by Lamar Giles
We’d come to the Savant after Miss Elsie’s because where else was there to go? The horror of what we’d surmised—the gigantic nature of it—couldn’t be in close proximity to any other people, like toxic waste.
Fuse had folded herself onto the couch for the last hour, her eyes squeezed shut, as if concentrating to banish our new knowledge from her brain. I chose the balcony, where my thoughts darkened with the night sky.
Winston Bell was Paris’s father. I tried to poke holes in it but couldn’t quite convince myself. You didn’t always need evidence to know something was true.
“We could go to Barker,” Fuse yelled from the couch. Her first words in a while.
Sure. We could. I didn’t think Fuse’s T-shirt connection would wow him, considering he hadn’t even found Winston yet.
“Or not,” Fuse said, taking my silence as the answer it was. “Feel like sharing your master plan, then?”
“When they get here.”
She hinged up off the couch, unenthusiastic about the guests I’d invited. “You’re asking for a lot of faith, Kya.”
“I know. It will be easier to explain it once, when we’re all together.”
The knock came soon enough. I went for the entrance. Hand on the knob, I said, “You’re okay.”
“I will be. Let them in.”
Florian entered, followed by the Savant newbie I’d asked her to pick up on the way. Shameik. His neck craned taking in the space. His examination stopped when his eyes landed on Fuse.
I said, “Sit down you two. A lot to discuss.”
Florian plopped on her usual spot, and Fuse sat next to her. I sat on a stack of sturdy, unpacked boxes in the corner. Shameik lowered himself to the floor, opposite Fuse. Kept flicking glances her way.
“Thanks for coming,” I began. “I—”
Fuse interrupted, “Hold up, K. I need to do something real quick.”
She bounced up, grabbed Shameik’s hand, reeled him to his feet, then led him to the back of the apartment, into Paris’s bedroom, and closed the door.
Not the most shocking thing today, but surprising enough.
Florian said, “If you made me leave my crib so they could make out, I’m going to need some gas money.”
“Sit down,” I said.
His annoyed expression shifted into something close to disgust. “Here? This is her bed.”
“It’s not what you think.” Though his response to that wrong assumption being distasteful instead of hopeful was admirable. He was a decent guy. “Sit.”
Obedient, he lowered himself onto the mattress, and I remained standing. He was tall enough that we were still nearly eye-to-eye. I said, “There is no us. There’s never going to be.”
“Fuse, wait a minute—”
“I’m not saying the puppy dog eyes you were giving me out there meant that’s what you want. I’m not trying to embarrass you, but I need to be absolutely clear. We kissed in a heated moment. I liked it. But I don’t want it anymore. I didn’t want it anymore after that night. You can’t finesse me into wanting it again, your anger’s not going to make me feel guilty or obligated. You shouldn’t want someone who feels guilty or obligated. We’re both better than that.”
The annoyance vibe was back. I got it. If our roles were reversed, I wouldn’t enjoy hearing stuff like this either. He was about to hear worse, though, and we needed this over and done with so Kya could talk without distractions.
He bobbed his head, that clapback attitude of his revving up. Before he could start, I said, “We know who killed ParSec.”
His mouth snapped shut.
“We’re going to do something about it. Kya’s got a plan. She thinks we need you, but I understand if you don’t want to be around me after this. If—IF—you can be okay with what I’m saying, then maybe we both get the chance to do right by ParSec in a way we didn’t before. Up to you.”
I turned, let myself out, and closed the door to give him a moment.
Back in the living room, Florian said, “Are you giving me my gas money?”
I looked to Kya. “What’s she talking about?”
All I got was a head shake. Then, “Is he coming? I don’t want to have to say this twice.”
Shameik emerged from ParSec’s bedroom, trudged up the hall. I waited to see if he’d continue through the door, to the elevator, and out of my life forever. He reclaimed his space on the floor, gaze leveled on Kya.
