Page 85 of Cold, Cold Bones
Reaching deep for a pocket of calm, Hawkins leaned over the table. “Heck, that’s you. Outside on the steps.”
He was right. The image captured me entering the MCME.
Hawkins scowled. “You know who took that picture?”
I shook my head.
Hawkins’s gaze rolled from the objects in the concrete to me, brows furrowed behind the white-coated plastic.
“That don’t seem right,” he said.
“No,” I agreed.
Hawkins straightened. “Going on five. Need me to do anything more?”
My eyes flew to the wall clock.
Charlie. Crap.
“I’m good. Definitely, go.”
As Hawkins gathered the tools and stick-walked from the room, I fumbled for my phone, willing my fingers steady enough to punch the right number.
No answer.
Of course not.
After rolling the remains of the pail and its frightening fill to the cooler, I changed into street clothes, and left.
I hate being late. Not sure if that’s a personality flaw or strength. My friends constantly advise me to chill. I can’t. I dislike being kept waiting, find it rude. Assume others feel the same.
First the bucket, then my tardiness. Moving like a slug through, well, sluggish rush-hour traffic, did nothing to relax my frazzled nerves.
The Foxcroft East Shopping Center is located on Fairview Road, not far from the Charlotte Country Day campus. It was five-fifteen by the time I pulled into the lot. I scanned for Charlie’s car. Realized I hadn’t a clue what he drove these days. Only that it would be pricey and fast.
Caribou Coffee shares space with a UPS store. Neither had a single patron, making it obvious that I’d arrived first.
To my surprise, and apparently unknown to Charlie, the coffeeshop no longer offered inside service. Thanks, COVID. Unsure what he’d want, I ordered a sparkling green tea lemonade for myself and, despite the chill creeping in with the dusk, took it to an outside table.
Banning thoughts of Katy and Zeb Ramsey and buckets and concrete, I watched the action around me. There wasn’t much to watch. A metal-mouthed kid and what looked like an older sibling departing the orthodontist, both looking sullen. A woman in a pants suit and pumps balancing a stack of Pizza Hut boxes. An elderly couple shuffling arm-in-arm toward the Novant Health facility. Only Foxcroft Wine Company and Ben & Jerry’s appeared to be bustling. Vino and ice cream. A metaphor for our troubled age?
Time passed. No Charlie.
As I finished my lemonade, unbidden images of my daughter wormed through my resolve to stay chill. Katy slumped behind the wheel of a wrecked car. Lying off a hiking trail, her ankle broken. Shot by a junkie in a dark alley.
Stop!
I considered the coconut coffee jellies in the bottom of my cup. Thought about green tea. About jellies. About the rotten produce in my fridge.
I tried Charlie’s mobile. Got voice mail.
It was full dark now and moving from chilly to cold. Carriage lights and lampposts glowed around me. Quaint. Tasteful. No garish neon here, no sir.
I checked my watch repeatedly. Five-thirty. Five forty-five. Five-fifty.
Had Charlie come and gone before I’d arrived? Annoyed by my lateness, had he split? Did he think I was a no-show?
After waiting for only fifteen minutes?
