Teggie said, finally heading toward the bus, duffel bag swinging in her surprisingly strong grip. Her next words were almost lost. âWhen am I going to talk to Dad?â She turned and began to walk backward.
âTeggie!â I shouted, not sure what I wanted to say.
Goodbye
?
Come back
?
âWhose life?â she called loudly, over the engine noise and storm. âYours or Brendanâs?â
It was a question only an unmarried woman, one whoâd never even really been in love, could pose. Brendanâs life wasnât distinct from mine, not entirely. They were linked. And if I didnât find out why Brendan had taken his life, then I would never be able to live my own.
âGo, Teg!â I shouted, and she ran, perfectly graceful, without a hitch, over the covered expanse of pavement.
I plodded back to my car, scraped off the windshield again, and drove out over the heaps of snow that the salt hadnât yet attacked, back onto the slippery road.
I was alone now. Really alone for the first time since Brendan had died.
I stopped in town at a place called Coffee Rockets. I could sit there until the drugstore opened at nine.
The café was filled with its usual mix of customers, united by only one thing. Whether they were skiers in brightly colored, outrageously expensive gear, fueling up before their day on the slopes, or professionals whose footwear wasnât even up for the trek across the parking lot, buying breakfast-to-go before their workday, all of these people were foreigners in Wedeskyull. At the diner across the road, they wouldâve received something close to shunning. The ladies behind the counter wouldâve eyed them silently, and the customers who idled away most of the morning there wouldâve snapped their suspenders or chucked dogs beneath the table, causing the animals to sniff and mutter at the unfamiliar scent in the air. Coffee Rockets had been built to house the encroachers, and that was why, for all its tech lighting and matte chrome finishes, the smells of roasting beans and buttery pastry, it had the feel of a prison camp.
I couldâve stopped in at the diner and gotten a warm enough welcome. The girls who worked there were good to the cops. But just as Iâd never gone to Alâs, I always came to Rockets instead.
The kid behind the counter started preparing my tall as soon as I appeared. He didnât live in Wedeskyullâwent to college near here and came into town to workâand wouldnât know my name or anything about me, but he recognized repeat customers. I pointed to a muffin behind the glass case and he handed that over as well. Then I went to sit down in one of the armchairs near the gas fireplace, a choice spot.
Today the coffee, usually so appealing, turned my stomach; I could barely take a sip. I concentrated on my muffin instead, biting it mindlessly, letting it crumble away in my mouth.
The clock on the wall, which managed at once to be artsy and not at all unique, finally showed nine oâclock. I shrugged into my coat, and hurried down the street to the pharmacy, pushing in against a warble of bells. An older man, balding and stooped, occupied the high counter at the back.
It was a dim, dusty place, but the heated air felt good. The aisles were sparsely stocked, a small selection of out-of-date shampoos, and only one bottle per brand; a short stack of soap cakes on the shelf, Ivory, and the pink kind with an old-fashioned ladyâs face on the wrapper. The candy aisle smelled stale, the colors on the bags no longer bright. This place was to the CVS several towns over as Alâs was to the Mobil. But it was the one the police preferred.
The pharmacist looked up as I approached.
âCan I help you?â
I glanced down at the amber bottle. âAre you Donald Brannigan?â I asked, reading the name under the tab for
pharmacist.
âFolks call me Donny,â the man replied in a friendly way. Then he
âTeggie!â I shouted, not sure what I wanted to say.
Goodbye
?
Come back
?
âWhose life?â she called loudly, over the engine noise and storm. âYours or Brendanâs?â
It was a question only an unmarried woman, one whoâd never even really been in love, could pose. Brendanâs life wasnât distinct from mine, not entirely. They were linked. And if I didnât find out why Brendan had taken his life, then I would never be able to live my own.
âGo, Teg!â I shouted, and she ran, perfectly graceful, without a hitch, over the covered expanse of pavement.
I plodded back to my car, scraped off the windshield again, and drove out over the heaps of snow that the salt hadnât yet attacked, back onto the slippery road.
I was alone now. Really alone for the first time since Brendan had died.
I stopped in town at a place called Coffee Rockets. I could sit there until the drugstore opened at nine.
The café was filled with its usual mix of customers, united by only one thing. Whether they were skiers in brightly colored, outrageously expensive gear, fueling up before their day on the slopes, or professionals whose footwear wasnât even up for the trek across the parking lot, buying breakfast-to-go before their workday, all of these people were foreigners in Wedeskyull. At the diner across the road, they wouldâve received something close to shunning. The ladies behind the counter wouldâve eyed them silently, and the customers who idled away most of the morning there wouldâve snapped their suspenders or chucked dogs beneath the table, causing the animals to sniff and mutter at the unfamiliar scent in the air. Coffee Rockets had been built to house the encroachers, and that was why, for all its tech lighting and matte chrome finishes, the smells of roasting beans and buttery pastry, it had the feel of a prison camp.
I couldâve stopped in at the diner and gotten a warm enough welcome. The girls who worked there were good to the cops. But just as Iâd never gone to Alâs, I always came to Rockets instead.
The kid behind the counter started preparing my tall as soon as I appeared. He didnât live in Wedeskyullâwent to college near here and came into town to workâand wouldnât know my name or anything about me, but he recognized repeat customers. I pointed to a muffin behind the glass case and he handed that over as well. Then I went to sit down in one of the armchairs near the gas fireplace, a choice spot.
Today the coffee, usually so appealing, turned my stomach; I could barely take a sip. I concentrated on my muffin instead, biting it mindlessly, letting it crumble away in my mouth.
The clock on the wall, which managed at once to be artsy and not at all unique, finally showed nine oâclock. I shrugged into my coat, and hurried down the street to the pharmacy, pushing in against a warble of bells. An older man, balding and stooped, occupied the high counter at the back.
It was a dim, dusty place, but the heated air felt good. The aisles were sparsely stocked, a small selection of out-of-date shampoos, and only one bottle per brand; a short stack of soap cakes on the shelf, Ivory, and the pink kind with an old-fashioned ladyâs face on the wrapper. The candy aisle smelled stale, the colors on the bags no longer bright. This place was to the CVS several towns over as Alâs was to the Mobil. But it was the one the police preferred.
The pharmacist looked up as I approached.
âCan I help you?â
I glanced down at the amber bottle. âAre you Donald Brannigan?â I asked, reading the name under the tab for
pharmacist.
âFolks call me Donny,â the man replied in a friendly way. Then he
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