Page 34 of Bad Intentions

“I’ll tell you this,” Steve said. “I’ll keep an eye on him. Next time he shows up, ring me. There are other ways to run a young kid out of town.”

Steve left, and I felt like finding that bastard myself and breaking his legs.

20

JOSIE

Givens hollers a good morning to me when I come in, but I quickly sneak into my office, take off my parka, and pick up the morning newspaper. With all that happened, I forgot to pick it up from our porch. The diner gets several every morning, and one is always left in the office.

KIDNAPPED WOMAN IS FOUND IN RENTED HOUSE IN BURNVILLE

I scan the article. It has less information than the TV news or what I already knew from the night before. No mention of my or the kidnapped woman’s name. No mention of the man’s name either—the newspaper didn’t have enough information when it was printed. Now, the stranger’s name is everywhere on TV and online.

I toss the newspaper aside and make my way into the main area.

Less than a dozen people sit at the tables, and Rika is at the counter again, drinking coffee, casually holding the newspaper as she reads. She’s wearing a black woolen coat, not bothering to take it off, and an orange sweater underneath it, in stark contrast with her blue braids. This girl is a walking exclamation point.

I wonder how invested she is in the article when she raises her eyes and locks them with mine. No “hi.” Just a quick nod, and her eyes drop to the newspaper again.

I check the orders at the serving window, then wipe the counter, though it looks clean.

“You got into some adventure last night, huh?” she asks when I wipe the counter in front of her.

“What are you talking about?” I ask with a straight face, fixing the sugar and condiment caddies in front of her.

“The kidnapped woman.” Rika scans the diner over her shoulder, then turns to me with a knowing look. “You are the one who found her.”

I cringe. How would she know that? My poker face probably sucks, but I try to keep it up. “What are you talking about?”

She shrugs. “My neighbor, Trevor, he’s a little on the weird side. Has a police scanner. Boredom, I guess.” She shrugs. “Boredom” is a keyword in this town. “And he’s friends with some girl who’s in the response unit for the local precinct. That’s how I got the deets.”

I don’t confirm this information, don’t give any details.

“Anyway,” she says. “I’m not cornering you. I’m just saying I know what happened.” She leans in closer. “I’m not telling anyone either,” she says in a half whisper, “until it’s official. So you can stop biting the inside of your cheek.”

I didn’t realize I was doing that. This girl is perceptive. She’s everywhere too. If she were a local and much older, I wouldn’t be surprised. In small towns, the locals know everyone and everything, every nook and cranny, all the secrets, addresses, and family histories going four generations back.

Rika is not a local, which makes her insider knowledge that much more peculiar.

“How did you get involved?” she asks.

“Nosy much? I’m not supposed to talk about it.” There, I confirmed it without actually saying much. But she knew it already.

Rika doesn’t respond or look away from me.

“What are you, an amateur sleuth or something?” I snort in contempt.

“Or something.” A little smile curves the corner of her lips. “That guy, the kidnapper, was part of the investigation years ago, with your grandma and all that.”

“How”—I look around and lean over, irritated but astonished—“how in the world would you know that?”

“I know quite a bit about this town’s history. You’d be surprised. Small towns are full of crazy stories.”

“Why?”

“Boredom.” She grins. “Trevor is a crime junkie. When we hang, he tells me all about it. Useful stuff, you know? Who is a creep. Who is dangerous. Who is worth rubbing shoulders with. Like Bjorn. You know Bjorn? The older guy who comes to Carrigan’s? Sits for hours by himself and drinks brandy? He’s built a bunker, a nuclear shelter of sorts on his farm. In case our world goes nuclear on each other, I know who to run to. They all come to my bar, you know.”

“Yeah? I’m not building a nuclear shelter.”