“Tell me who did it, and what we’re going to do about it.” He gave me a tight “we’re cool” nod.
I believed him and returned the gesture. “The floor is yours, Kya.”
She began, “We have a little over a day to make this work, but if we play this right, I think, maybe, we can do what the police can’t. We can take down Paris’s killer at the concert.”
It took an hour to walk them through it, and none of it meant a thing if this very first part didn’t work. With time slipping away from us (Mama had texted twice about my whereabouts), it was now or never.
“We’re really doing this?” Fuse asked.
I said, “We’re going to try. Anybody want to back out?”
Florian said, “He took away the music. He’s gotta feel some pain.”
“She was more than music,” I said, still strongly considering the joys of doing this girl physical harm.
Shameik said, “I’m good.”
Unclipping my music drive from my lanyard, I handed it over to Florian, who plugged into a USB port on her laptop. She uploaded two tracks to a Dark Nation site, with a message:
#SuperGroupie and #MadScientist making progress but still owe what they owe. They might be off the hook soon, so enjoy these while they last. Deal’s a deal.
“It’s done,” said Florian.
I said, “Now we wait. If he’s as predictable as I think, it won’t take long.”
It wasn’t a half hour before Fuse’s phone buzzed with an incoming text.
WINSTON
Hey, Fuse, what’s happening? Checking in on your progress. My editor’s really on my back about solid leads. Do you have something yet?
ME
Maybe. We think so. Have you ever heard of a company called VenueShowZ?
WINSTON
Of course. What about them?
ME
Paris was involved with them somehow. Paula Klein wasn’t happy about it. We think we should let the police know. It seems shady.
As I suspected, everything Winston’s done so far has been about keeping an eye on anyone looking into Paris’s death. To redirect—like when he co-signed on Paula and Shameik being suspects—or get a warning if we ever got close to him.
What he’d do if he thought we were a threat … I was hesitant to guess.
Ellipses pulsed as he tapped a return response. Fuse said, “He’s thinking really hard about his answer. He might be spooked.”
I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Push through. If he doesn’t bite, we go directly to Barker. It’s all we can do.”
The dots vanished. Several minutes passed with no activity on the exchange. I thought we’d lost him. Then …
WINSTON
Sorry, I was driving. Stationary now. You should send me what you have on VenueShowZ. I can do some digging on my end.
ME
I don’t think so. Texting about it feels dangerous with the way the Dark Nation’s been on Kya and me. Can we meet?
WINSTON
I’m in New York. Email would be better for me.
ME
Sorry. That just feels risky. You’re in New York. We’re here with the same nutjobs that snatched us up.
WINSTON
I’m back tomorrow. Coffee shop?
ME
Can’t. My parents are taking me to visit the school I’ll be attending next year.
WINSTON
What about Kya? Get her to do it.
ME
She doesn’t have a car. What about the memorial concert Saturday? You going?
WINSTON
Yes. Big, public. The Dark Nation can’t make a move there. Smart.
ME
Glad you think so.
WINSTON
Excellent. In the meantime, let’s keep that VenueShowZ thing between us. No telling where that rabbit hole goes.
Yeah. No telling.
Fuse ended the exchange. “Well?”
I said, “I’m going to reach out to Detective Barker tomorrow. Shameik, you let us know as soon as possible if you can’t get what we need. Florian, you’re on standby. Everybody get home. Sleep if you can. If we’re lucky, we’ve already done the hardest part.”
Nobody bothered to remind me that, in our little group, luck wasn’t an abundant commodity.
Friday was uneventful and perfect. That right there should’ve been an omen. But we rode the wave.
School was school, the real work starting after final bell. Everyone doing their parts. Kya informed Detective Barker that the man known as Winston Bell would be at the concert, and he should be waiting with, like, a SWAT team, or whatever. Shameik did his part so we wouldn’t have issues at the venue. Florian kept playing tech support, just in case.
