Chapter 4: The Dime

I did not go to the boathouse.

A man who wants to tell you the truth does it in daylight.

A man who says "come alone" at night wants you somewhere with no witnesses.

I texted Quentin from Dinah's kitchen: If you have something to say, say it at the Dime on Main Street at noon.

He answered in under a minute: Fine.

Dinah's mother handed me an apron before I could ask.

"You can't stand around waiting," she said. "Table four wants refills."

The Dime had eleven stools, six booths and a pie case with a crack across the glass.

The regulars looked up when I came out of the kitchen, and none of them looked away.

An old man in a feed-store cap held out his coffee cup with two fingers.

"You're the other one," he said.

"The other what?"

"The other twin. Your father used to sit right there on Thursdays and eat the apple pie."

He pointed at the corner booth with a trembling hand.

"Said it was the only pie in the state that wasn't trying to impress him."

My throat closed.

I had been told my father died in a crash and that was all I'd ever been told.

Nobody at the Ellinghams' table had ever said he ate pie.

"Did he come alone?" I asked.

"With a partner, sometimes. Tall man. Good coat. Never finished his plate."

"Do you remember his name?"

"Lord, no," the old man said. "I only remember the pie."

I refilled his cup and my hand was shaking.

At ten to twelve, Elias Haddon walked in and took the stool at the end of the counter.

He wore a gray sweater instead of his black overcoat, and there were shadows under his eyes.

"Pie," he said to me.

"We're not open to the staff of Leopold Ellingham."

"I'm off shift."

"You're never off shift."

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