We Were Never Here, page 14
Her impish smile confirmed it.
“So it turns out I didn’t even need to find the first one.” I peeled back the wrapper. “And drink coffee mixed with mysterious invisible ink.”
“Kristen told me to bring this right over. In case you didn’t find the first clue.” She pressed her palms together. “This is fun—I haven’t done anything like this since my sorority days.”
“Which was all of, like, two years ago.” I pulled apart the cupcake’s base and plucked something waxy from its center. A folded slip of parchment paper—Priya leaned over my shoulder to read it:
Already, she’s Kibbling through her epic day!
Out on Rogers, Mona’s assembling nutty lattes.
Will they get her order right
And make a beverage to delight?
“All right, so you’re here at Kibble,” Priya proclaimed, arms crossed, “and Café Mona is on Rogers Street, and that’s where you always get a latte. Are you supposed to go there next? Ooh, thanks!” She took the cupcake half from my outstretched hand.
“Maybe? It seems a bit obvious. And I don’t get nutty lattes—I get oat milk. Shut up.” We giggled at my milk snobbery. I reread it. “The rhythm is weird too. With the first two lines.”
Russell cruised into the office, thick blond hair bopping.
“I should probably at least turn on my computer,” Priya said.
“Same. Hopefully this can wait.” I tossed the slip of paper onto my desk.
“I want play-by-plays—this is the most exciting thing that’s happened at work since a bad batch of spinach sickened cats aaaall over the Eastern Seaboard.” She flourished her palm.
“Oh God. Let’s hope my birthday does not end with cat diarrhea.”
I answered some emails while polishing off the cupcake. When I picked up the scrap again, sugar zapping through my blood, I almost laughed aloud:
Already, she’s Kibbling through her epic day!
Out on Rogers, Mona’s assembling nutty lattes.
The first letters of the first words: A-S-K-T-H-E-D-O-O-R-M-A-N. I grabbed my building pass and headed for the elevator.
Jeffrey leveled a blank, rheumy stare at me instead of answering, then shuffled over to his desk and produced a small stuffed animal. It was a cat—black and white and a few inches tall. I thanked him and turned it over in my hands, looking for more. Kristen and I both liked cats, but we had no special associations with them. My job at Kibble—was that the clue?
Upstairs, the toy’s shiny black eyes watched me as I worked. The scavenger hunt hovered over my shoulders: Kristen and I hadn’t communicated in code like this since college. Was there a deeper implication here?
A text from Kristen: “Happy birthday, my beautiful friend! How’s your day?”
I hesitated for a second, then wrote, “Thank you! I cannot believe you went to all this trouble, you puzzle-making genius!” I picked up the cat again.
This time, I noticed that what I’d taken to be a blue collar was actually a thin strip of fabric. I unwound it (like a noose, I thought, or a garrote) and spread it across my desk.
Oh hey, the Fourth exciting clue! // Soon you will get your proper due. // Yes, now the showboating must end // Before I over milk this trend. // You’ve shown a lotta logic here // The ending is now drawing near.
“Get your proper due,” “showboating must end,” “ending drawing near”…what did it say about my general emotional state that it all sounded ominous?
Priya popped by, her cheeks flush with excitement. She furrowed her brow at the blue snippet.
“I have no idea,” she announced, leaning back. “Y’all are too fancy for me.”
“It’s weird that Fourth is capitalized, right? That’s gotta mean something.”
“It is weird, since otherwise there aren’t really any typos. This too.” She pinned the strip under her finger. “ ‘Over milk’—that should be hyphenated.”
“It’s an odd phrase, ‘over-milk this trend.’ You don’t really milk a trend.” I stared for a second, feeling the pieces slide into place the way the pins align on a picked lock. I grabbed a Sharpie and scratched at the fabric:
Oh hey, the Fourth exciting clue! // Soon you will get your proper due. // Yes, now the showboating must end // Before I over milk this trend. // You’ve shown a lotta logic here // The ending is now drawing near.
I chuckled. “Get oat milk lotta—latte—now. The fourth word of every line.”
Priya clapped her hands. “Go see your man!”