All our ducks in a row and I was still up at the crack of dawn Saturday morning. I was dressed and ready by nine, even though the concert wouldn’t start until one, pacing around my house in a denim skirt, pixie boots, and a cropped tee. All cute and stuff even though I was fidgety and anxious, I hit Kya up. Surprise, surprise … she was awake too. Trying to put out the day’s first fire.
KYA
Come over. I could really use your help with an outfit.
ME
Firing up the Batmobile!
Kya’s clothing situation was distracting enough to calm me down and dire enough to warrant my intervention. We were truly helping each other.
While her mother snored like a grizzly in the next room, I salvaged all the best pickings from my girl’s closet and weighed options. “We’re going to have to MacGyver this situation, K.” I channeled my mom in the operating room requesting clamps or suction. “Scissors!”
Over the course of a ninety-minute triage session, I strategically slashed her jeans, did her nails with three different polishes, applied some makeup, got that hair poppin’, and as a final touch, removed the bottom third of a NASA hoodie to show off her totally ripped abs. “Where you been hiding this six-pack, Kya?”
She hugged herself, bashful.
“Girl, look!” I spun her toward the mirror on the back of her door.
She twitched, startled, but then couldn’t hide her grin.
“Bet you haven’t looked this good since you were singing in tiaras, am I right?”
No confirmation, though she spun sideways to check out her profile.
“Who’s the master?” I said. “Give. Me. My. Props!”
She said, “Should I go like this? I mean, all things considered.”
“You should. Call it a celebration outfit. When the police get their hands on Winston, we’re going to turn up the way ParSec would’ve wanted. Trust me.”
So, of course, I was extra wrong.
At the Ocean Shore Amphitheater, we stood in the rapidly filling gravel lot, the two major entrances crowded with people and security. Guards passed a metal detecting wand over everyone who walked through the gate. Anyone with a bag opened it, while an attendant sifted through the contents with a stick. Any prohibited items—weapons, unauthorized recording devices—would either be confiscated or the owner would not be allowed in.
That just wouldn’t do. “Come on,” I said, leading Kya, and her bag that would never have made it past those prying guards, away from the primary entrance.
There was a third way into the venue. The VIP entrance near the loading docks, behind the stage. It’s where the performers entered. Where security would be much more lax for us. Thanks to Shameik.
A guard roughly the size of a small city sat in a strained folding chair next to the VIP doors. He dabbed his sweat-moist forehead with a handkerchief and wheezed orders when we approached. “Lemme see some badges.”
I held up a finger while texting with my other hand. “One sec, please.”
Shameik appeared in the doorway, two blue VIP lanyards dangling, obtained thanks to his hands-on involvement with planning today’s event. “So this thing is really on?”
Kya hung her lanyard around her neck and slipped by Shameik. I took my lanyard and followed her inside where freestanding, cordoned-off walls represented dressing rooms in the open-air facility. Behind those walls were stars—like Omar Bless. I guessed his dressing room from the abundance of loiterers and black-shaded guards. In less-occupied corners, soon-to-be stars, like the open dressing room for up-and-comer Olivia Merrick, who leaned in her doorway, sipping tea while a makeup artist flicked her neck and collarbone with a brush.
Everyone rocked their color-coded lanyards. Blues—like us—were VIPs hanging out. Greens, workers or performers. Red were press. I saw a couple of recognizable local reporters primping while their crews set up lights and cameras. Kya lingered a few yards ahead, clutching her precious satchel. As I moved to join her, Shameik grabbed my arm. “Hey, wait a sec.”
“I don’t have time, dude.”
“This won’t be long,” he said, hushed. “You’re going through with this?”
“You got these lanyards for us, even after we told you why. You have to know we are.”
“All I’m saying is I can still come too. Paula Klein is handling all the artist particulars. I can be, like … muscle. If necessary.”
“Shameik, you’re skinny. If muscle is needed, we’ve done this wrong.”
