Gah. I’ve been looking forward to makeup tutorial night with L, but this doesn’t seem to offer much in the way of wiggle room.
Okay, but be careful.
I sound like such a mom. The thought makes me hesitate before typing the next line, but I decide to own it. Text me when you get home, okay?
Three dots appear. I wait.
Okay, MOM.
That elicits a giggle from me, and I go back to trolling Twitter. I’ve just tucked away my phone and reached for my notebook when a throat clearing behind me nearly knocks me out of my chair.
I slowly spin around to find Lelani standing behind me. “Michael-Grace, I was wondering if I could possibly”—she eyes my empty desk—“interrupt what you’re doing for a moment?”
Chagrined, I make a show of turning back around, closing my notebook, and not apologizing. If pressed, my creative process sometimes needs input. “Sure, no problem.”
I follow her out of the room and down the hall to her office, and only then do my palms sweat. Lelani won’t be firing me, will she? No . . . I made a slam dunk out of the movie stuff—my work emails over the weekend confirm that they love my input. Okay, so what then? Another, worse, thought occurs to me. What if she and Ryan are having trouble and she’s about to ask for advice? I can’t really imagine this being the case, but . . . if I had to choose between being grilled on my social media usage at work and talking about relationships with the VP of my company, well, I’d choose to be castigated. Perhaps even publicly. Just because I’m now adult-ier, feeling-er, happier, MG does not a gal pal make.
By the time we reach her office, I’ve worked myself up into a few knots. Would I tell her to break up with Ryan? Should I tell him to break up with her? Tell her I haven’t talked to him in weeks, hardly, so I have no idea what to say?
“Are you going to be seated?” Lelani asks, cluing me in to the fact that I’m still standing in her doorway, pondering who will get Ryan in the breakup. Me, obviously, but Lelani and I will still work together. Will she be cordial to him at work functions?
“Oh, yes, of course.” I sit, bracing for work-inappropriate conversation.
Lelani is watching me like I’m some sort of sideshow act—like she can read my desperation on my face and doesn’t know what to make of it. “I spoke with Mr. Casey about your second project idea.”
“Oh. Oh.” Ooooooh. I’m an echo chamber of my own making and nearly smack my own forehead. Of course.
Lelani appraises me close to how one looks at an elderly aunt who has suddenly announced she needs help getting to the bathroom. Or that the sky is orange. In short, she’s not sure I’m in possession of my sanity at the moment. I clear my throat. “Oh yes, of course this is what you’d call me into your office about. Proceed. Er, please.”
“Yes, thank you.” Cue the totally baffled look from Lelani that I answer with a benevolent smile. “As I said, I met with Mr. Casey as a follow-up to our green-light meeting. I have to say that unfortunately he didn’t think that your second idea had as much market reach as the first, and he’d like you to proceed as directed in the meeting. I think it is a little closed-minded, but he has the final say.” Her last words are colored with distaste. Though she doesn’t elaborate, I read between the lines that she’s not pleased by his decision. I feel grudging respect for her, going to bat for this project when we both probably knew it was doomed to fail.
She hands me back my sketches, encased in a neat manila envelope, complete with a label bearing my name and the words “Unnamed Project Proposal.”
I hold the folder, feeling a bit like it’s a coffin for my project. My heart project. The first project I’ve been excited about—truly and completely—since Hero Girls. Here it lies, the final stop for everything I dreamed it could be.
And yet.
L’s words come floating back to me, along with this new calmer center I’ve found inside myself in the past few days. This realization that I can be complex and still a strong businesswoman. I can still go after what I want, even when I’m told no. That there may be ways other than pushing to get what I’m after.
It’s time to weave a little. “Thank you for my sketches back; I’m sorry this project won’t be at Genius.” I steel myself. I can do this. I can go after what I want. “And I’d like to ask permission to moonlight and publish it myself, now that Genius has had the first right of refusal.”
Lelani sits back a little in her seat. I’ve surprised her, and in a good way, if I take to heart the appraising look she’s giving me. “I can certainly see if Mr. Casey will give his permission; it isn’t a conflict of interest in my estimation.”