I made her promise to cover for me, then skidded out onto Rogers Street. The rain had stopped and the sun squinted between the clouds. I was almost to Café Mona’s door when I remembered Aaron wouldn’t be there—he mostly worked afternoons.
Well, crap. Did I have to find another clue inside the coffee shop? Inside, I paused and pictured Kristen hanging out here before planting the next riddle, inside my beautiful, impenetrable Café Mona—slung across the mismatched chairs and lumpy sofas, wrapping her fingers around their fat, chipped mugs. It felt incongruous, a mismatched collage.
Aaron was there, ensconced in a green armchair and buried in a book. A smile stretched across his face as I headed toward him.
“Well, if it isn’t the birthday queen!” He stood to kiss me, then wrapped me in a hug. My shoulders eased and my heart rate slowed. “Having a good day?”
“Yep!” I sat. “I’m several clues deep into Kristen’s scavenger hunt. Did she loop you into it?”
“Sure did!” He leaned forward. “What are the other clues?”
I pulled them out of my purse one by one; Aaron kept shaking his head, astonished. He’d been the one to plant the invisible-ink circle inside the mug and slide it to the front, I learned. Not Kristen.
“And come to think of it, this clue was foolproof too.” I handed him the blue strip. “If I didn’t catch the doorman bit and took the cupcake one literally, I’d still end up here. Kristen thought of everything.”
“What, does she think you’re not as smart as her?” The joke hung in the air for a moment. The scavenger hunt did feel a little like a tacit declaration: Nobody knows your brain like I do. But no, it was a labor of love, nothing more. Not a reminder that she would always outwit me, always have the upper hand.
Aaron held out a small, neatly wrapped rectangle. “For you!”
“This is so sweet! I thought dinner was the gift.” Aaron had offered to cook for me that evening—candlelight, cloth napkins, the whole nine yards.
A shadow flashed across his eyes, and then he shrugged. “I couldn’t wait!”
A white box, creamy and smooth. I lifted the lid, then peeled back a fold of gossamery paper.
The room fell silent. All I could hear was my heart beating in my ears.
Because what was inside was impossible. It had been stolen from my bag that awful night in Quiteria, Chile.
Inside the box was the green leather wallet.
CHAPTER 19
My fingers sprang open and the box clattered to the floor, tissue paper crinkling. I gasped and lunged for it; Aaron did the same, and our heads bonked near our knees.
“Sorry! I’m such a klutz.” I set the box on my lap and held the wallet. On closer inspection, it wasn’t exactly the same. The zipper was different, the card slots vertical instead of horizontal. Still: freakishly similar.
“It’s so my style,” I said, which was true, and forced a smile. “Thank you so much, Aaron.”
“Kristen helped me pick it out!” he said. “She said you got pickpocketed in Chile. That sucks—you didn’t tell me that.”
A rush of cold, like a tap turned on in my chest. What else had she told him? “I was embarrassed—I left my purse open in a bar like a dummy. But this is so thoughtful and perfect. Thank you.”
“I’m glad you like it!” I could tell he didn’t totally believe me. I leaned in for a kiss.
“Did you look inside?”
“Oh God, are we not at the end yet?” I unzipped the wallet and nosed my fingers into each compartment. There it was: a crisp dollar bill with Kristen’s tiny cursive across the front. I read it aloud:
Before we conclude this, I just have to ask:
Who handles the handler’s masterful task?
Who debeards the barber and cooks for a cook?
Who buries a digger and steals from a crook?
Who makes up a barrister’s ultimate will?
Now seek out the person who just fits the bill.
My breath caught in my throat and I was momentarily speechless. Buried bodies. Stolen wallets. Wills for the dearly departed. Friends and families and next of kin spangled across South Africa and Spain, begging for clues to the young men’s whereabouts.
But Aaron mistook my horror for puzzlement. “Sorry, can’t help you—I can’t even do a sudoku. An easy one.”
I chewed on my lip. “It’s kind of morbid, right? Burying and stealing and writing wills?” My heart thumped in my wrists and neck.
