Jones was back in his Jeep by one. There were no messages from Melissa about appointments he had forgotten and nothing on his calendar except a meeting in six days. In six days, he would break Ruth’s heart. He wanted to rationalize it. What was six more days on top of six years? It was nothing, but Jones knew it would be everything to Ruth. A feeling of shame crept up like a tentacle and tried to grab hold of something inside of Jones. He forced himself to push the feeling away.
The girl—that was the name Jones had given whoever had left the messages in the café bathroom—was out there, and there was a chance Jones could save her. He just had to keep moving for as long as he could and hope he had enough time. Jones scrolled through his phone, selected The Rolling Stones, and turned the volume up loud enough to drown out his thoughts. When he heard the opening chords to “Moonlight Mile,” he turned the wheel and drove toward Brew.
Sheena was behind the counter again and the line was four deep. Jones made it five and looked around to make sure Diane wasn’t at a table nursing another bottomless glass of wine. When it was his turn to order, Jones turned to the only other person in line and said, “You go ahead. I’m having trouble deciding.”
Sheena rolled her eyes.
When it was his turn, Sheena said, “You manage to choose something?”
“Can I get a cortado?”
“Shocker.” Sheena opened a jar and scooped out some coffee beans. “You know I don’t even know your name.”
“Jones.”
Sheena put a hand on her hip. “That’s not a name.”
“Says the girl named Sheena.”
“Is that your first name?”
“Nope.”
“What is your first name?”
“Not the one they call me.”
Sheena rolled her eyes and turned her back on him. Jones waited for Sheena to finish grinding the coffee beans before he said, “Did you get a chance to ask around about the door?”
She nodded. Without looking turning her head, she said, “No one knows anything.”
“Did you paint over it yet?”
Jones saw her laugh. “It’s yours until the rent money runs out.”
“How long does twenty dollars get me?”
Sheena shrugged. “A week, or until my boss tells me to paint over it—whichever comes first.” She set the cortado down on the counter and took Jones’ money. “After my shift yesterday, I went and looked at the door. It’s weird. I almost never even notice what is on it until I’m painting over it. Even then, I usually just pay attention to the pictures or the really good swear words. That message was there for who knows how long and no one paid attention to it except you.” For a second, Jones thought Sheena sounded different. Her voice didn’t seem to have any of the piss and vinegar that had been there the day before, but then she said, “You some kind of do-gooder, or just a lonely guy looking for someone to talk to?”
Maybe just the vinegar.
“Neither. I think I only saw it because I was looking for something to see,” he said.
“What does that mean?”
Jones shook his head. “Nothing.” He reached for the coffee before Sheena tried a follow-up and found the glass easier to pick up. “It’s not as hot,” he said.
She pissed in the vinegar and said, “You whined like a bitch about it yesterday, so I eased up on the milk a bit.”
“Thanks.”
Sheena put two hands on the counter and Jones saw the veins in her arms come alive. “Let me see that picture again.”
Jones pulled out his phone and pulled up the image. He put the phone on the counter and Sheena picked it up. “Last night, I was lying in bed, thinking about that door.” She used two fingers to zoom in for a few seconds. Then she zoomed out and began scrolling through the other shots. “I couldn’t stop wondering about what other things I missed. How many other messages did I just paint over?”
Jones thought about that. How many other tags were buried in shallow graves under layers of paint? The bones were still there waiting to be uncovered; the problem was, this was no ordinary archeological dig. Scraping away the layers would require something other than shovels and brushes—it would need to be something chemical. There was also the issue of the site; it was a door and Jones didn’t own it.
He looked around. “The art on the walls is for sale?”
Sheena glanced at the various paintings. “A local artist had an event here and the owner made a deal with him. We agreed to sell them if he agreed to leave them up on the walls. It was a good deal. They almost never sell and I like the way they look.”
“What else is for sale here?”
The change in Sheena’s posture told Jones that the question offended her.
“Don’t be gross,” Jones said. “I want to buy the door.”
“There is no way my boss is going to let you walk away with our door. We run a place that serves coffee and bran muffins—people need to be able to use the bathroom.”
“I’d pay for a replacement.”
Sheena snorted. “He won’t go for it. The door is vintage.”
“Maybe I should talk to your boss.”
“No offence, but you’re kind of a kook.” She held out two palms. “I think you’re on the level, but my boss isn’t going to see it that way. He will definitely think you’re a kook.”
Jones saw a customer coming in and moved down the counter. He drank some of the coffee while Sheena made a London fog. By the time Sheena finished ringing up the woman and putting the cash in the till, Jones had a plan.
“What are you doing tonight?”