None.
This is when I suck it up and do my job because I’m not about to let Hope down on my first night.
I dig four ibuprofen out of the first aid kit and dry swallow them before changing into my new shirt.
Let’s hope they kick in quick.
Then I get my ass back to work.
35
Boone
The first placeI go to look for Ripley is the Fishbowl, and I’m praying it isn’t closed. The flickering neon sign is lit up, which gives me hope.
Pulling my ball cap lower on my head, I duck inside and find it’s a little busier than the first time Frisco and I came in, but definitely nothing like last night when we packed the place.
It doesn’t take a genius to guess that some of these people are here hoping Frisco and I will come in again and put on another show.Sorry, guys. Not happening tonight.
I stride toward the bar but almost miss a step when I see Ripley’s cousin behind it instead of Ripley. Brandy’s pouring drinks with an annoyed expression on her face.
Maybe pissed off she finally has to work?
I stop at the end of the bar, and she comes toward me.
“What do you want?”
“Need to talk to Ripley.”
The edges of Brandy’s mouth curl up smugly. “Well, you came to the wrong place for that.”
Her scathing tone triggers alarm bells in my head.
“What do you mean?”
“Ripley don’t work here no more. Uncle Frank fired her. He put me in charge, which means I can tell you to get the hell out.”
Ripley’s dad fired her? Shit.
“Where is she?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care. It ain’t fair that I got stuck with the mess she left, but that’s what I got. So unless you’re here to apologize for breaking my phone or to give me another grand to make up for it, you can march your ass right out.”
“Is she still living upstairs?”
“No. When I said she’s gone, I meantgone.”
“And you don’t have a clue where she went? I find that hard to believe.”
Brandy’s lips press into a thin, flat line, and I know she’s not going to help me. Unless ...
I pull out my wallet and peel off a hundred, even though the last thing I want to do is give her a dime. I hold it up in the air, and she crosses her arms over her scrawny chest.
Looking down the bar at the regulars I remember from the other night, I decide to try them instead.
After I reintroduce myself to them, I ask, “Do you have any idea where Ripley might have gone?”
The older woman—Pearl, I think her name is—shakes her head. “Nope. First time in years I haven’t seen her behind the bar. There were a couple times when she had strep throat or a cold and didn’t want us to catch it, but other than that, she was always here.”