A Flicker in the Dark(37)

“Chloe Davis,” he responds, the hint of a smile in his voice. “I thought I might hear from you today.”

“You visited my mother? You had no right.”

“I told you I’d be reaching out to your family in my voice mail. I gave you fair warning.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “No, you said my father. I don’t give a fuck about my father, but my mother is off-limits.”

“Let’s meet. Obviously, I’m in town. I’ll explain everything.”

“Fuck you,” I spit. “I am not meeting with you. What you did was unethical.”

“You really want to talk to me about ethics?”

I stop, inches from my parked car.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just meet me today. I’ll make it quick.”

“I’m busy,” I lie, unlocking my car and easing inside. “I have appointments.”

“I’ll come to your office, then. I’ll wait in the lobby until you have an opening.”

“No—” I exhale, closing my eyes. I lean my forehead against the steering wheel. This back-and-forth is pointless, I realize. He’s not going to give up. He flew to Baton Rouge from New York City to meet with me, and if I want this man to stop digging around in my life, I’m going to have to speak with him. Face-to-face. “No, please don’t do that. I’ll meet you, okay? I’ll meet you right now. Where do you want to go?”

“It’s still early,” he says. “How about coffee. My treat.”

“There’s a place on the river,” I say, pinching the skin between my eyes. “BrewHouse. Meet me there in twenty minutes.”

I hang up on him before slamming my car into reverse and driving in the direction of the Mississippi. I’m only ten minutes from the café, but I want to make it there before him. I want to be sitting at a table of my choosing the moment he walks through the doors. I want to be in the driver’s seat for this conversation, not riding along as a powerless passenger. Not on the defensive, caught off guard the way I was just now.

I pull into a nearby spot and duck into the little café, a hidden gem on River Road partially cloaked by live oaks dripping in gray-green foliage. It’s dim inside, and I order a latte, my eyes landing on a bulletin board of flyers by the cream-and-sugar stand. Wedged between violin lessons being advertised with those little paper flaps and an upcoming concert poster is Lacey Deckler’s face, MISSING scrawled across the top in Sharpie. It’s stapled on top of another piece of the paper, the corners peeking out. I reach over and push the picture aside with my finger, revealing Aubrey’s poster behind it—already, she’s been replaced, taped over like a broken vending machine.

I slide into a table in the corner, choosing the seat that faces the front door. My fingers tap anxiously against the rim of my mug, and I force myself to hold them still, despite the nervous energy radiating from my every pore. Then I wait.

Fifteen minutes later, my latte is cold. I consider getting up to ask them to reheat it, but before I can move, I see Aaron walk in. I recognize him immediately from his picture online—he’s wearing another checkered, button-up shirt, the same stupid blue-blocker glasses—though he’s not as skinny as he was in his headshot. He fills out his clothes more than I had expected him to, his leather computer bag hanging heavy over one shoulder, pulling the fabric tight against a bicep I was not expecting to see. I wonder how long ago that picture was taken; immediately after college, I suppose. When he was still just a boy. I continue to stare, watching him amble through the café, browsing the pastry cooler and squinting at the menu bolted behind the coffee bar. He orders a cappuccino and pays with cash, lazily licking his fingers before counting out the bills and dropping his change in the tip jar. Then he eyes the artwork on the wall while he waits for his espresso to brew, the scream of the steamer making my skin crawl.

For some reason, his calmness is bothering me. I was expecting him to run inside, eager to beat me the way I was eager to beat him. I wanted him panting, sweaty, playing catchup. Thrown off guard by my waiting. But instead, he shows up late. He’s acting like he has all the time in the world. He’s acting like he’s the one calling the shots—and that’s when I realize.

He knows I’m here. He knows I’m watching.

This calm demeanor, this careless attitude. It’s a show put on just for me. He’s trying to unnerve me, to get under my skin. The thought pisses me off more than it should.

“Aaron,” I yell, waving my hand too animatedly. He jerks his head up and looks in my direction. “I’m over here.”

“Chloe, hi,” he says, smiling. He walks over to the table and puts his bag on the chair. “Thank you for meeting me.”

“It’s Doctor Davis,” I say. “And you didn’t give me much of a choice.”

He grins.

“I’m just waiting on my cappuccino,” he says. “Can I buy you anything?”

“No,” I say, motioning to the mug in my hands. “I’m good, thanks.”

“You been here long?” he asks. “Your drink looks cold.”

I eye him, wondering how he could possibly know that. I must look confused, because I see him smirk just slightly before motioning to the condensation beading along the inner rim of my glass.