Ria's Web of Lies: A Ria Miller Urban Fantasy (Ria Miller and the Monsters Book 1)

by Nigel Henry

  I let go of his finger and walk away, feeling just the slightest bit proud of my restraint as I hear the groaning in the background. That pride is short-lived, however, as I turn the corner to an empty street. Foster is gone.

  Dammit.

  NINE

  SOMEHOW I MANAGE to get home before dark. Even stranger, I get home before my parents. What the heck are they doing? You know what, I don't want to know.

  I'm bleeding pretty bad from the mouth, so I make a bee-line to the kitchen and grab a towel and some ice from the freezer. I let out a sigh of sweet relief as the ice numbs my lip. Then I head to the mirror. I'm sporting a bruise across my cheek, but otherwise, I got out not that bad.

  My jacket got the worst of it; there's a big gash where that asshole tried to knife me. Fuck him. I pull out my phone and send the photo of the thug to Inspector Perkins along with info on where to find them.

  Do I even want to know what happened? He texts back.

  I am the justice this city needs, I reply.

  A knock sounds at the door, catching me off guard. I tense automatically. I'm not expecting guests, and my parents would've called if they got locked out.

  Those assholes better not have followed me home.

  I grab a kitchen knife from the block on the counter and creep toward the door. If it's one of the would-be muggers I swear to God they're going to go home with a new hole. I drop the now-bloody ice towel as I open the door, the knife at the ready.

  It's Ariana and Will. Immediately I slide the knife behind my back and try to put on my most chipper voice. "Hey, guys! What are you doing here?"

  "You wanted to hang out, remember?" Ariana says

  Will points to my chin. "What the hell happened to your face?"

  "Oh, this? It's nothing. I just ran into some muggers on the subway."

  Ariana freaks out. "Muggers?! Oh my God, are you all right? Did they hurt you?"

  "I'm fine," I insist. "I ran away before they could get anything."

  "Yeah but they're still out there! Should we call the cops or something?"

  "Don't worry," I say, trying to reassure her. "My Dad knows cops, remember? I already told them. I bet those assholes are already regretting having met me."

  I try to hold in a chuckle.

  "Well can we at least come in and make sure you're okay?"

  "What, are you a doctor or something?"

  "My mother's a physician's assistant. I've been looking at the human body for as long as I've been alive. Now let me take a look at you."

  I glance behind the door to the blood-stained towel and squeeze the knife. "You know, my house is a mess. There's a pizza shop down the street. Why don't we go there instead? Just give me a minute to get cleaned up."

  SAY what you want about your artisanal this and thin crust that, Utica Avenue Pizza is still my favorite slice around. It's a hole in the wall with cheap steel seats and small circular metal tables, but the slices are big and cheesy and cost just a dollar. It's basically tailor-made high school snack food. Will and Ariana seem to agree with my assessment, as they order a whole pie to split. Ariana even eats a few slices once she's convinced I'm not going to die from a swollen jaw.

  "So what the hell happened?" Will asks between bites.

  "I told you," I say. "I was walking around downtown when two guys tried to jump me for my wallet."

  "And you got away from them?" Ariana's giving me an incredulous look. "You outran two guys? What are you, a sprinter?"

  "I can run when I need to," I reply. "Anyway, how'd you guys even get here? I never told you where I live."

  Ariana's facial expression changes to guilt. "You're not mad at us, are you?"

  "No, I just want to know how."

  "It was all me," Will says. "I found your address online."

  "Excuse me?"

  "I wasn't stalking you," he says, nervously. "You called Ariana first!"

  "Yeah, I'm past that. How'd you find me?"

  "I'm good with computers. You said your father was a reporter, so I looked up black reporters named Miller. When I found your dad at the New York Chronicle, it was easy to get the rest."

  I lean back into my chair. I'd be horrified if I hadn't realized this was an opportunity. "Can you find anyone's address?"

  "Any adult." He takes a sip from a soda. "Why? You looking to find Beyoncé? She might be hard."

  "Something like that. What do you need?"

  He shrugs. "Just a first and last name."

  Well isn't today my lucky day? I lean back in my chair and smile. "So if I get you a name, you'll find it for me?"

  "It'll cost you."

  "How about I promise to drive you guys anywhere you want for a whole week?"

  Ariana leans forward and shakes my hand. "Deal!"

