The Mystery Megapack

windows.
    She dug into the take-out bag on the passenger seat and pulled out a French fry. Blew on it before folding it into her mouth. Hot. Salty. Greasy. So good. Scanning the deserted street, she slowed down, then pulled into the trash-strewn parking lot across from the bar.
    Turning on the radio, she twisted the dial until the muted sounds of soft rock filled the car, then sat back, occasionally munching on a fry and watching raindrops spatter on the hood and windshield. Fog hazed the windows. She cranked down the one on the driver’s side, clammy air thick on her skin. She’d forgotten the smell: sharp, acrid, stronger when the wind blew up the valley, or when the air hung still and damp.
    She’d checked her watch twice, and the fries left at the bottom of the carton were cold when the bar door opened and a man stepped out. A limp ponytail hung out the back of his black Steelers cap, jeans rode low over skinny hips. He hunched his shoulders against the drizzle and stuck his hands into his pockets before turning and walking away, swaying like a sailor newly ashore.
    He staggered down the street, never pausing or turning his head, disappearing below the crest of the hill. He’d cross Cedar Street at the bottom, take the direct way home. Her clasped hands felt like blocks of ice. When she took a shaky breath and forced her hands apart, the street was long deserted. The chill in her bloodstream quickly turned to heat.
    No. Hate.
    She checked her watch—4:17—then twisted the key in the ignition and peeled out of the parking lot.
    * * * *
    “It’s good to see you, girl.” Her aunt had smiled, faint echoes of her grandmother and mother in the shape of her aunt’s jaw, in the faded blue eyes. “It’s been too long.”
    She smiled back at her aunt and sipped her iced tea. A bead of water meandered down the glass, dampening her fingers as she stared down at the pile of potato chips and the sandwich on her paper plate. Two slices of bologna on white bread, spread crust to crust with mayo; it used to be her favorite. Could she eat it now without gagging?
    “Work keeps me busy.” Which was true, during the day, at least. At night, memories roamed freely. That was what she had come here for, to make her peace with those memories.
    “And life in the big city.” Aunt Natalie gave her a knowing look. “So, have you found a nice boy yet?”
    Instead of answering, she asked about Uncle Mike and her cousins.
    After lunch, they moved to the tiny living room. Aunt Natalie settled in front of the TV—a huge monstrosity housed in a cabinet, bought with pride in 1968—to watch “her story,” her feet propped on a vinyl hassock, a bottle of Iron City on the TV tray beside the chair.
    Time to get to work.
    “I’ll just make a couple of phone calls while you enjoy your show, Aunty.” She had to raise her voice above the toilet paper commercial, blaring at rock concert volume.
    Eyes already glued to the set, Aunt Natalie waved a careless hand in acknowledgement.
    She opened the hall closet. The phone book—so meager, compared to the ones she was used to now—sat on the shelf. She pulled it out and took it, along with her cell phone, to the front porch. The big glider squeaked softly when she sat. She flipped open the phone book and slid her finger down the cheap paper, finally stopping on a name.
    Still here. Still in the same house, his parents’ house.
    Would she recognize him after all these years? Stupid question; of course she would. She’d know him even if she turned into Helen Keller and had to run her fingers over his face.
    Disgusting thought.
    She knew where he’d be after work. All she needed to find out was which shift, and that should be easy enough.
    It only took a moment to look up another number, pick up her phone, and dial.
    “Mary Beth? Hi, it’s me. Long time, no see, I know. Well, I’m in town visiting my aunt, and she’s in the middle of soap opera heaven. I wondered if I could come over and catch up. Find out what the old gang is up to.”
    Her lips stretched into a smile and she pushed back her hair.
    “Great. Let me grab my purse. See you in a few minutes.”
    * * * *
    “Who’s that?”
    Frowning, she had stared at the guy standing across the school parking lot. He leaned against the hood of a white Camaro, his crossed arms almost obscuring the Steelers’ logo on his shirt. A chill breeze tossed strands of long brown hair around his face and stirred the thick layer of leaves on