I nod, terrified to even breathe. That’s more positive than I’d dared hope. “Okay, great.”
Lelani looks ready to dismiss me but leans forward again, over her desk. Her gaze is level and grounded. “I have to say, we’ve had some complimentary communication from the movie team, and it sounds like you’re representing Genius admirably. I was nervous about making the exception to change your work role, but it’s a pleasure to see your career benefiting from the change.” There may have been a silent threat of “And be sure it continues to benefit,” but I’m not sure. “I look forward to seeing your work on the previously approved pitch. Please let me know when you have finalized panels.”
“Thank you.” I stand and she nods, which I take to mean I’m actually excused. I make my way back to my desk. Everyone eyes me when I walk in the door—a class completely curious why their classmate was in the principal’s office.
“Nothing to see here,” I respond, sitting primly down in my seat. I pop my earbud in and scroll to The Nerdist in my podcasts. My own comic project. Outside of Genius. Feeling like a boss, I open my notebook to work on Falcon.
It’s around dinnertime that I realize I’m the last one in the office. Andy must have peaced out at some point, but I’ve been in a bit of a zone. My half day in the office has turned into a full day of investigation, under the guise of work. After my meeting with Lelani, my work for THF actually flowed faster than it had in recent months, and I found myself itching to take a look at the journal copies Matteo had given me.
Since Saturday, Matteo’s contact has been incredibly limited. He’s made it clear that if I want to talk about us, it’s going to take some effort on my part. If he contacts me at all, it’s a real phone call—I hate talking on the phone—from the station number. And even then, my voice mail today was from Rideout. Rideout. I felt like I needed to scrub the inside of my ear out after that. Matteo had said Rideout was on probation and couldn’t carry out case business by himself . . . I wonder, since he was the one calling, if the internal investigation exonerated him as the leak. Pity.
Mostly it’s been the same: Daniel’s not talking, insisting he knows nothing. He has no ties to Muñez, no ties to police; his financials are clean, so no bribes or blackmail. We can’t hold him much longer.
Each time, it’s clear they’re interested in one thing and one thing only: What is in that journal that might be of use to us?
Right now, after hours of poring over the pages and then going to Genius’s library to compare panels and characters and drawing styles and plot lines? My answer is, Nothing.
Honestly, I thought finding this half of the journal would be the Holy Grail. The panacea that would break this case wide open. Instead, I find much the same that I remembered seeing before. The story line about Falcon retiring. Half-started panels showing Swoosh’s pledge of allegiance to always continue fighting the powers that would undermine the marginalized. The references to the story line with the safe in the wall—the story line I already followed to get to Sosa. There’s not much else in the way of groundbreaking storytelling. So, the next time Matteo calls, I’m going to give him the hard news: other than being interesting from a fan’s standpoint, I’ve got bubkes.
I’ve identified a few pages that have more personal notes on them to talk to Lawrence about tomorrow night. There are a few that look like handwritten s
chedule reminders or phone messages. One that I think includes a scribble about the party that Lawrence references, but all it is is a time and a note that says, “Costume party—card?” There are a few doodles in the margin of the next page, not unlike the kind I make while on a boring conference call: the axonometric for some sort of gadget that sprays water that Lawrence had tapped, and a few playing-card sketches—one of each suit. The pen work is slightly different on this page, so Lawrence’s guess that it’s someone else’s hand is valid. My guess is maybe Casey Junior’s, though I don’t have any ready samples to compare it with. I’d gone looking for the very few issues of THF that bore his hand before he hired artists, and it’s just hard to tell with such a limited sketch to compare it with. There are two pages that contain margin doodles that seem entirely unrelated to THF—again, something I do in my own journal, and something I’d usually just pass over if I weren’t slaving over every detail, looking for some clue. The problem is, no doodle of men having a tug of war in a margin answers any part of this case for me. I see no note, no scribble, no panel, no matter how unfinished, that mentions a queen. No crowns, no tiaras, no nothing.