  "Hey!" Will protests. "It was my deal to accept or reject!"

  "Too slow," Ariana says proudly before taking another big bite of pizza.

  TEN

  "OKAY CLASS, who can tell me the difference between a checking and savings account?"

  I try hard not to roll my eyes and bang my head against the desk as my fourth-period economics professor, Mrs. Parsons, goes on and on about the different imaginary places that adults store their money. I know I said I wanted to go to a better school than Kennedy, but times like this make me reconsider my choices.

  I glance over to my left and sigh at the empty seats next to me. Ariana and Will are both out sick today. Guess Utica Avenue Pizza didn't sit well with them. I didn't realize how used to them I'd grown. Now, instead of focusing on how to steal Mr. Foster's personal information, all I can think about is how unbelievably bored I am.

  I hear a snort to my right, and I look over and see a girl at the desk next to mine. She's got dark brown skin and straight black hair that comes to her chin. She looks bored, as her brown eyes are pointed at the ceiling and her red lipsticked lips are curled in disgust. She mimes stabbing herself in the face.

  "Kill me," she whispers.

  "Can't do that," I say. "If I did, there'd be no one to kill me."

  "I don't know what the point of this shit is, anyway," she says. "Bank accounts and shit; why do you have to pay someone else to hold onto your own money?"

  "You know, I think that's one of the questions society doesn't want you asking, along with 'where's Bigfoot?' and 'who shot Tupac?'"

  The girl smiles, and nods. "Ain't that the truth. I just don't see why we gotta deal with all this. It's not like any of us is gonna need to deal with investments and savings and stuff."

  "Speak for yourself, " I whisper back. "I plan to invest the second dollar I make."

  "What about the first?"

  "I'll spend the first. I'm not a monster."

  Mrs. Parsons lets out an exaggerated sigh at the front of the room. "Ria! If this class is so easy that you feel the need to talk your way through it, why don't you teach?"

  "Sorry," I say sheepishly, feeling the blood run to my cheeks.

  "I mean it," Mrs. Parsons insists. "Stand up right now and tell the whole class about compound interest."

  "Oh shit," the girl next to me whispers. "I'm sorry."

  "It's cool, I've got this." I stand and look Mrs. Parsons in the eye. She's an unfriendly looking heavyset white lady, with orange hair that's tied up in a bun. She looks middle age, and the scowl that's staring out at me from her green eyes looks like it's taken years to perfect.

  I'm on another teacher's shitlist. Great. I hope she's not still mad about the holy water. How many times am I going to have to apologize to teachers around here?

  "Well?" She says. "We're waiting."

  I clear my throat. "Uh, well, the thing about banks is that they don't have enough money in them at all times to cover everyone's accounts. They have to lend out some of the money from your accounts to cover other people's. In return, they pay you back with a little extra. That extra is called interest, and its rate is determined by the government. Now, compound interest is when you hold onto your money for a long
time, in which case the money you've made in interest starts earning interest on top of it. It's like making money from thin air."

  Mrs. Parsons jaw flops open in surprise. "Well... I... thank you, Ria. Please be seated, and refrain from talking."

  "Yes, Ma'am," I say as I take my seat, trying not to smile. I don't get why teachers always expect me to be stupid. Just cause I kill things that should be dead doesn't mean I don't pay attention in class, present example excluded.

  The girl next to me is struggling to keep from exploding with laughter. "That was amazing," she whispers. "How'd you learn all of that?"

  I keep my eyes ahead and start pretending to scribble notes. "My mom works in a financial company, my dad's a reporter. You wouldn't believe the financial lessons and crimes I've heard about."

  The bell rings, mercifully ending today's torture session. I'm already up and slinging my bag over my shoulder as Mrs. Parsons calls to me. "Just one minute, Ria. Come here, please."

  I pause for a moment before walking over. I hope she's not going to send me to the principal's office. The last thing I need is to lose my car.

  "That was impressive, what you did earlier. Not many students can think on their feet like that, and get the right answer."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Parsons. I guess I just work well under pressure."

  "Well then don't make it so hard on yourself. You're a bright girl, and being disruptive in class is just going to turn teachers against you. As will spilling water on all of them."

  Now it's my jaw flopping open. I guess it's no surprise that teachers talk to each other. "Those were just accidents. I'm really clumsy."

