Part 42 (2/2)
”Or maybe her daddy's involved.”
Gia hated that thought but had to accept it as a possibility.
”None of that matters as much as finding her. We can let the police sort out the rest afterwards.”
”I'll handle it,” Jack said. ”I'll be in touch with Lyle tomorrow and see how far he wants to take this. Maybe I can talk him into tearing up his cellar floor.”
”And me?”
”You work on your paintings and whatever else you usually do on a Wednesday.”
”Yes, Poppa.”
He kissed her cheek. ”Please, Gia. Stay safe and stay put.”
Gia nodded. ”Okay.”
But she couldn't take her eyes off the Portman family phone number at the bottom of the screen... a 212 exchange... right here in Manhattan...
IN THE IN-BETWEEN.
The being that was Tara Portman floats in the darkness between. She knows who she is, she knows who she was, she knows why she is here, she knows who must die.
But after that death-another death in this place of death-what?
Return to nothingness?
No... there must be more. She wants, she needs more.
Knowledge of her old self has awakened memories of the barely blossoming promise of her life before it was ended.
Knowing what she has lost... this is agony.
Knowing all that she will never have, never be... this is unbearable.
The being that was Tara Portman wants more.
WEDNESDAY.
1.
”It's called what?” Abe said, frowning down at the froth-filled cup Jack had just placed before him on the counter.
”Chai,” Jack said. ”They told me at the coffee shop it's very in.”
”What is it?”
”Gal said it's an Indian thing.”
”Indian as in the subcontinent?”
”Right. Told me it was tea with milk, plus sugar and spice and everything nice.”
All true. The woman ahead of him at the coffee shop this morning had ordered a chai and he'd asked about it. He'd figured what the h.e.l.l, try anything once. Anything to give him a break from thinking about Tara Portman and Gia and Duc Ngo, and all the possible interconnections.
”I got you a skinny.”
Abe's frown deepened. ”A skinny what?”
”It means they use skim milk instead of regular-'cause I know you're watching your waist.”
Yeah, Jack thought. Watching it grow.
Abe continued to stare at the cup. It seemed to have mesmerized him. ”How do you spell it?”
”C-H-A-I.”; Abe shook his head. ”You're p.r.o.nouncing it all wrong.” He repeated the word his own way, hardening the ”ch” to a raspy sound that originated in the back of his throat. ”Like Chaim or Chaya or Chanukah.”
”Not according to the girl who sold it to me.”
Abe shrugged. ”Whatever. And I should be drinking this why?”
”I read where it's the new fave drink of all the cool, contemporary, contemplative people. I decided I want to be cool, contemporary, and contemplative.”
”For that you'll need more than a drink. What's in the other bag you brought in? The one you put on the floor?”
”Never mind that now.” Jack lifted his cup. ”Let's give it a go. Chai away.”
Abe toasted with his. ”Lochai.”
Jack took a sip, swirled it across tongue, then looked around for a place to spit. Finding none, he swallowed.
Abe's sour expression mirrored Jack's sentiments. ”Like an accident in a clove factory.”
Jack nodded as he recapped his cup. ”Well, now that I've tried chai, I can tell you that I feel cool and contemporary, but I'm also contemplating why anyone would want to drink this stuff.”
Abe handed his cup to Jack. ”See if you can get a refund. Meanwhile, have you got in that second bag what I hope?”
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