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WAYWARD PINES HOTEL
The smell of coffee beans pulled him off the bench. He looked up, saw a place called the Steaming Bean halfway up the block that had to be the source.
Hmm.
Wasn’t necessarily the most useful piece of knowledge, all things considered, but it dawned on him that he loved good coffee. Craved it. Another tiny piece of the puzzle that const.i.tuted his ident.i.ty.
He walked to the coffee shop and pulled open the screened door. The shop was small and quaint, and just by the smell of things, he could tell they brewed great product. A bar down the right side faced espresso machines, grinders, blenders, bottles of flavor shots. Three stools were occupied. A few sofas and chairs lined the opposite wall. A bookshelf of faded paperbacks. Two old-timers were at war on a chessboard with mismatched pieces. The walls displayed local artwork—a series of black-and-white self-portraits of some middle-aged woman whose expression never changed from photo to photo. Only the focus of the camera changed.
He approached the cash register.
When the twentysomething barista with blonde dreadlocks finally noticed him, he thought he detected a flicker of horror in her pretty eyes.
Does she know me?
In a mirror behind the register he caught his reflection and immediately understood what had prompted her look of disgust—the left side of his face was blanketed in a ma.s.sive bruise, and his left eye bulged, nearly swollen shut.
My G.o.d. Someone beat the s.h.i.+t out of me.
Aside from his hideous bruise, he wasn’t bad looking. Figured he stood six feet tall, maybe six-one. Short black hair, and a two-day beard coming in like a shadow across the lower half of his face. A solid, muscular build evident in the way his jacket hung on his shoulders and the taut stretch of the oxford across his chest. He thought he looked like some advertising or marketing exec—probably cut a d.a.m.n striking profile when he was shaved and polished up.
“What can I get for you?” the barista asked.
He might’ve killed for a cup of coffee, but he didn’t have a dime to whatever his name was.
“You brew good coffee here?”
The woman seemed confused by the question.
“Um, yeah.”
“The best in town?”
“This is the only coffee shop in town, but yeah, our coffee kicks a.s.s.”
The man leaned over the counter. “Do you know me?” he whispered.
“Excuse me?”
“Do you recognize me? Do I ever come in here?”
“You don’t know if you’ve been in here before?”
He shook his head.
She studied him for a moment, as if appraising his candor, trying to determine if this guy with a battered face was crazy or messing with her.
She finally said, “I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”
“You’re sure about that.”
“Well, it’s not like this is New York City.”
“Fair enough. Have you worked here long?”
“Little over a year.”
“And I’m not a regular or anything?”
“You’re definitely not a regular.”
“Can I ask you something else?”