Aaron plucked the bill from my hand. “It’s sorta like, ‘Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.’ It asks who does the thing for whoever does it professionally.” He pointed. “Cooking for a cook, making up a lawyer’s will. Wouldn’t that just be, like, another cook? And another lawyer?”
I felt it snap into place. “Let me see that again.” Aaron watched, grinning in anticipation. “Oh right, duh. ‘Who debeards the barber.’ It’s a famous logical paradox: If a barber…that’s it, if a barber exclusively shaves every townsman who doesn’t shave himself, who shaves the barber?”
He furrowed his brow. “Not the barber?”
“He can’t, because he only shaves men who don’t shave themselves. So there’s no solution—a paradox. It’s a thought exercise. Kristen and I learned about it in this philosophy class we took. I forget what it’s called.”
But Aaron had his phone out. “Is it Russell’s paradox?”
“That’s it!” I met his high-five. And then the final realization clunked. “Oh my God. Russell. My boss, Russell. Do you think I’m supposed to talk to him?”
Aaron’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Well, would Kristen have the balls to call him up? Tell him what to do?”
“She would.” The box with its pretty green ghost inside slipped off my lap again, and I caught it before it hit the ground. “She absolutely would.”
* * *
—
Back at my desk, I hesitated. Aaron had procured a wallet and along with it, some intel on Chile, compliments of Kristen—the story of the pickpocket, something I’d kept from him. What would crop up in this conversation with my boss?
I lingered in the doorway of Russell’s glass-fronted office, then gave the frame a timid knock. He started, then broke into a grin.
“Word on the street is it’s your birthday!”
“The rumors are true.”
“Well, happy birthday. Big plans?”
I shook my head. “Just dinner tonight. And…a friend of mine set up a cute treasure hunt for me.”
“Kristen! She is one convincing lady. And a great friend, because she got you a day and a half off.”
I was quiet for a moment. “Wait, what?”
“Your weekend starts now. Don’t tell the others or everyone will be wanting the same treatment. But if you keep an eye on email tomorrow, we’ll call it work from home.” He winked, and I continued to gawp.
“So…I should go home?”
“I think Kristen has bigger plans than that. But yeah, get outta here. Enjoy your birthday.” He waved and turned his attention back to his screen.
Bigger plans? Aaron was making me dinner tonight; I’d agreed to hang out with Kristen tomorrow, Friday. And things with Kristen were still so…strange, especially the way she zipped off like a dragonfly whenever I tried to talk to her, head-on, about Chile. Trepidation stirred, with white-hot guilt on its heels: Kristen planned this big, intricate treasure hunt because she loves you. Whatever she’s got in mind, it’s probably awesome.
I called her as I traversed the parking lot. “Dude! What on Earth did you say to Russell?”
She giggled. “I just reminded him what an asset you are to the company. Are you on your way home?”
“Leaving now.”
“I’ll be waiting for you!” she cried, then hung up.
* * *
—
A Lexus SUV hunched on the curb in front of my apartment, and little blossoms from a dogwood tree powdered the windshield. Kristen climbed out as I stepped into the warm air.
“Happy birthdaaay!” She threw her arms around me.
“Thank youuuuu,” I sang back. “I can’t believe you got me out of work! What’s the plan?” Was this it, the climax of her intricate plot?
“We’re going Up North!” She opened her palms to the sky. “To Nana and Bill’s lake house! This is gonna be so fun!”
It flashed before me: a broad cabin with floor-to-ceiling windows, set low on a spit of land jutting out into Lake Novak. The house was built from pines stacked like Lincoln Logs, with a vast, vaulted atrium and bedrooms in a ring on the second floor. I’d visited with Kristen a few times in college and shortly after, and had mostly forgotten about it since.
My mouth hung open. “We’re going now?”
“Yep!” Kristen waved toward the Lexus. “Bill let me borrow his car. I know how much you love it there.”
She was right, the whole area made my heart smile: winding country roads etched into thick forests, a jumble of lakes with just a few miles between them, like they were holes poked by a giant. Ancient evergreens stretching hundreds of feet toward the sky, maples and oaks filling in all the negative space.
