Sweet Water(49)

She had short blonde hair, chic city glasses, and the best damn children’s story time in the world. I know this because the story time was free, so Dad took me often. A craft store with overpriced year-round Christmas ornaments sits in a building to the left, and every year Dad would let me choose one for the tree. He hangs them every year, and I still remember how old I was when I picked out each one.

The Sewickley Hotel is extra special, though, because my father would take me there on winter days when it was too cold to play outside and the movie theater wasn’t in the budget. They had the very best tomato soup, and if it wasn’t too blizzardy outside, we’d take strolls downtown afterward.

The old Victorian homes shone their brightest when it snowed. They were painted in pastel colors—greens and lavenders—the white latticework like fondant, so shiny and sweet, it was almost edible. Some of the homes in the village, squashed among the shops, could be purchased for a reasonable price. I’d always dreamed one day, maybe, I could afford one.

If I colored my memories incorrectly, like Martin suggested, it started right there in the business district, on Beaver Street. Because I was a firm believer that the grass was greener on their side of the fence, the water truly sweeter.

Although I never considered that over time, the sweet water could turn sour.

That all the effort to hold those glossy blinds shut, to keep the people out, might taint the water and salt the pipes.

And that one day, when there was nothing left to squeeze from the well, no one could’ve warned me that the last drops of sweet water could very well turn to blood.

I shiver at the somber thought and exit the vehicle, wondering if I should seek help for my increasingly dismal thoughts.

The only person I’ve heard from since all this started is Camille. She tried to call me this morning, but of course Martin wouldn’t let me return her call. So she texted instead. It simply read:

I told everyone to disregard the rumors about Finn. I hope you’re doing okay after what happened to his girlfriend, but in case you’re not, here’s my go-to gal.

When she couldn’t reach me, my best friend threw me a line for her therapist with an iPhone contact share. It was so Sewickley. The things and people I used to think were solid are starting to show their cracks.

We don’t have problems, but when we do, we medicate.

I had to google Dr. Amelia Anderson before realizing it was the Amazing Amelia who had talked Camille off all her proverbial cliffs, although to me they’d seemed more like inconsequential ledges. Compared to the one I am standing on, Camille’s back-ordered dental veneers don’t seem so important.

I open the door to the restaurant and immediately see Alisha when I walk inside. Even though we’ve never been formally introduced, she’s most certainly the woman with the long dark hair in the corner booth wearing black pants with a stripe down the leg, white shirt, and a man’s tuxedo vest—a casino uniform.

I wave, and she nods in my direction to acknowledge me. I walk to the table a nervous wreck. This will determine who I really am. What I’m capable of.

“Alisha?”

She nods again, and I can’t imagine what’s so important that she’s spending this afternoon with me instead of her grieving family. I looked in the paper for funeral arrangements for Yazmin but didn’t find any. Finn was both saddened and relieved he didn’t have to attend her service, but it bothered me that there wasn’t one. Is she trying to investigate? Find her daughter’s killer? Does she suspect us?

I’m so nervous, I can feel my teeth chattering as I approach the table. “I’m so very sorry for your loss.” I can’t help myself; I reach across the table and grab this woman’s hands.

Tears leak from my eyes, and I start to weep.

Alisha’s hands remain in a ball as my hands cup them, and she looks down, tears in her own eyes, but she’s shaking her head, signaling to me that she doesn’t accept my touch, and I’m left feeling rejected.

I immediately take my hands away.

“I only met Yazmin once and thought she was lovely. Very smart.” My voice breaks, because she was. Smart and headstrong. I think about how she went up against William, and it shatters me even more because I think we would’ve gotten along under other circumstances.

Alisha doesn’t say anything. She studies me with her large, nearly opaque eyes. I find myself getting lost in their sorrow until she speaks. “Sit.”

I do sit—and quickly. Her text earlier was alarming.

I slide into the booth and look around, noticing the restaurant is surprisingly empty for nearly noon on a Friday. I wish for more people to walk through the door to lighten the air with their breezy laughs and superficial problems.

It’s like my father used to say when I complained about our subpar life—“If you put everyone else’s problems in a pile, you’d take yours back.” This is the only time in my life I would choose someone else’s.

Just not Alisha’s.

“I feel so terrible about what happened. Finn doesn’t remember a thing. We’re hoping he will in the coming days,” I say, but I’m not sure about any of that. Part of me wants him to have permanent amnesia and the other wants him to remember every detail so we can have closure on this tragedy.

“I always thought Finn was a nice boy, and I’m not sure what happened either.” Alisha drops her eye contact, and her lip wavers for just a moment.