Run Rose Run(95)

She cracked a smile at that, the first friendly one he’d seen on her face. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s kind of a reflex.”

Ethan dropped a sugar cube into the bitter brew. He didn’t suppose being a pretty girl in the only café for a hundred miles was the easiest job in the world. “I just wanted to ask you if you’d ever heard of AnnieLee Keyes,” he said. “She’s a singer.”

“Sure, I’ve heard of her,” the girl said. “Dark night, bright future,” she sang. “Like the phoenix from the ashes, I shall rise again…”

“You’ve got a great voice,” Ethan said. It was high and clear, with a faint vibrato. “And I’m not hitting on you, either.”

“Sure, sure, I believe you,” the girl said. It was unclear whether or not she meant it.

“Have you ever seen her?” Ethan asked. He brought out his phone and showed her a picture he’d taken of AnnieLee backstage. Her hair was messy, her cheeks pink and sweaty from the spotlight. She looked tired and gorgeous and radiant.

The waitress leaned in, and then she frowned a little.

“What is it?” Ethan asked.

“That’s what she looks like? Do you have any more pictures of her?” the girl asked.

“Swipe left,” he said.

Ethan watched as the girl thumbed through his photos of AnnieLee onstage, backstage, and in the passenger seat of the van. The girl was squinting at first, and then she began to lightly shake her head. After another moment a smile broke over her face. And pretty soon she started laughing. “No shit,” she was saying. “No freaking shit.”

“Why are you laughing? What’s so funny?” Ethan asked.

“That’s not AnnieLee Keyes,” she said. “That’s Rose McCord.” She swiped to see a few more pictures. “Yeah, she looks real good. I liked her better with her natural hair, though.”

Ethan felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. He shoved his plate away and looked up at the waitress. “What color is her real hair?” he asked. Immediately he wished he could take the question back, because the answer didn’t matter at all. What mattered was that AnnieLee—or Rose McCord, or whoever the hell she was—hadn’t just been unforthcoming about her past. She’d been lying about everything.

“Caramel blond, I guess you’d call it,” the waitress said. “It was real long, real pretty.”

Ethan clenched his fists under the table. He was pissed and embarrassed that he hadn’t known the actual name of the woman he loved, but he struggled to keep his emotions in check; he had to remember that she was in danger. “Do you know where Ann—where Rose used to live?” he asked.

“Outside of town somewhere,” the waitress said. “I don’t know, really. I just used to see her around. She was a few years older than me, but she wasn’t stuck-up. She was nice. But then she got herself a boyfriend, and it seemed like she kinda disappeared. I assumed she married him and moved away. That’s the dream, right? Get the hell out?” She tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “Easier said than done, though.” She glanced down at Ethan’s still-full plate. “You done already?”

“Yeah,” Ethan said. “It was delicious.” He took out two twenties and laid them on the table. “Do you know anyone who might know where she lived?”

The girl narrowed her eyes at him. “Does she want you to find her?”

“Maybe she didn’t at first,” he said. “But I think she does now.”

“You her boyfriend?”

“No, I’m her…” Ethan paused. “Bodyguard.”

The girl picked up the plate. “So Rose McCord really became AnnieLee Keyes?” she asked. “And she’s writing songs now?”

“She sure is,” Ethan said. “She’s really good.”

“That’s incredible,” the waitress said. “Damn, I’m happy for her.”

Ethan stood up. “Any information you could give me—”

“Go ask Blaine over at the pawnshop,” she said. “He knows just about everything about everybody, and sometimes he’s in the mood to talk.”

Ethan thanked her and left without taking his change, which amounted to a nearly 300 percent tip.

The waitress followed him outside and waved to him as he walked down the street. “I lied about having a boyfriend!” she called.





Chapter

86


Blaine wore a high and tight, but Ethan knew instantly that he wasn’t military and never had been, though Ethan could imagine him spending a semester in JROTC before being kicked out for smoking a blunt in the school parking lot. He seemed vaguely high now, Ethan thought, or it could’ve been that he was just on the slow side.

He certainly wasn’t interested in acknowledging Ethan’s existence, at least not until Ethan picked out a fishing rod and a messed-up-looking ukulele and set them on the cracked glass of the counter. Ethan watched as Blaine did a quick calculus—shitty rod, busted instrument, out-of-towner—and said, “Hundred.”

Ethan laughed and said, “Twenty-five.”

Blaine grunted his assent.

As Blaine was putting the money in the cash register, Ethan casually asked him what he knew about Rose McCord and who her people were. “I think her stepdad’s name was Clayton.”