JANE ADAMS
The prospect of the bar closing down added a touch of drama to my thoughts, momentarily diverting me from the persistent weight of the suicide case that lingered in my mind. The bar, my sanctuary, provided refuge amidst the challenges. Despite some customers being a real headache, it paled in comparison to the daily grind at the coffee shop.
Here, within the dimly lit walls of the bar, people shed their daytime masks, revealing their authentic selves. It was fascinating how they concealed their true identities during the day, fearing judgment, only to emerge in the night, liberated from societal expectations.
Call them hypocrites, but can we really blame them? Not everyone possesses the courage to defy societal norms dictated by the majority. When conformity seems synonymous with the "right" way, it's understandable why some prefer to blend in rather than stand out.
It's often overlooked that as humans, emotions are an integral part of our existence. When someone hurls hurtful words, it stings, and it genuinely saddens me. The challenge lies in not letting others' opinions dictate our actions, though easier said than done. Nancy once praised my ability to disregard judgment and follow my own path. While I may seem unfazed, encountering someone like Mr. Martinez at the coffee shop, singling me out without reason, still stirs feelings of hurt and anger. It's a constant reminder that people have the power to create monsters through their actions and words.
In the bustling coffee shop, a lone customer savoured his americano, fingers dancing on the keyboard in a symphony of silence. His unfamiliar face intrigued me, but he wasn't the only newcomer in the morning scene. The once-thriving space had transformed into a hive of activity, a departure from the usual calm. While the increased foot traffic promised a boost in sales, it left me weaving through tables, serving customers, and tidying up after an unfortunate spill – the aftermath of an arrogant patron. Ordinarily, the routine involves orderly lines, but today's coffee buzz brought an unexpected twist to the daily rhythm.
"It appears the mayor is gearing up for an epic bash. The town's buzzing with a sea of fresh faces, and from the looks of it, they've got some serious cash," Timothy remarked, eyeing the laptop screen. "Oh, and that chap over there? He's a renowned author known for spinning tales of murder and intrigue."
Perched behind the coffee shop counter, my shift long past its end, fatigue begged for a temporary reprieve. Seizing the chance for a moment's respite, I reclined. Timothy, our resident news guru, earned his moniker as the ultimate newscaster—forever abreast of the latest happenings, his insights startlingly accurate. Though not the most endearing character, his stories held an undeniable charm. In his presence, the need for TV or radio news vanished; he was our living, breathing bulletin.
"He must be in the business of offing people to write murder mysteries so vividly," Bella speculated.
"That's called creativity, Bella. Describing the unknown is an author's superpower. I see writers as human wizards, conjuring worlds they've never experienced," Nancy chimed in, her beaming smile revealing her admiration for authors. I couldn't help but agree with her perspective.
"Lame," Bella scoffed, rolling her eyes, seemingly unimpressed by the magic of literary imagination.
"Jane, what do you think?" Nancy abruptly shifted her focus my way.
"I couldn't agree more," I replied, feeling the weight of three curious gazes on me.
Bella chimed in, "Books? Please, she's practically married to her work with a nonexistent social life."
"Alright, gather around, folks! I've got some juicy news," Timothy declared, giving the table a playful tap.
I hesitated, unsure whether to engage, but Nancy, with a mischievous smile, pulled me into the circle.
"Swear on secrecy, everyone. Jane doesn't count; she's got no one to spill to," Timothy chuckled, expecting laughter that never came. Clearly, his humour needed a serious upgrade.
"Spill it, Tim," Bella urged with an impatient groan.
"I've got some intel that Amira's death is more than meets the eye, not just the police version," He dropped the bomb.
"What do you mean by..."
"Shhhh," Bella hushed Nancy, rolling her eyes. "Let him spill the tea already."
"The police stumbled upon scars on her body, suggesting she endured physical abuse. Her death may not be linked to the photos; it could have been her escape plan," He revealed.
"Oh my God, the church portrayed her story so differently. They cautioned girls not to tread her path, warning of an ominous fate if they did," Bella exclaimed, her disbelief echoing through the air.
"What about her father?" I couldn't help but wonder. Did he not know about her suffering, or did he choose silence? The mystery deepened.
"Yes, what about her father?" A sudden deep voice jolted us, causing a collective shiver.
The man Timothy dubbed an author leaned against the counter, his elbow propped, palm under his jaw—eyes hungry for untold tales.
"Is he a ghost or something? When did he get here?" Bella exclaimed, her chest pounding from the shock.
"Hahaha, sir, would you like anything else?" Timothy asked awkwardly, turning to face the man as if trying to recover from the unexpected scare.
"Ah, yes. I'd like to hear more of what you know. Your news seems quite reliable, especially since everyone was tuned in," he remarked, producing a business card from his coat and sliding it onto the counter.
"Andre Frowler. A writer, as you mentioned, and just to clarify, I've never killed anyone," he smiled, catching Bella off guard. He'd been silently absorbing our tales all along.
"I didn't mean to eavesdrop; I just have really big ears," he explained with a genuine smile.
