Page 32 of Solivagant

I sighed, because yes, I did, and I didn’t want him going on about his ridiculous theories again.

“He went missing this time last week.”

Don’t say it.

“You know where that friend of yours was that day?”

I groaned. “Yeah, I do, Dad. Tash was with me.”

“The whole day?”

“Yes, the whole day.”

His lips pursed, and he mumbled the next words. “Still reckon she’s one of those.”

“She ain’t.”

“That’s what she wants you to think, Jo. I’m telling you they can be damn convincing.”

“For the last time, Tash is not an alien. You’ve put your poster up. Now get going. I got shit to do.”

Dad was always suspicious of outsiders and anyone different. Apparently, it started when I was a baby, and some “alien” had mind-controlled him in the local park. My brother hadn’t seen anyone, though, and Mom firmly believed he’d had too much to drink when he should have been watching his children. As for me, I don’t know what happened. I was far too young to remember it. Maybe he had encountered something other, but it sure as fuck weren’t an alien.

“I’m just saying something ain’t right with her, Jo. You’d best be careful.” He pointed a crooked finger at me.

“Yep. Still being careful from the last three hundred and eighty-four times you’ve told me.” I barely managed to keep from rolling my eyes.

“Right. I’d best be off then. You should come for dinner one of these nights. Your mom won’t mention it, but she misses ya. Especially so close to… you know.”

I sighed. It was coming up on ten years since Jacob had gone missing. “I will, Dad.”

He nodded, picking up his cowboy hat from the workbench to put it on. Then, with his ridiculous stack of posters in one hand and his can of beer in the other, he turned toward the door before stopping suddenly. “Oh, also, there’s a new guy in town. Name’s Jack. He’s working down at Marty’s.”

“He suspicious too?”

Dad made a pensive sound. “I think he might be okay. Just thought you should know.”

There was absolutely no reason I needed to know about that. I much preferred to do my drinking here in the workshop or the comfort of my own home rather than The Rusty Nail, so there was almost zero chance of me running into some new bartender. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Alright, I’ll get outta your hair.”

Much to my relief, he did leave this time, closing the door to the shop behind him.

I waited a moment before walking over to the dusty window to pull down the poster.

Dale Miller. Beloved husband and father. I huffed. The bar was on the goddamned floor for husbands and fathers around here. Everyone was always “beloved” when they were missing or dead. Fact of the matter was Dale was a mean drunk. Spent more money down at that bar than he did on his family and more time out in the woods hurting things that weren’t fast enough to escape him. He was a big man with a small mind. Thought himself superior. Thought himself untouchable. He wasn’t.

“I like your dad,” came a voice from behind me. “He really gets me.”

I inhaled, looking at the now crumpled paper in my hand and releasing my death grip on it to slam it down on the workbench instead.

Tash picked it up. “They couldn’t find a better photo?”

She smoothed out the crinkles as I grabbed my beer and headed back to the cabinet I’d been working on before Dad interrupted.

“New target practice, maybe?” Tash laughed, before skipping over to our dart board and pinning the poster up on top of it.

I sighed. “Shit like that’s why people think something’s wrong with you.” That, and the whole goth punk thing she had going on. Today’s look was blunt bangs and shaved sides framing teased, long black hair, white foundation with heavy black eyeliner and lips, and a sleeveless tank for some metal band revealing well-defined arm muscles and pants with more chains than the local hardware store. Then there were the boots that gave her easily an extra four inches in height.