The Perfect Stranger (Social Media #2)(65)

Stepping across the threshold, she takes a deep breath of java-laced air and is instantly soothed by the familiar, manufactured-to-be-inviting setting: mood lighting, intimate tables and chairs suitable for one, hipster baristas, vintage crooners on the audio system. The people sitting and sipping are either caught up in quiet conversations, absorbed in their laptops, or plugged into headphones. No one gives her a second glance as she joins the line of people waiting to order.

When it’s her turn, she steps forward and asks for the usual: a venti latte with a triple shot of espresso.

“Name?” asks the girl behind the register.

“Annie,” Jaycee tells her, and watches her write it in marker on a venti-sized cup.

Annie was her first cellmate, a crackhead prostitute with three little kids and the proverbial heart of gold. She’d killed her dealer—or was it her pimp? Jaycee doesn’t remember the exact details of the case now; it was a long time ago and they weren’t cellmates for very long. She only knows that while Annie might have been a murderer—though she said she’d done it in self-defense—her odd blend of streetwise sass and protective maternal attitude helped Jaycee survive some rough days, and rougher nights.

“Don’chu forget me now,” Annie said before she was transferred to another jail, closer to where her kids were. “When I get out, I’m go’an come look you up.”

“I’ll probably still be here.”

Annie was already shaking her head. “You go’an get off, girlfriend. You mark my words.”

She was right.

Annie never did come find her. Chances are she’s probably serving a long prison sentence, or back on the streets, or dead.

But Annie didn’t want to be forgotten, and she hasn’t been. Jaycee uses the name now as her random default identity for Starbucks and anywhere else she has to place an order with a name attached. She used to choose something different every time, but that became confusing. She’d forget who she was supposed to be.

Even now, there are days when she forgets: Jaycee, or Jenna Coeur, or her real name . . . or any number of identities she’s used and discarded over the years.

She pays for her beverage and pockets the change. Back home in New York she’d have left it in the tips cup on the counter. Here, hardly anyone does that. She’s been watching.

When in Rome . . .

That’s the key to keeping a low profile. You fit in with the locals. Don’t provide reason for them to give you a second glance. Throwing tip money into the cup would necessitate an extra thank you from the cashier or might arouse resentment in the customers behind her; not tipping makes her just like everybody else.

Less than a minute later the barista is calling, “Ann?”

Jaycee thanks her and takes a sip. The hot, pleasantly strong liquid slides down her throat.

Ah. Finally, a moment of peace.

She eyes the seating area, spotting an empty table for one beside the big picture window facing the road.

Maybe she won’t take her coffee to go after all. It would be a relief just to settle down for a few minutes and check her e-mails and text messages. By now Cory must have figured out she’s gone. He’s probably worried.

He doesn’t know about Meredith, of course—and she has no intention of telling him.

As Meredith’s daughter finishes reading the last few lines of her poem, Landry wipes tears from her eyes with a soggy tissue. She can’t help but marvel at the young woman’s strength; can’t help but compare her to Addison.

If it were my funeral, she’d do the same thing, Landry finds herself thinking. She’s so strong. Stronger than I could ever be.

Meredith would have been proud.

The minister steps back to the podium with a few final words, and at last it’s over. The crowd begins to move.

Someone touches Landry on the arm.

She looks up to see an attractive African-American woman flashing a badge.

“I’m Detective Crystal Burns,” she says, addressing all three of them. “I’m assuming you’re friends of Meredith’s?”

Caught off guard, Landry nods.

“Mind if I ask how you knew her?”

It’s Elena who answers promptly, “Only through the Internet.”

The detective pulls out a little notebook, and Landry grasps that this is not going to be a quick, simple conversation.

“Ladies,” she says, “I know this is not the best time or place to talk. I’d like to take down your names and ask you a few quick questions, and then maybe, if the three of you are staying in town, we can meet a little later to talk further?”

Landry quickly speaks for all of them: “Anything we can do to help, Detective.”

The bag containing Roger Lorton’s final effects has been lying on the floor beside the front door ever since the detective delivered it this morning.

It isn’t until later in the day—much later—that Sheri finally musters the strength to pick it up and carry it to the living room, trailed by the puppy’s jingling dog tags. She sits in a chair and Maggie settles at her feet. She’s been sticking close to Sheri’s side these past few days, since Roger’s murder. Every once in a while she looks up as if there’s something she wants Sheri to know.

You saw the person who killed him, didn’t you, girl?

But you can’t talk, and whoever did it is going to get away with it.