2 Sisters Detective Agency(7)

“What’s up, pal?”

“I was just in TJ Maxx on the first floor, and there are a bunch of kids in there. I saw one of them slip a pair of sunglasses into his backpack. I tried to alert staff at the store, but they were all busy.”

“Oh, man.” The mall cop shot upward in his seat like a dog spying the park from the back seat of a car. “Thanks for telling me. I’m on it. I’m on it!”

Jacob stood back as the mall cop thrust open the barn door of the security office and bounded away. When the man had disappeared, Jacob reached over the counter and flipped the lock, walked to the desk, and settled into the still-warm chair. He knew the exact time and date he was looking for. He clicked through the security cameras on the PC until he found the northeast corner of the mall parking lot at 9:47 a.m. two Tuesdays earlier.

There he was on the screen, pulling his Tesla quickly into an empty space against the concrete wall and jumping out, totally ignoring the little red convertible Mustang that had been waiting patiently for the spot to be vacated. He’d been in a mad hurry to get into the mall. Beaty had called him from school in tears—she’d forgotten to bring a roll of blue craft board needed for a group project that day. Jacob watched a petite girl with blond ringlet curls stand up in the passenger seat of the convertible.

The footage had no sound, but Jacob could see her yelling after him as he jogged toward the mall entrance. Jacob remembered the moment distinctly, could hear her voice in his mind.

Hey, asshole! That was our spot!

He didn’t typically do something like that—take people’s parking spots or cut in line. People remembered that kind of thing, and he avoided being remembered.

In the video footage, Jacob watched the girl jabbering excitedly to the teenage boy in the driver’s seat and pointing angrily at Jacob’s car. He watched as she took out her phone and tapped something into the device as the driver pulled away.

He knew what she was doing. She was writing down his license plate number.

Jacob smiled. He paused the footage, zoomed in, and took out his own phone. He snapped a photo of the computer screen and noted down the license plate of the red convertible.

“See you soon,” he said.





Chapter 7



Not quite halfway to Los Angeles, I decided to stop for the night in Hanksville, Utah. I’d known some nice guys named Hank in my life, and I liked the look of the town on the bright phone screen. I never flew anymore. Like my father, I’d bought a car with a wide bench seat and lots of elbow room on the sill, something slightly worn but kept with love that I could sling my fluffy, lime-green court bag into or spill milkshakes in without much drama. I liked the way the Buick’s suspension groaned when I got in, like climbing on an old familiar spring mattress on a weary night.

Hanksville was tiny. As far as I could see, all it had was a pizza place, a pharmacy, a motel, and a bar and grill. I chose the bar first. It was full of big hairy bikers bad-mouthing one another and playing pool at large tables under low gold lights. A smattering of biker chicks was among them, hanging around the edges of the pool game or sitting at a round table near the door, playing poker.

I sat at the bar and ordered a rare steak with onion rings and a side of mac and cheese, then slowly devoured it with a glass of red wine. The steak came covered in a thick, creamy gravy, and the mac sauce was orange, stretchy, and liquid hot. The bikers who came to the bar eyed the wine suspiciously but, unlike most people, didn’t let their eyes travel down my body, assessing how big I was and in which ways my fat assembled itself. There were no glances to the barstool to measure how the unlucky piece of furniture was coping with my bulk. I’d received the Fat Person Look-Over a million times in my adult life, so often that I noted when it didn’t happen. Bikers were rarely judgy. I got a couple of appreciative nods at the tattoos on my forearms: a big yellow lion on the right and a couple of pinup girls on the left.

“How was it?” the bartender asked as he retrieved my empty plate. His mustache was so heavy and thick it completely covered his mouth and stayed in place as he spoke, so at first I wasn’t sure he had spoken.

“Great,” I said eventually. “Really, really great. In fact, I’ll go for round two.”

He shrugged and smiled, punched my order into the register again. The cook in the kitchen gave me a thumbs-up through the window behind the bar as he started my second steak.



The Chalet Inn, what appeared to be the only motel in town, was within walking distance of the bar, but I was exhausted from the drive so I drove there. Regret over the second dinner hung like a coat on my shoulders, so I told myself I’d get up early and walk it off before I continued my drive tomorrow.

The sky was huge and crowded with stars. I hadn’t been able to settle on how I felt about my father’s loss, but as I walked from my car toward the motel entrance I got a small, wistful rush of sadness. It wasn’t that I missed him, but I realized suddenly that any chance we had of reconnecting was now gone. I’d always known it was ludicrous to imagine that Earl Bird would ever have swept back into my life and become the dad I’d always wanted him to be—gentle, loving, supportive, interested—but now it wasn’t just ludicrous. It was impossible.

The old guy who shuffled out of the motel owner’s room to the reception desk was small and stern faced. I stood before him and received my first Fat Person Look-Over since I’d arrived in Hanksville.