Pretty Wanted Read Online Free PDF Page A

Inside were wooden booths, surrounded by old records and funky displays of PEZ Dispensers and Simpsons figurines. Opposite them was an old, elaborately carved bar capped with taxidermied animals, a giant swordfish. A huge 1950s jukebox glowed yellow and red from the adjoining room.
    A portly guy with a goatee and a stained apron approached us. “Can I help you with something?”
    “We’re looking for anyone who remembers a woman named Brianna Siebert. She worked here in 1997?”
    “Hang on,” he said. “You’ll want to talk to Rich, the manager.”
    He disappeared behind a swinging door. We stood by the bar and looked up at the television while we waited. A sports program recapping a Rams game was replaced by a man with a long, sun-pinkened face and blond hair that was thinning on top. He was handsome, in an older-politician sort of way.
    “I’m State Senator David Granger. I’ve lived in St. Louis my whole life. I’ve dedicated my career to making this city a better place. But some people have sent our jobs overseas and now our state is hurting. I know what it’s like to watch your friends and families struggle while someone else makes the big decisions. That’s why I’m running for U.S. Senate: to bring back the American dream. And you can help me.”
    Your typical political ad. I tuned out the TV as I was more interested in looking at all of the memorabilia around me. This was quite a place.
    When I turned back at the screen, pictures flashed of the man shaking hands with factory workers, cutting ribbons, posing with his arm around senior citizens.
    On top of the images were the words DAVID GRANGER FOR U.S. SENATE. VOTE IN THE RUNOFF DECEMBER 12.
    The guy who had to be Rich came out from the back room. He was taller and more slender than the first guy, and he wore a red baseball cap over his gray hair.
    “I’m so sick of hearing about this runoff. I just want Granger to win already. Hermann’s a joker.” He flicked his chin in our direction. “You kids were asking about someone?”
    “That’s right,” I said. “Brianna Siebert. We think she probably worked here in 1997.”
    Rich nodded, tucking his hands in his armpits. “I was a server back then. The name doesn’t sound familiar, though.”
    I sucked in a breath, feeling my hopes falter. So he didn’t know her. Then who would? “Did anyone else you know work here at that time?”
    He shook his head. “I’m old. Most people, they come here as Wash U students, stay for a few years to supplement their books or beer allowance, and move on. Sorry. Wish I could help you out.”
    “Do you mind if we look around a little bit? Is there an employee room or anything?” Not that I expected there would be any trace of her from fifteen years ago. At the very least I could see more of what she might have seen. Maybe it would fill out the picture of her a little bit more.
    “Sure, the break room’s right back here.” Rich led us through the swinging doors through another doorway.
    Not very inspiring. I looked around at the row of small lockers, a white fridge, and a table with a few dinky chairs. I didn’t know what I was expecting to find, but there was nothing much here.
    I turned toward the door. That’s when I noticed a series of photos on the front wall, documenting what looked like an annual softball game, each dated with a little plaque. I scanned through them and found 1997 on the second row. There were twenty-five or so people lined up, all wearing Blueberry Hill T-shirts with their first names embroidered on the front pocket.
    I studied the image, going face to face. It took me a moment, but I found her. She was resting her head on the shoulder of the woman next to her, smiling broadly, giving the camera a thumbs-up. Her hair was pulled back and she had a baseball cap on, but there was no mistaking it—she looked exactly like the newspaper image we’d seen yesterday.
    “Aidan!” I cried. “I think this is her.”
    “It does look like