers is all smooth and sleek from weekly blowouts. Her fingers are soft, her nails manicured. Mine are chewed and ragged.
The list could go on and on, but you get the point. There’s not much we have in common.
I assume she’s on her way into work, and maybe stopped in on a whim. She owns an art gallery on First Avenue in Belltown, but her condo is just a short four-block walk north of One Bean.
Not that she’d make the walk. No, I’m sure she had a car service bring her here, and the driver is probably circling the block until she’s ready to head to the gallery.
It’s not intentional on her part, but she always makes me feel drab in comparison to her, despite my fire-engine-red hair. Today, she’s exquisitely elegant in a pair of wide-legged, camel-colored pants, a white blouse that frills up around her neck but in no way looks old fashioned, and beautiful nude heels with pointed toes that look like they’d kill the feet within just a few moments of putting them on. Fallon changes her hair frequently, but the style du jour is an asymmetrical bob that’s cut just to the nape at the back and hangs longer in the front but doesn’t quite touch her shoulders. It’s shiny, and I’m sure laden with a hundred dollars’ worth of product.
She lifts her head when I set her coffee on the table and I take the chair opposite her. Because I know it will irritate her, I slump down and kick my legs out, my hands curled around my recycled cardboard cup of java. “So, what’s up?”
Fallon doesn’t answer right away, instead appraising me as she takes a sip of her coffee. She gives a tiny moan of satisfaction, which I don’t get… it’s decaf, and soy, and just gross.
“You should sit up straight,” she murmurs, intentionally ignoring my question as to what brings her into my domain. In the six years since I’ve been working at One Bean, this may be the third time she’s come in.
Because I don’t want to fight, I straighten and even cross one leg over the other to mimic her pose. I may dress in grunge most of the time, but I still have a distinctly feminine side. “Why are you here?”
Her look is chastising. “You missed dinner last night.”
“You make it sound like I just didn’t show up,” I reply calmly. “I texted you and told you I had to work late.”
All true, and what does it say about me that I was relieved I had to work late and would not have to suffer through a meal with Fallon and her incredibly snobbish, uptight fiancé.
“Just as you’ve missed the last four dinner invitations I’ve extended to you,” she replies in a censuring tone.
“I’m sorry,” I offer, and truthfully, I am. I wish I could be a better sister to her because she does try to include me in her life.
She gives me a small smile, perhaps an acceptance of my apology. “I certainly hope you took tonight off.”
“Tonight?” I ask, mind racing. “Why tonight?”
Fallon’s beautiful face goes slack, her eyes filling with disappointment. “My art show? The one I asked you to please come to over four months ago—that you promised to attend? I’ve been sending you texts all week to remind you, but you haven’t responded. So if you want to know why I’m here, Miss Finley Porter, it’s to make sure you’re going to live up to your promise and come tonight.”