He let me go, tucked his chin to his chest. “Call if you get in trouble.”
“Thank you.” I squeezed his fingers and joined my friend, who looked traumatized.
“Bad memories?” I asked, comfort hand on her back. I thought this was about her singing days.
“You could say that.” She pointed a shaky finger at a group of eight dancers, stretching and warming up. They all wore white Dark Nation masks.
Now, that’s not what I wanted to see. Those weren’t Dark Nation operatives, not in the open like that. So that mask nonsense was catching on with regular ParSec Nation supporters? The inmates really were taking over the asylum, then.
Tugging her along, I angled for the path leading back to the public spaces. We passed through another security gate without issue, now that we had credentials, and emerged into the beaming sunlight of the amphitheater grounds.
The performance area began several dozen yards to our left. A pale concrete path ran between a green knoll that served as “cheap seats” for anyone partial to a picnic blanket, their personal folding chair, or cool grass brushing their backsides. Closer to the stage was the pavilion hovering over several hundred traditional seats, lettered and numbered. From where we stood, most people hadn’t moved down to the ticketed area. Opting to roam in the open spaces while the DJ bumped a mix of old- and new-school hip-hop.
Kya still seemed skittish, like the crowd was too much for her. So I kept angling her to the agreed-upon location. A place not much less crowded, and certainly not soothing. The ladies’ room. It wasn’t line-out-the-door bad yet, but it required a bit of twisting and turning to reach the last closed stall. There, I hesitantly said, “Florian?”
The door swung open, and a hand emerged. “Just give me the bag.”
Kya tugged the satchel strap off her shoulder and passed the heavy sack inside.
“We good?” I asked.
“No. It’s gross in here. If you’re asking about the equipment, give me five minutes.”
My phone was buzzing with an incoming text while she spoke. “Can you make it three?”
WINSTON
I’m here.
The DJ stopped spinning. Horns and a slow drummer’s intro played under an announcer’s voice.
“Put your hands together for Portside’s own dynamic duo … thhhheeeeeeeee Clutchhhhhh Booooyyyyyzzzz!”
Amplified vocals mixed with cheers as the sibling rappers began their set. Fans who’d lost track of time scrambled at concessions or the souvenir stands, picking up last-minute sodas, T-shirts, or—why?—Dark Nation masks. One vendor held a long pole, at least ten feet high, with masks hung on each side in vertical rows, like a many-faced demon judging us. He wore his own mask atop the crown of his head so not to obscure his voice while he yelled, “ParSec Nation! Turn up here! You too can dress like a lunatic for just twelve ninety-five.”
He didn’t actually say that last part, but he might as well.
Winston and Fuse did the thing people do when they’re trying to find each other in a crowded space. “I’m over by the thing” or “I’m standing under the other thing” except Fuse kept texting lies so he couldn’t find us, while I tried calling Detective Barker and his reinforcements.
“He’s not picking up!” I said.
Florian sent us a group text that told us why.
FLORIAN
Guys, I’m still pulling audio off Barker’s mic. He’s not here yet.
ME
Where is he?
FLORIAN
Stuck in traffic. There’s a line of cars trying to get into the lot.
ME
Is his backup stuck too?
FLORIAN
I don’t think there is any backup. He’s on the phone with his wife complaining about how he’s the only one at the precinct who takes us seriously.
“Panic,” Fuse said, “will not help anyone. I’ll just keep stalling Winston, until—”
“Too late,” I said, feeling especially exposed in a way that had nothing to do with my bare midriff.
As the meandering crowd spilled toward their seats for the opening act, there was less camouflage and opportunities for misdirection. Thirty yards away, Winston stood by a pavilion support column. Low-key in black boots, dark jeans, white shirt. A thin hoodie jacket was tied around his waist by the sleeves. And a red press badge dangled from his neck even though we knew he wasn’t really the press, because he was a con man till the end.