Hidden (Nicole Jones #1) By Karen E. Olson
ONE
I went missing fifteen years ago.
And now the only person who knew where I was is dead.
I fold the newspaper in half, then in half again before putting it in my recycling bin. There is no indication that I’ve read any story more than once, running my finger along the print so many times it’s now black with ink.
Some said I was dead. Some said I was still alive – there were ‘sightings’ of me in Sicily, Miami, Hong Kong, even Havana. Exotic places. Good places to hide. Those people spreading the rumors might find it funny to learn that I’m giving bicycle tours on Block Island, just off the coast of Rhode Island. Not exotic, not hiding. Just existing.
When I first arrived here, I knew this was where I wanted to stay. I’d never been to Block Island, didn’t even know it existed until someone on the bus told me. Which meant others might not know about it, either. An island shaped like a pork chop in the Atlantic, a little more than an hour’s ferry ride from Point Judith, population less than 1,000 year round, although surging to about 20,000 or more during the summer. What really struck me was how I felt when I stepped off the ferry: as if all my worries had been stripped away. I could breathe here, the air heavy with saltwater and fog but light as the clouds that skipped along the horizon.
I live in a small white Cape just up the road from the farm where they’ve got the llamas. The furniture came with the place; it’s a little worn but not worse for wear. The front porch and living-room bay window overlook the ocean – and the dock at Old Harbor where the ferries come in. I’ve got a telescope set up inside so I can see them.
My name’s Nicole. It’s not the name I was born with – not even close. But I’ve always liked it and figured since I needed a new name I might as well pick one I liked. I could have it for the rest of my life. As long as it might be. Or might not be.
My last name’s Jones. Not exactly original. But no one’s ever questioned it.
I didn’t change how I look. At least not then. Now I look a little different, but it’s just that I’m getting older. My hair’s starting to get some gray streaks – I cut it short to keep it out of my way – and I wear glasses. I wore contacts back then, but I like the way the glasses look, like I’m a college professor or something more distinguished than I really am. The biking has made me leaner. I was always comfortable in my body, but now I feel better, more alive.
I still look over my shoulder when the door opens in a restaurant or a shop, but now the person coming in is usually a friend or a tourist looking for some clam chowder or a painting of the island. I paint a little, too, when I’m not out on the bike. I have an easel that I can set up wherever I like and some empty canvases that I fill with the bright colors of the ocean and the sky and the cliffs. People buy them, wanting them as souvenirs of their stay here. I’d never done anything creative before. Didn’t think I could. My hands had never held a paintbrush. It felt heavy to me the first time, that thin little stick.
I started the bike tours because of my friend Steve, who owns one of the independent taxis on the island. Taxi drivers here are also tour guides, and I took Steve’s tour not long after I settled here. He told me everything I know about the island: its history, its landmarks, where the dead bodies are buried, so to speak. He tried to talk me into driving a hack, but I can’t get a license so the bike thing was a fallback. I run the tours through one of the rental places; I bring in the business, split the takings forty–sixty. I get the forty, but I’m not complaining. I take home cash.
I didn’t tell Steve why I couldn’t get a driver’s license, and he didn’t ask. It’s that New England Yankee thing: they keep to themselves and let strangers in selectively. For some reason, I passed Steve’s test. We meet every Friday for happy hour at Club Soda up on Connecticut. It’s where the locals hang out. There’s foosball and pool and darts and usually music of some sort. The beer is cold, and if you want to be left alone, no one will bother you.
I go sometimes without Steve and have a burger if I don’t want to cook. I am doing just that now, minding my own business, when Steve comes in with the paper. Not the Block Island Times, but the Providence Journal. He’d gone to the mainland today to pick up his new LCD TV. I didn’t think he was back yet; otherwise, I would’ve invited him along.
‘Hey, Nicole,’ he says as he shifts his heavy frame onto the tall chair across the table from me.
I look up from my plate and nod, my mouth full of beef and bun and lettuce. Steve is about sixty-five, the same age my father would be today if he were alive. He’s tall, with a big barrel chest and bushy white hair and a nicely trimmed beard. He plays Santa every Christmas for the kids at town hall. Steve was a geologist in his other life, that’s how he ended up here, studying the island’s rock formations. But when he’d spent all his grant money, he stayed, writing up his research, buying his first cab and settling into island life. He married a local girl who died twenty years ago of breast cancer. He swears he will never love another woman again. And then he asks me again to marry him, because I’m the only woman left who will tolerate all of his tired old stories. It’s a joke almost as old as the stories now, but we keep it up just because we can.
Steve perches his reading glasses on his nose.
‘Interesting story in the paper today,’ he says, his voice low, a tone in it I haven’t heard before. ‘They’re doing a series on cold cases. You know, police cases that never got solved?’