Page 26 of The Slug Crystal
Ben unbuckles. “Sarah DeMarco was tagged here, like, eight times in the last six months. It’s the only real place in town.” He checks his phone, then shoves it in his jacket. “You ready?”
I look down at the terrarium in my lap. Alex has withdrawn into his shell, a pearlescent blue lump nestled among the shreds of lettuce. For the first time since the spell, I feel a flicker of actual hope, stupid, wild hope. We came all this way. There has to be a reason. Sarah will be here, and she will fix this.
Jake pulls up his hood, glances over his shoulder at Ben, then says, “Let’s do this.”
The inside of Dottie’s is what happens when a grandmother with hoarding instincts wins a Pinterest giveaway, gifting her all the items on her boards. Every wall is a collage. There are old vinyl records, sets of pastel dishware, and shelves of novelty mugs with snarky slogans. Bookcases are peppered here and there, holding Knick-knacks. The air smells like cinnamon, rain, and burnt espresso. There’s a small glass counter, a bakery case with exactly two pastries in it, and a chalkboard menu written in five different handwritings.
It’s nearly empty, save for a single old man hunched over a crossword and a barista stationed behind the counter. She’s maybe sixty, with gray hair tied up in a bandana and the kind of arms you get from a lifetime of kneading dough. She wears a T-shirt that reads In Dough We Crust, and a tattoo of a heart with a coffee cup in the center pulses on her forearm as she wipes down the counter.
“Welcome to Dottie’s. I’m Dottie,” she says, not looking up. “Kitchen’s closed, but we still got some pastries. Coffee’s fresh.”
I step up to the counter, nerves fidgeting under my skin. Ben sidles in beside me, notebook in hand. Jake hovers justbehind us, already scanning the shelves for anything suspiciously witchy.
“Hi,” I say, voice dry. “We’re actually looking for someone.”
Dottie’s eyes flick up, sharp and pale with a glint of suspicion, like she’s worried we’re about to cause trouble. “Missing persons is a block down at the sheriff’s office,” she deadpans, then tucks her rag into her waistband. “I don’t think I can help more than that. You want a table?”
“No, uh, it’s not like that.” I lower my voice, which is idiotic, because no one else in the shop is listening. “We’re looking for Sarah DeMarco? She lives in town and maybe works somewhere here too?”
A flicker crosses Dottie’s face, a cross between amusement and pity. She taps a finger on the counter. “Sarah, Sarah, Sarah.” She draws the name out, savoring the syllables. “It’s not ringing any bells. You from around here?”
Jake shakes his head. “Boston.”
She whistles. “That’s a long drive for coffee.”
I want to tear at my hair and scream. Instead, I take a deep breath. Before I can respond, Ben interjects, “We travel all over the states for work. We like to look into interesting people and heard that Sarah knows a lot about crystals.”
Dottie doesn’t flinch. She grabs three mismatched mugs from a shelf, fills them from a carafe, and slides them across the counter, without being asked. “Ahh, that Sarah. She’s gone. Left a couple of months or so ago. Packed her bags, said she was chasing a new opportunity, but didn’t divulge much besides that. Maybe just running from her landlord. Hard to say.”
I stare at the mug. It’s warm in my hand, and the scent is strong enough to jolt my eyes open from a contact high. “She didn’t leave a number? Email?”
“She’s got a website with an email,” Dottie shrugs, “but no one’s heard from her since she left.” She leans in, restingboth hands on the counter. “You’re not the first person to come looking for her. She was always getting visitors and mail—threats and old love letters. But she wasn’t the kind to stay in one place forever.”
I stifle a laugh, because, of course, the universe would do this to me. Drive eight hours, only to find the one person who can fix your mess has moved to some unknown location to escape their landlord.
“Do you know where she went?” Jake asks, his tone more hopeful than mine would be.
Dottie squints, like she’s searching her memory. “Italy, I think? Venice. She said something about the water. She likes places near the water.”
Ben scribbles that down, like it’s a clue and not just a random statement provided by a coffee shop owner. “You’re sure?”
Dottie spreads her hands. “I run a coffee shop, not a private eye business. I make brownies, I water the plants, I listen to people talk. If you want to leave her a message, I can keep it with the others. Maybe she’ll come back someday, and I’ll have a stack waiting.”
I glance at Jake. He looks like he wants to punch a wall, or at least throw his coffee at someone, but he just nods.
Ben is still at the counter, voice low. “Did you ever buy anything off her? Spells, potions, crystals?”
Dottie grins, showing a gold canine. “Sure. Snake oil, mostly. But every now and then, she’d make something real useful. Got rid of my ex-husband’s athlete’s foot, and it cost less than going to the doctor.”
I tune out the rest of what Dottie is saying, the word Italy playing on repeat in my mind. I can’t decide if I’m relieved or devastated. The disappointment is sharp, edged with a weird nostalgia for all the dumb, hopeful things I used to believe in as a kid. This adventure is about to come to a close, and Alex might be stuck as a snail forever, but I’ve done all that I can.
Jake finishes his coffee in one long swallow and sets the mug down. “Thanks for your time.”
Dottie nods, then, as we turn to leave, calls out, “If you find Sarah, tell her to give everyone her new address. I’m tired of collecting her mail for her.”
Ben turns, pen poised. “Anything else you want us to tell her?” I stare at him wide-eyed, wondering why he’s indulging Dottie.
Dottie’s smile softens, just a little. “Tell her the town’s less interesting without her.”