Really, the only good thing to come of this is that my ADHD’s hyperfocus has kicked in, and time has flown. I’ve hardly been aware of time passing, which tonight I needed. It’s so dark in the office that I have to hunt around for my keys and bag. I order an Uber and hope there’s enough room on my credit card for this sort of existence while my car sits unused and unfixed in my driveway.
I’m making my way through the dark office just past sunset, trying really hard not to picture some sort of Stranger Things monster coming out from under the creepy abandoned desks in this dark building when my phone blares to life in my hand.
For the love of all Thor’s hammers, I nearly throw my phone across the room. Despite having just called for the Uber, I wasn’t prepared for the volume that one cell phone can have in a room lurking with potential monsters.
On shaking legs, I make it to the elevator lobby, press the down button, and get ready to answer the call. It’s not Uber; it’s Matteo. I waffle a bit, decide I don’t want to have the “I don’t have information” conversation until I’m home, and click the “Decline” button. At least he’s deigned to call me himself this time, and not from the station number. He must figure if I think it’s Rideout, I really won’t answer the phone. In the words of Sherlock Holmes, his deduction is correct—“Elementary, my dear Watson.”
Speaking of, Watson would make a good name for another corgi, and that thought carries me into the elevator, where I press the “L” key and am again startled by my phone dinging. This time a text message. It’s from Matteo, and it’s a simple Call me when you get this.
“Keep your undies on, Captain.” Man, when they want to know about something, they want to know right now. A dark lobby greets me with yet another veritable savanna for lurking monsters or predatory drug compatriots, so I hustle my way outside, hoping my ride has arrived.
No such luck, but one quick glance at the app shows the car is only about seven minutes away. Possibly enough time for me to call Matteo and have an excuse to get off the phone before things get personal? I’m still not ready to confront the new, leafier MG that has emerged, and not sure what it means in the broader sense of what I’m ready to commit to.
My waffling comes to a screeching halt when my phone dings again. It’s a text message from Matteo, and it’s anything but business as usual. Suddenly the car can’t get here fast enough.
I know you’re screening your calls, but please let me know you got this. L is at Good Samaritan downtown, admitted with multiple wounds. I’ll be here when you arrive.
CHAPTER 27
It’s like a scene from a movie. As soon as I am allowed to know which room L is in—cleared by no less than two LAPD officers in the lobby—I run like some lunatic through the halls. I can hardly see, my eyes are so filled with tears. My heart is still in my chest, frozen with terror. A burn in my throat tells me it’s constricted, but I basically don’t care.
My best friend has been stabbed.
My best friend is injured.
One third of my chosen family is dying in a hospital bed. I don’t know if anyone’s called Ryan yet.
The police are using terms like “critical condition,” and what does that even mean? Can they just tell me if he’s going to live or not? Am I running to a funeral? Will I make it in time for L to know I’m there before he dies?
The elevator seems too slow, so I climb the stairs. Sometimes on my hands and knees. I think I’ve gone up something like four or five flights before I even remember to look for the number four on a door. I’m in some sort of panicked trance.
Light spills with me out of the doorway of the stairwell and into a dimly lit corridor. I don’t see gurneys or teams of people rushing around—that’s good, right? Unless there’s nobody alive to rush around for anymore? The thoughts war with me as I sprint down one hallway, jog over, and infuriatingly find myself back at the elevators.
I literally scream in frustration.
“MG!” I hear a voice, like a beacon, and I turn to see Matteo down the hallway I swear I just came from. I don’t think. I just sprint, kitten heels slipping everywhere on the tile floors. I just need to get to Matteo. He’ll make everything better. Maybe he can just make this all go away. Tell me it was a ruse for the case, a tactic to draw out a bad guy from hiding.
