“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Not really,” I say, looking away and taking a seat in the armchair beside the window, the cracked leather poking at my skin. “I just heard something really awful.”
“What is it?” Coop leans against the front desk, crossing his arms. “Did something happen with my family?”
“Nothing like that,” I say, thinking back to how I reacted in the parking lot with Roman and Josephine. They must have deemed my sudden departure rude, especially after Josephine had paid for our new furniture.
“Tell me what’s going on,” he says. “You’re worrying me.”
I take a deep breath, considering where to start. “Last night, Regina and I went to the football game.”
“I know.” He’d been asleep when we returned from the lake, and I barely had time to speak with him this morning before he was off to the office again. He laughs. “I bet you stuck out like a sore thumb.”
“There was this woman there. Bridgette. She made a rude comment to Regina about Celia.” I struggle to say her name. “Bridgette works at Turner’s. When I saw her, I tried confronting her. That’s when she told me people think you killed Celia.”
Coop stares at me, waiting to see if there’s more, then he looks down. “Bridgette doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
“I gather she’s not the most reliable source,” I say, scooting closer to the edge of the chair. “But is what she said true? Do people really think you had something to do with Celia’s death?”
He exhales, and I can see his body stiffening. “Some people.”
I stand, dropping my bag on the chair. “That’s crazy. Why would people think that?”
“It’s a nasty rumor that got started years ago. I didn’t tell you about it because I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”
“What makes me uncomfortable is hearing about this from strangers. I don’t want to be blindsided by catty comments.”
“Did Regina say something—”
“That’s not the point,” I say, defiantly. “Whatever story there is about you and Celia, I need to hear all of it. Now.”
He holds eye contact, then nods. “We were both lifeguards at Whisper Lake. The day she went missing, we spent an hour or so at my family’s dock. I left to go to a party. People thought I might be involved because I was the last person seen with her. And that’s it. There’s nothing connecting me to her death.”
He’s told me about that day before, but the scenario materializes more clearly now. I have a frame of reference, locations and faces I can picture in my mind. And a sickening twinge in my gut about the accusations being made. “Bridgette said her head—”
“Her skull was cracked.” For the first time, he looks angry. I’m entitled to these details, but they’re understandably hard for him to give. I’m dredging up memories he’s long buried. “She drowned. Probably knocked her head against something while she was in the water. There’s a lot of dangerous spots on the lake.”
“Why wouldn’t you tell me you were accused of killing her?”
“I’ve defended my honor enough to the people around here. I shouldn’t have to do it in my own home.”
“I’m not accusing you, Coop,” I say, hurt that he’d even suggest it. I know Coop isn’t capable of something as horrendous as murder. Of course, from his perspective, I can see how this might feel like an ambush. I take a deep breath, lowering my voice. “You have to understand, I was shocked when Bridgette said that. I only wanted to know why it was said.”
“You called her a source,” he says, his voice hurt. “You’re treating this like it’s some type of lead. We’re talking about my past. My life.”
It’s my nature to investigate. That’s what made me a great journalist, but I’ve learned to curtail that impulse when it comes to my personal life. I only snooped through Coop’s belongings once, when he first moved into my apartment. He had a stack of old Gazette papers. I went through them and found a picture of another woman. It wasn’t a scandalous photo, but my insides boiled with envy, which simmered into shame. Had I been younger, the discovery would have initiated a weekend-long squabble. With maturity came the realization I couldn’t go through other people’s belongings and be upset over what I uncovered. Coop was entitled to his privacy, and I let it go.
But this is different. I’ve been confronted with something I knew nothing about, and I won’t be able to move past it until I have all the answers. Coop must have known I’d hear the rumors eventually. Why wouldn’t he give me a fair warning before moving here? I’m about to ask more questions when the phone rings. It’s not one of our cells. The ringing is coming from the landline behind the receptionist’s desk. Coop flips the counter, picking up the receiver.
“Whisper Falls Gazette… yeah, it’s me… no, I haven’t found it yet.” He starts rummaging through a folder, then slaps his hand against the desk. “I will… give me a minute.” He covers the phone with his hand and looks at me. “I’ve got to sort something out, but I want to finish this conversation. Can we talk at home?”
“Yeah, sure.” I stand hurriedly, then remember I have no way of getting home. “I don’t have my car.”
“I shouldn’t be much longer.” The look in his eyes tells me he feels guilty, torn between his work and trying to provide the comfort I need right now. “Wait across the street at Nectar, if you want. I’ll be an hour. Tops.”
I don’t say anything, just release a deep breath and stomp out of the office.
Ten
Madison
Unlike its neighbors, Nectar looks like it was built this century. Black framing outlines horizontal panes of glass, making the entire dining space visible from the sidewalk. Given the warm weather, the windows are lowered, allowing a nice breeze to follow me inside.
Round, wooden tables are scattered around with metal chairs tucked underneath. The walls are decorated with abstract paintings, nothing remarkable, but nothing ordinary either. In the center of the room, there’s a large workspace covered with various breads and baked goods. Regina stands there, sprinkling flour onto a gigantic mound of dough. I’m impressed; I’d been expecting a diner, and instead got a friendly reminder of Atlanta farm-to-table bistros.
“What can I get you?” asks a girl with an olive apron covering her bottom half and a floral tattoo cascading down her arm. Her name tag reads Maple.
I’m still looking around, taking the place in. “Is there a menu?”
Maple points above, and I see a hanging chalkboard with each item written out by hand. “Daily specials are by the front.” Maple walks away, grabs a coffee pot and refills the cup of a nearby customer.
Regina is still smacking and kneading the dough when she sees me. She wipes a fallen hair away from her face, leaving a smear of flour on her forehead.
“Didn’t think I’d catch you here,” she says, wiping her hands clean and walking toward the counter. “I thought Mom and Roman took you shopping.”