Page 53 of All Good People Here

Luke spun around furiously, his eyes wide and wild. In his hands was a jar of pickles. “I can’t find it!” he spat.

She lifted her palms gently. “Okay. Okay. What is it you can’t find?”

“Well, what do you think? The goddamn mustard!” He slammed the jar of pickles onto the overflowing countertop, nudging a giant bag of Fritos and a plastic spray bottle of all-purpose cleaner out of the way. He picked up a stack of plastic place mats, looked beneath them, then put them back again.

Margot quickly scanned the contents of the countertops for the mustard, but she didn’t see it anywhere. “Let me see if I can help, okay?” Her throat felt thick and her heart was pounding.

“I don’t see why you’d be able to find it when I can’t.” He spun around, his eyes roving to the other side of the kitchen, then locking on to the oven. He strode over and opened it, bending down to check inside.

“You’re probably right. But I can at least help you look.” As Luke closed then opened the empty kitchen cabinets behind her, Margot strode quietly to the refrigerator. But the mustard wasn’t inside it. Everything but one carton of milk had been removed. And oddly enough, there on the middle shelf was Luke’s wireless home phone. Margot surreptitiously took it out and placed it onto a stack of paper plates.

She checked the freezer next, and just when she spotted the mustard nestled behind a carton of ice cream, Luke walked to the opposite side of the little freezer door and banged it shut. But Margot had been in its way and the sharp corner of the plastic shelf slammed against her cheek, hard.

Pain, cold and searing, sliced into her. Margot gasped, clapping a hand against it.

Luke stepped around the freezer door, which, after banging against her, had swung back open. “Rebecca?” He stared at Margot, his brow furrowed, his body still.

Margot’s breath came in ragged gulps as the pain sharpened and concentrated. She felt as if she’d been sliced by a knife and her cheek felt slick beneath her fingers. When she pulled her hand away, it was bright with blood.

“Rebecca?” Luke said again. This time there was a tremble in his voice. “Are you—”

Before he could finish, there was a knock at the front door.

“Fuck,” Margot said through clenched teeth. She scanned the kitchen for the paper towels and found a roll stuck between the toaster and blender. She tore off a square and pressed it to her throbbing face.

Another knock came at the front door, harder and louder this time.

“Coming!” Margot shouted as she mopped up her bloody cheek, threw the balled-up paper towel into the trash, and strode to the door. As she reached to open it, whoever was on the other side knocked again. “Jesus Christ,” she hissed, swinging the door wide.“What?”

Standing in the doorway, blinking in alarm, was Pete.

“Oh.” Margot’s face grew hot. “It’s you. What’re you doing here?”

“Uh.” He raised his eyebrows. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“What?” Then it dawned on her. “Oh shit. You’re here to check on Luke. I’m sorry. I forgot to text. I’m back from Chicago.”

Pete nodded. “I see that. You’re also bleeding.”

Margot touched her fingers to her cut. “It’s fine.”

Pete glanced over her shoulder into the house. “Why don’t I come in for a bit? I’m not on patrol today, so I have a few minutes.”

“This isn’t a good time, Pete.”

“Yeah.” He gave her a look. “I sorta got that.”

Without waiting for a response, Pete pushed past her into the entryway. When he saw the kitchen, his expression widened in surprise, but he corrected it quickly as Luke walked over.

“Hi,” Pete said brightly. “I’m Pete Finch.” He extended his hand to shake and Luke took it gently in his. Margot could tell by the vacant way her uncle smiled at him that he didn’t recognize Pete from his visit yesterday. “I’m friends with Margot.”

“Nice to meet you,” Luke said, his voice sounding unusually small. Then he looked at Margot. “Kid? You’re bleeding. What happened?”

Margot shook her head. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

Beside her, Pete shot a glance toward the disastrous kitchen. “So.” He clapped his hands. “You guys doing some cleaning? You need a hand?”

For the next two hours, Margot, Pete, and Luke put the kitchen back together. Most of it fell to Margot, though, as she was the only one who knew or could remember where anything was supposed to go. Throughout the afternoon, the three of them held steady, idle conversation, most of which was Pete telling them long, meandering stories of office minutiae. Margot knew he was doing it for her benefit, keeping her uncle preoccupied while she cleaned. During it all, she couldn’t tell if she was more embarrassed or grateful—embarrassed that she’d been so preoccupied with the case she hadn’t known her uncle was spinning out of control just outside her door; grateful for the kindness of this almost-stranger.

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