Hidden Vices Read Free

elevator back up, she read the tenants’ message board. Apartment 2F had a bedroom set up for sale. 9F sought a roommate—a non-smoking, non-drinker, responsible, and exceptionally tidy. Translation: please be boring, undersexed, and have the social calendar of a nun working in Calcutta.
    Then her phone alerted that her she had an email. She wasn’t familiar with the sender, but when she opened the message and saw the photo of the lake and the house and the capital letters: HOME FOR RENT, she figured it was fate of some kind. Or the result of one of her vacation-website registrations. The following days were filled with phone calls flying back and forth, and a check for the deposit was sent via overnight delivery. A few days later, Megan was en route.
    Lake Hopatcong in New Jersey was the venue for Megan’s self-imposed exile for what she considered an emotional downward spiral. She couldn’t shake the feeling the locals knew she was on her way. It was a detective’s gut feeling, but she didn’t trust hers anymore, so she chose to ignore the pangs in her solar plexus.
    One hour later the navigation pronounced another direction. On the spot, Megan named the GPS Sheila. The smart, seductive voice reminded her of a girl in college, Sheila Sanders, better known as Downtown Sheila. Sheila was crazy smart, the kind of kid who could hear or read something once and that’s all she needed. She had a true photographic memory, or rather, a pornographic memory; she said she never forgot a cock. Sheila would party like a rock star the night before a midterm and still get all As. She’d snort anything from coke to Splenda to flour off of a loaf of bread—whatever got her off. But what got her off the most was ducking out of class with a guy and giving him head in the janitor’s closet.
    Megan never judged, but she’d seen enough as a Homicide detective’s daughter to know that Downtown Sheila was on her way down—and not in the way she enjoyed.
    Megan’s trip through memory lane was interrupted by Sheila’s intelligent but too-smooth voice: “Exit 30 is point-five miles away. You are two-point-three miles from your destination.”
    McGregor Avenue in Mount Arlington was the final destination on the GPS. The town spanned a little over two miles of the forty-five miles of shoreline on Lake Hopatcong, the largest lake in northwest New Jersey. The main thoroughfare in Mount Arlington was Howard Boulevard. It was two miles of winding road, a few homes, an Elks Club, and a restaurant named Pub 199. The main street would fill one Manhattan block with space to spare, and the closer she got to the house, Megan became quite sure there wouldn’t be any taxi cabs or traffic jams. A mini-mart, post office, and barbershop were stationed on the left. A small green establishment that resembled a back yard shed more than a watering hole was located directly across the street. Pete’s Bar looked as though it had groomed plenty of future AA members. This was the center of town. Not exactly 57th Street, which was fine by Megan, for now.
    In deep need of a caffeine jolt after the drive, Megan pulled into the parking lot of the mini-mart. She got out of the Range Rover and looked back toward the bar. Seven vehicles, all pickups, were parked outside. Two men in sweatshirts, jeans, and tan work boots smoked cigarettes near the door. One wore a blue and white do-rag, his long black hair extending over his shoulders. Neither wore coats in the sub-forty-degree weather. Both stood staring at Megan as she entered the store.
    An Indian man stood behind the counter, and she offered a smile. In return, he gave her as frigid a response as the townies across the street.
    Friendly place.
    â€œI’d like to get a cup of coffee,” she said and pulled out cash from her back pocket.
    â€œBack of store.”
    â€œOh-kaaay.” Megan walked to the back only to find that the coffee was