But right now, my chest was compressing at the thought. A finch overhead stopped singing and swooped onto the hood of my car, and the fear crystallized: Was it really a good idea for us to leave town together? Lately, traveling as a duo had led to chaos—as if the two of us, untethered from our homes, were a beacon for cruelty.
And anyway, I had plans with Aaron tonight.
“I was actually supposed to—”
“Don’t worry, I talked to Aaron. This weekend, I have you all to myself!”
“Oh! Was he…okay with that?”
Her face darkened for a second, like it was on a dimmer switch. My stomach twisted as I wondered what tone she’d taken with him, what she’d said in conversations I wasn’t privy to. Sharing the pickpocket story, guiding him toward a look-alike wallet. Informing him that his plans were canceled, that I’d be hers on the night of my birthday. But then she grinned. “Of course. He is truly such a sweetheart.” She gestured toward my front door. “Let’s get you packed, yeah? Beat rush hour?”
I stared at her. Too long. I thought briefly of pushing back, of saying no, of suggesting we set out tomorrow, not today. But I knew I couldn’t resist. Surprises were like mine shafts and I’d just stepped into one; the only path was downward into the chilly dark.
* * *
—
Lake Novak was three hours north of Milwaukee—two on I-43 and then another on country roads, passing through tiny downtowns that were like knots on a string. Black Creek, Bonduel, Cecil, Mountain, each a sudden burst of supper clubs, hardware stores, and ugly bars, beer signs crowding the windows. We stopped for burgers and frozen custard (“Get the peanut-butter sundae—it’s your birthday!”) and watched billboards roll by as strip malls and fast-food joints turned to undulating fields of corn and soy and wheat. The journey tugged at my sense of déjà vu, and with a sickening punch I figured out why: We’d been just like this, Kristen in the driver’s seat, the road unfurling out front as rows of crops ruffled beside us, when we made our way to Quiteria.
Having Kristen here in Wisconsin should be a dream, but I couldn’t relax. Our togetherness felt like playing with fire, like flicking a lighter closer and closer to a cloud of gasoline. What if fate struck a third time? What if a handsy guy attacked her and we were disposing of a body once again? Much as I hated to admit it, I was glad she was staying with her grandparents and not with me. Grateful for the fifteen-plus-mile cushion.
I sent Aaron an apology for pushing back our plans, and he replied with a run of “Have fun!” texts—he was either fine with my ditching him or faking it well. At first it seemed odd that he’d given Kristen his blessing, but then I realized he didn’t have much of a choice: Could the brand-new boyfriend really say no to the best friend since college? Kristen had turned on men for much less.
Like Colin. I hadn’t felt as strongly about him as I did Aaron, but I’d liked him in that zippy, belly-butterflies way, and found myself mentally crocheting our coupledom into the future: spring picnics, summer weddings, hayrides and pumpkin patches, elegant holiday parties. I’d introduced him to Kristen, excitedly, and she’d seemed to like him too.
Until he and I had our first fight. It was over text, and while other friends to whom I’d sent the screenshots told me to give him the benefit of the doubt, Kristen had taken a very different stance: “Oh, hell no.” Though her proclamations stung, I’d felt grateful for the lack of pussyfooting and soothed by her solidarity; after all, if the roles were reversed, she’d want me to give it to her straight. And so I’d ended things with Colin. Confident it was the right call, because she’d never steered me wrong. But now…
I opened my texts, tilting my screen away from Kristen in what I hoped was a nonchalant lean, and for the first time in years I pulled up my final exchange with Colin. My eyes widened as I reread it: Was that what it had always said? Colin had asked if we were still on for drinks, with some cute emojis, and I’d unthinkingly said I was too swamped with work. He’d replied with sad faces, some frustration that I hadn’t given him more warning (Why didn’t I give him more warning?), and I’d disappeared for ten minutes—I could picture it now, polling friends, crowdsourcing my next move, my heart thrumming like a hummingbird—and then I’d replied with a weirdly formal text: “Colin, your anger and lack of respect for my time are unacceptable. Please don’t contact me again.”
