Page 48 of Things We Never Got Over (Knockemout)
“My condolences to Roger’s kidneys. Why is there a hole in the server schedule?”
“Chrissie quit last week. Remember?”
I vaguely remembered a server with a face and hair scurrying out of my way every time I stepped out of my office.
“Why’d she quit?”
“You scared the shit out of her. Called her a tray-dropping gold digger and told her to give up on marrying rich because even rich guys want their beers cold.”
It rang a bell. Vaguely.
I grunted. “So who’s replacing her?”
“I already hired a new girl. She starts tonight.”
“Does she have experience or is this another Crystal?”
“Chrissie,” Fi corrected. “And unless you want to start doing your own hiring, I suggest you gracefully back down and tell me I’ve been doing a kick-ass job and you trust my instincts.”
I yanked the phone away from my ear when Fi let out an ear-splitting “Hi-ya!”
“You’ve been doing a kick-ass job, and I trust your instincts,” I muttered.
“That’s a good boy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to put my son on his ass in front of his crush.”
“Try not to splatter too much blood. It’s a bitch to clean up.”
Waylon let out a snore from the floor. I penciled in “New Girl” on the empty shifts and jumped into some vendor payments and other bullshit paperwork.
Both Whiskey Clipper and Honky Tonk were showing consistent growth. And two of the three apartments rented for additional income. I was pleased with the numbers. It meant that I’d managed to do the impossible and turn dumb luck into an actual solid future. Between the businesses and my investments, I’d taken a windfall and built upon it.
It was a good feeling even after a sleepless night. With nothing left to do, I reluctantly called up Facebook. Advertising was one kind of evil, but advertising that required you to have a social media presence that opened you up to millions of pain-in-the-ass strangers? That was straight-up bullshit.
I bet Naomi was on Facebook. She probably liked it too.
My fingers casually typed Naomi Witt into the search bar before the sane, rational part of me could hit the brakes.
“Huh.”
Waylon lifted his head quizzically.
“Just checking on our neighbor. Making sure she’s not into Amway sales or running a long con as a pretend twin,” I told him.
Satisfied that I would save him from whatever threats social media held, Waylon fell back to sleep with a rumbling snore.
The woman obviously had never heard of privacy settings. There was a lot of her to get to know on social media. Pictures from work, vacations, family holidays. All without Tina, I noted. She ran 5ks for good causes and raised funds for neighbor’s vet bills. And she lived in a nice-looking house at least twice the size of the cottage.
She went to high school and college reunions and looked damn good doing it.
Throwback pictures proved my theory that she’d been a cheerleader. And someone on the yearbook committee had been a fan since it seemed like her entire senior year had been dedicated to her. I blinked at the handful of pictures of Naomi and Tina. The twin thing was undeniable. So was the fact that, beneath the surface, they were very different women.
I was already invested. There was no pulling me out of the online stalking rabbit hole. Especially not when the only other things I had to do were boring.
So I dug further.
Tina Witt fell off the digital plane of existence after high school graduation. She didn’t smile in her cap and gown. Certainly not next to young, fresh Naomi with her honor cords.
She’d already had an arrest record by then. Yet there was Naomi, an arm around her sister’s waist beaming wide enough for the two of them. I was willing to bet money that she’d done what she could to be the good one. To be the low-maintenance kid. The one who didn’t cause their parents sleepless nights.