We learned the middle-aged man was a prolific writer, having penned over ten widely acclaimed books across the country. As he approached retirement, he was discreetly crafting a classified masterpiece. Intrigued by Amira's story, Timothy, seduced by the eloquence of the cunning author,spilt every detail, conveniently forgetting our earlier oath of secrecy—except in my case. I couldn't help but wonder how many others he had entrusted with these so-called secrets, cautioning against disclosure.
At this rate, the entire town was on the brink of unravelling the truth, rendering the police's efforts futile. The question lingered—why would they want to suppress this matter? Timothy's insight echoed in my mind, affirming that there was indeed more to this tale than met the eyes.
◇ ◇ ◇
The mayor was going all out to turn this celebration into a grand spectacle. The entire town buzzed with anticipation for the upcoming Founding Day, set to fall on a Sunday. Despite it only being Thursday, the hype was already palpable. While everyone else revelledd in the excitement, looking forward to a day off, I found myself the odd one out. Days off weren't exactly my cup of tea; work was my refuge, a temporary distraction from the persistent grip of my problems.
Amidst the bar's familiar patrons and the occasional new faces in town, the atmosphere seemed deceptively ordinary. Clara, Blade's girlfriend and I, worked seamlessly together, attending to the customers' needs. Meanwhile, Blade held court behind the counter, skillfully mixing drinks and ensuring the satisfaction of the newcomers.. The usual rhythm of the bar continued, concealing the underlying currents of mystery swirling outside its lively confines.
"Go check on that man at the third booth," Clara instructed, prompting me to approach the lone figure, idly swirling the liquid in his glass.
"Good evening, sir. Would you like a refill?" I inquired, taking his glass. As he handed it over, his face came into view.
Abraham fuckin Freeman. The name echoed with a mixture of surprise and a hint of expletives in my mind.
Amira's father sat inconspicuously in the bar, the last place anyone would expect him. Had the loss of his daughter driven him to the devil's liar, as some locals dubbed the bar?
I filled his glass, passing it to him, but he seemed to overlook my presence, opting to sip his drink in solemn silence. The weight of unspoken grief hung heavy in the air between us.
During my shift, I found myself sneakily observing Mr. Freeman, completely unaware of the world around him. Was suicide perhaps crossing his mind at this very moment? I'll attribute my guilty concern to caring for a man who isn't my father. Speaking of fathers, mine was an enigma—I only knew my mother, who deserted us when we were little. She proved unworthy of the title. It baffles me why some people bring children into the world without intending to take responsibility. Why subject a child to suffering when the use of a f*****g protection could spare them such hardships?
By 1 a.m., I headed home, leaving Clara and Blade to manage the still-packed bar. Though guilt nagged at me, they insisted they could handle it. While strolling, I spotted a man crouched in the spot where I had seen Amira two weeks ago—no need for confirmation; it was undoubtedly him.
"Mind your business, Jane Adams, and act like you saw nothing," I chanted to myself, attempting to stave off impending guilt. As I passed Mr. Freeman, I found myself singing to drown out my conscience. Just four steps away, I succumbed, turning back to help him stand.
"Damn this cursed heart!" I screamed internally. Hadn't I learned from the last attempt to assist? What did I gain? Nothing but a haunting ghost in my dreams, as if I were her perpetrator.
Mr. Freeman reeked of alcohol, appearing incapable of making it home alone. Tapping him lightly, I awoke him; his bloodshot eyes fixed on me.
"Did you see my daughter?" he inquired.
"Yes, she's at home," spilled from my lips before consideration.
"Is that so? I dreamt she died." He smiled, attempting to stand, a futile effort.
I offered assistance, supporting him on our shared journey. Despite the inconvenience of alcohol's scent and his hefty frame against my petite form, it was a path I willingly treaded.
We reached his front porch, my energy nearly depleted, as I assisted him in searching for his keys. Originally, my intention was a simple drop-off, yet he appeared set on drifting into sleep right there.
"Why is this any of my business?" I pondered internally. Despite agreeing with myself, I hesitated, ultimately deciding to leave him on his couch to avoid any suspicions of robbery.
The lights flickered as I ushered Mr. Freeman into the sitting room, his inebriated form in tow. I deposited him onto the couch, collapsing to the floor with a sigh of relief escaping my lips.
While seated on the floor, leaning against the couch holding Mr. Freeman, my eyes caught a glimpse of a picture frame hanging on the wall. Amira's joyful smile adorned the frame, her parents standing proudly behind her. Her mother, radiantly beautiful—they portrayed the image of a once blissful family.
Reflecting on the contrast, I couldn't help but lament the tragic transformation of what was once a genuinely happy family.
As I attempted to rise, a forceful grip seized my ponytail, yanking it back. I found myself staring into Mr. Freeman's bloodshot, enraged eyes.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" he demanded, his words echoing, and my heart reverberated loudly against my chest. Frozen in place, I grappled with the unsettling realization that the night had taken an unexpected turn, plunging into an atmosphere thick with tension and unanswered questions.