“Whose were the others?”
I already knew Brian didn’t particularly care for Kramer, but now I’m starting to wonder if perhaps this is more than simple dislike. Could it be he harbored suspicions of his own?
I decide to take a chance.
“Jesper Olson, Bryonne Taylor, and Jamie Lyons.”
Jumping a foot when his hands slam down on the counter, I almost sever my finger in the process. Blood starts welling from a nasty cut on my left index finger. I drop the knife and quickly cup my free hand underneath so I don’t contaminate the food, before turning to the large sink.
“Shit. I’m sorry,” Brian mumbles, rushing around the prep station to my side to survey the damage. “Dammit. You got yourself good.”
He dives under the sink and surfaces with what looks like a tackle box but appears to hold a well-stocked first aid kit.
“Jamie was a good kid,” he mumbles while tending to my finger with great care. “Reminded me of my grandson, David, always hungry. Hung out in here a lot and actually helped me get familiarized with the kitchen when I first started. I asked Kramer once if he knew why the boy stopped coming around. He said something about all these kids being one step from a life of crime and he wouldn’t be surprised if Jamie had gotten himself in trouble. Couldn’t believe he’d say that, someone in his position. Hated the guy ever since. That benevolent, holier-than-thou attitude he puts on is as fake as can be.”
I try to keep my mouth shut so I don’t interrupt the unexpected flow of information. Better he volunteers than be prompted by me.
Interesting though, just like Chantel’s file, Jamie’s wasn’t old enough to justify destruction.
Brian doesn’t mention the other two but they could’ve easily predated his time at the center. Hopefully, Mitch can find out some more on them today.
His departure last night had been rather abrupt again. I can’t quite get a bead on the man. One minute he looks at me with what I would swear to be heated interest, and the next he’s marching out the door without so much as a glance back.
Maybe I’m imagining things, I’ve spent so many years intentionally cultivating an unremarkable persona, it’s been a while since I’ve received any interest from the opposite sex.
“Now one of these hobnobbing sessions again,” Brian continues his rant. “Parading those kids in front of a bunch of do-gooders like circus animals looking for handouts. Every couple of months he does this. Turns my stomach.”
Do-gooders.
Yesterday he called them dignitaries. Fundraising is typically done once a year, but apparently this happens every few months? Something feels off about that.
I’m starting to wonder who’ll be showing up for breakfast.
“Has Sally been filling your ear?” he suddenly asks, taping down the thin layer of gauze he wrapped around my finger.
“Sally?”
He hands me a glove to wear over my bandaged hand.
“I know she raised concern about one of the girls; Melissa. Took it to Kramer, who shot her down. Next thing I know, the FBI is here looking into another girl’s disappearance. Somewhere in all that you show up, a friend of Sally’s, asking questions. It all seems a bit coincidental. Doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out something is going on.”
Busted.
Now the question is whether to play innocent, or come clean. At least partially, since I’m not about to divulge the extent of this investigation. I think he can be trusted—he seems genuine enough in his dislike of the director and concern for the kids—but you never know, so I’m remaining cautious.
Still, it could be handy to have someone like Brian on board. Clearly, he has good instincts, connects with the kids—probably better than I have—and has been here long enough for staff to relax around him.
“Sally asked me to help,” I simplify. “She felt she wasn’t getting anywhere with her concerns and asked me to look into it.”
One of those heavy eyebrows lifts slowly.
“And you’re qualified, how?”
The sarcasm is thick. I don’t blame him—I want people to underestimate me—but now I have to come up with a believable story.
“I’m an investigative reporter. Sally hoped I could dig up enough to do a story, get attention that way.”
I go back to cutting potatoes, resisting the temptation to watch for his reaction, which would make my lie too easy to spot.
He’s quiet for a long time before he finally speaks, making it obvious I haven’t fooled him one bit.
“I guess we’ll go with that.”
Half an hour later, the director bursts into the kitchen.
“How much longer? There’s not even coffee out there,” he barks.
Brian doesn’t even turn away from the scrambled eggs he’s finishing on the griddle.
“Ten minutes. Opal will bring out the coffee shortly.”
He never noticed me until Brian mentioned my name, and even then, I barely get a glance.
“What is she doing here?”
It’s like I’m not even here. I resist the urge to assert myself, which would be counterproductive to keeping a low profile.
“Helping me. Since I didn’t know until late yesterday you were bringing guests for breakfast, I needed an extra pair of hands to get it done.”
For a moment, it looks like Kendrick, aka Kramer, is going to say something but changes his mind. I resist reacting to the shudder running down my spine when he turns his eyes on me.
“Hurry up with the coffee.”
Mitch
“Holy shit.”
Matt is hanging over my shoulder as I pull the pictures Opal sent me earlier up on my laptop.
“Is that Congressman Melnyk?”
“Yup. And check this out.”
I scroll to the next picture, which is of everyone at the table. I’m guessing Opal recognized the congressman, but may have missed the significance of another man at the table.
“Whoa, Paul Krebs?”
Figures Matt would recognize the former NFL player turned sports anchor. The man religiously follows the scores on his phone when work keeps him away from his games.
“And that guy is, Russel Germain, a Lexington council member and real estate lawyer. I had to look him up.”
Fourth at the table is the object of our investigation.
“Interesting combo. Do we know what they’re doing there?”
“They’re all rich. As far as Opal has heard, this is a push for funding for the center,” I relay.
“But you’re not buying it,” Matt prompts, taking a seat on the edge of the hotel bed.
“Neither is she. According to the center’s cook, this isn’t the first time this year he’s invited a group of bigwigs for a meal.”
“Granted, it’s odd, but I’m not sure how it relates to Georgia Braxton’s disappearance.”
I shake my head, thinking about the conversation I had last night with Opal. One that had me up half the night, scouring social media to see what I could find on the other three names on those files Kramer requested.
“Not just hers. Don’t forget Melissa, Bobby-Jean, and Chantel, and we may have more than that.”
I toss the notepad I’ve been scribbling on half the night to him. Information I was able to find on two of the three names.