But I know as I near Matteo that it’s no ruse. His face is chalky, his shirt rumpled, and . . . Oh God, is that blood on his shirt? I don’t even try to stop, I just slam into Matteo, and I don’t let go. I let him hold me up while I sag my weight against him.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, MG. It’s okay. He’s alive. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
I must be babbling semicoherent, hysterical nonsense, because as my senses return to me, the words that are spilling from my lips slow to a trickle. In pieces, I realize that Matteo is stroking my hair, murmuring over and over and over that it’s going to be okay, that Lawrence is alive. His other arm is wrapped so tightly around me, I can feel him shaking. Whether it’s from the strain of holding me up or the situation, I don’t know.
I pull back, incredibly aware as I do so that I’ve left impressive snot-and-tears marks on his already stained shirt. I swipe a hand across my face. “He’s alive? He’s okay?”
“He’s alive, yes,” Matteo hedges.
“And he’s okay?” I press again, hysteria rising afresh.
Matteo takes my hand and pulls me against him, then walks me to the window in the door of the room we’re standing outside of.
There are so many wires. And tubes, and quite a few people bustle around the bed. I can hardly make out that there’s a person in that bed, there’s just so much stuff scattered around the room. Rolling tables, stands of blinking pump thingies. IV lines, and towels on the floor soaking up . . .
“Is that blood?” I ask for the second time, though this one is out loud. So much blood. On the floor, on the sheets. He’s not okay, this will not be okay. There’s no way Lawrence can lose that much blood and be okay. Matteo lied to me.
“I didn’t lie to you,” Matteo says, turning me to face him. I don’t even know if I’ve spoken out loud, or if he’s done his stupid mind-meld voodoo magic on me and just plucked it out of my head. “It was dicey for a while, but a doctor came out a few minutes ago and said they got him stabilized. They’re waiting for blood to arrive for a transfusion. He’s in critical condition for now, but the doctor thinks he’ll make it. He’s not okay, but it’s going to be okay eventually.”
The news sinks in slowly. And I know I’ve processed it when I stop stuttering and start blubbering. Big fat tears roll down my cheeks, and I sink into a chair placed conveniently in the hallway. “The—the police downstairs didn’t know if he was still alive,” I manage. I’m having trouble drawing breath properly.
“Hey now, it’s okay, just breathe. Slow in, slow out.” Matteo crouches in front
of me, holding my hands between his. “They shouldn’t have said that to you. I know this is scary, but I’m here, okay? We’re both here for Lawrence, and I’ve called Ryan. As soon as he shows up . . . well, you can decide if you want me to stay or go. Your family, your call.”
My eyes fly to his, and I grasp his hands. “Don’t leave. No, don’t you dare leave me.”
Something fierce responds in his eyes, and he squeezes my hands back. “Deal.”
But I don’t mean just right now. I mean don’t ever leave me. And there it is. Simple and pure, and crystal inside of me. The very essence, the culmination of my introspection. I love this man. It’s not gooey or complicated, and everything’s not folded neat and tidy inside that suitcase in my head, but it’s clear. Sure, he’s not a nerd like Daniel, but he challenges me to live outside my box without asking me to change who I am at heart. He’s here for me, even when we aren’t together. He’s here for my friends and family. He wants the best for me, and brings out the best in me. It may not make sense on paper, but our two puzzle pieces just fit.
He sees it in my face even before I say it. “MG, it’s okay. Now’s not the time—”
I cut him off, not caring this isn’t the right place, the right time, or the right reason. “I love you.” It’s a statement of fact.
His gaze burns into mine before softening slightly. He hasn’t moved from his crouched position in front of my chair. The corner of his mouth turns up ever so slightly, and he says in perfect imitation of Harrison Ford, “I know.”
It brings the smallest of laughs from me, and he leans in for a swift kiss. “And in the words of Mr. Darcy, ‘I wish never to be parted from you.’”
Ditto. “Are you quoting Pride and Prejudice to me?”
“I went on a rom-com binge this week. Ate pints and pints of ice cream. Watched my telephone. Practiced my Mr. Darcy impression.”
I love him all the more that I think he’s probably telling me the truth. But the reality of the environment pushes back into our moment of levity. There will be time enough to explore our reunion later. “Okay, tell me what happened. I want all the details.”
The Queen Con (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 2) Page 27