Hidden (Nicole Jones #1)(2)

I swallow, but it feels like the burger’s too big for my throat and I have to take a swig of my Bud Light to force it down. ‘Yeah?’ I ask, although I don’t really want to go there.

Steve puts the paper on the table and turns it so it’s the right side up for me. I push my glasses higher and squint through the bottom half of the lenses. Immediately I want to laugh. Not because the story is funny, but because I’m relieved. The story is about a series of rapes that occurred twenty-five years ago. The rapist wore a mask, never spoke and always entered through a window and left the same way. None of the women could ever identify him, even though there had been a couple of suspects. But with no hard evidence, the case stayed open.

I concentrate on the story, reading each word as Steve wants me to. When I’m done, I take another swig of my beer. ‘Interesting.’ It’s all I can think of to say.

‘He could be anywhere,’ Steve speculates, flagging down Abby, the waitress, and asking for a beer.

‘It’s creepy,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to think he’s here, living among us.’ Not like me.

Abby returns with the beer, sets it down, and Steve orders a burger just like mine. No tomato. No ketchup. Just lettuce, mayonnaise and mustard. We’re like an old married couple. Abby is used to us. She winks at me as she leaves.

‘Just think about it, though,’ Steve continues, even though I want him to stop. ‘He was never caught. What’s he doing now? Is he married? Does he have kids?’

‘Maybe he’s dead,’ I say flatly, taking another bite so my mouth’s full and I can’t respond to Steve’s expression.

‘You’re heartless,’ he says after a minute.

‘He’s a rapist,’ I say after I swallow. ‘It would be better if he’s dead. Then he’s no longer a threat.’ I think for a second. ‘Maybe the reason the rapes stopped is because he’s dead. Maybe he died, so he couldn’t rape anymore. The case will always be open, then, won’t it?’

Steve admits he hasn’t thought of that. He prefers to think of this animal as living among regular people, trying to be like one of them but always fighting his demons.

‘You should write for TV or something,’ I say when Abby brings his burger. By now I’ve finished mine, so I order some onion rings for us to share. I don’t like anyone to eat alone. Except for me.

I pull my sweater around my shoulders and shiver. It’s the beginning of May; the island’s getting ready for tourists, but it’s still chilly as the breezes sweep off the ocean and envelop the island. It’s always windy here; I’m always wearing a sweater or a fleece or a windbreaker. I don’t think I’ve put a bathing suit on the entire time I’ve been here.

‘You’ve got to be from Florida,’ Steve starts up again. Another old argument. ‘No one can be as cold as you are all the time.’

I don’t answer. I have no history, no life before Block Island. Steve teases me, but he respects that and doesn’t ask me anything about it. It’s why we’re friends.

I busy myself reading the paper placemat. ‘We’re All Here Because We’re Not All There.’ It’s Club Soda’s slogan. When I first got here, it struck me as something I could have as my own.

The onion rings arrive. Steve has moved onto the sports section of the paper, speculating about the Red Sox and if they’ll win the Series again.

‘They’ve become the Yankees,’ he says somberly, because that’s a bad thing. But I know at the same time it’s a good thing because they’ve stopped disappointing. Baseball was new to me fifteen years ago; now it’s a bond I’ve got with my new friends. I’ve surprised myself in many ways.

‘Getting ready for the season?’ Steve asks, folding the paper up, finished with it. He takes an onion ring, dips it in ketchup and brings it to his mouth. I take the biggest one off the top and nod.

‘They’ll be here soon,’ I say, meaning the tourists. Just a few weeks now until Memorial Day weekend, when they’ll file off the ferries into our lives. ‘I’ve been mapping out a couple of new routes.’

‘You can still find new routes after all this time?’ Steve is teasing me. Every year I change up the routes, just in case I’ve got repeat customers. I don’t want them to think it’s been there, done that.

I take another onion ring and suck the onion out of the fried breading.

‘That’s so gross,’ Steve says, but then he does it, too. We go through the rest of the onion rings and leave their skins, like shedded snakeskins, on the plate.

When we walk out of Club Soda, the night air pierces my face and I wish I had more than my sweater. I walk around to the bike rack and start undoing the lock.

‘I can take you back,’ Steve says, nodding toward his Explorer in the lot.

I’m not one to argue. We get the bike into the back of the SUV with no problem, and as I start to climb into the passenger seat, a sleek black car skids around the corner and slams on its brakes. Steve takes a step out of the Explorer, ready to give the guy a lesson on how to drive here. I lean around in my seat to watch, but the dim light inside means I can’t see very well.

I hear raised voices, Steve’s and another man’s. I see a shadowy outline and hope he doesn’t take a swing at Steve, who isn’t in the best of shape. But then it’s over, and Steve is back, getting into the Explorer and shutting his door, which means the light goes out abruptly.