  She looks me up and down as if I just said something idiotic. "Sure. If that's what you want to stick to. Just be careful. Reputations take minutes to form and months to change. Think long and hard about what you want yours to be."

  She waves me off and I leave, her words playing over in my head. Of course, they were all going to get suspicious at some point, I did try to drown half of them. My only hope is that they all just think I'm some kind of freak. At least then whoever—whatever—I'm looking for won't know I'm hunting it.

  God, I'm actually hoping that my teachers think I'm a weird freak. My life is so messed up.

  The girl from class is waiting for me outside the room, her bag between her arms. She lights up as I walk out. "Sorry about earlier," she said. "I didn't mean for you to get in trouble."

  "It's okay. I can take whatever they throw at me."

  "You're new, right? The girl from Brooklyn?"

  "That's me."

  "It's cool, I was the new kid once. I know what it feels like. My name's Marisol."

  "Ria."

  "Yeah, I got that from the way Mrs. Parsons yelled your name." Marisol starts heading down the hallway toward her next class. "So, I hope you don't mind me asking, but were you the one beating on Mark Bell last week?"

  I stop in surprise and my bag falls off my shoulder. I wasn't expecting that one. "No?" I say, more question than answer. Totally convincing. I thought I'd dragged him out of sight. Guess not.

  "It's okay if you were. He deserved it after what he did to Camila and Marcela."

  "Wait, what did he do to them?"

  "He killed them, obviously," she says as if it's the clearest thing in the world.

  "What makes you so sure?"

  "Because you knew it was a matter of time. Mark had a bad temper. Most people here hated him, but no one wanted to fight him except Emilio."

  "Who's Emilio?" It was getting hard to keep all of these names straight. Remind me to start carrying one of my dad's reporter’s notebooks at all times.

  "Emilio dated Marcela after Mark. Except Mark didn't take too kind to that, so he tried to pick a fight. Emilio beat his ass pretty good. Only person I've seen handle him, except for you."

  I try to keep the smile from my face. It's nice to have your work appreciated. "He was rude to me," I said.

  "Well, be careful. He's a freak, and the last thing you want is him coming after you."

  "I'll keep that in mind. Say, where's this Emilio?" I'd sure love to have a few words with him.

  "Dunno," Marisol replies. "Haven't seen him today." She eyes the room down the hall. "This is my class. I'll see you around. We should hang sometime; maybe you can show me how to be a badass like you."

  "Yeah, maybe," I reply as I wave goodbye. Then I head down the hall toward my next class. To my surprise, I spot two male police officers down the hall. They're talking with Principal Bowens, and one of them is holding a photo in their hands.

  I wonder what this is about. Hopefully, Mark didn't decide to tattle to the cops about our chat. Because if so, we're going to need another chat.

  I sling my bag over my shoulder and start walking toward them, playing it cool as I go. Principal Bowens looks like someone told her that her dog died, as her hands are covering her mouth and her brown eyes are glassy. I catch a bit of their conversation as I pass.

  "Anything you could tell us would be a great help," the first officer says.

  "Of course," Principal Bowens says, her voice shaky. "I just can't believe this is happening again."

  Now that doesn't sound good.

  I try to slow my walk down just a bit to hear more, but Principal Bowens isn't buying it. She takes one cough and then her voice is back to being authoritative.

  "Get to class, Miss Miller."

  "Yes Ma'am," I say as I hustle down the stairs. I don't get to listen in on the rest, but I think I've got the gist. Something bad is happening again at Tech. Something that's serious enough to warrant the cops and bad enough to give Mrs. Bowens a bad case of deja-vu.

  Anyone want to take a guess as to the cause?

  I pull out my phone from my bag and send both Mom and Dad a text message. Another kid missing?

  Dad's the first one to reply. Yes.

  Shit. I should have had this wrapped up already, and now another student has vanished.

  Meeting SP after work, Mom texts back. SP is shorthand for Inspector Perkins. No sense in throwing around the names of our sources should we ever lose a phone.

  Where? I write.

  Pick me up at work. I'll tell you then, Dad answers.

  The bell rings, meaning I'm officially late for class. Grumpily I put my phone away and hustle to the next room. Like there's any chance I'll be focused on work. And, oh joy, my next class is calculus.

  "Thank you for joining us, Mariah," Mr. Foster says I head toward my seat.

  "I'm really sorry about this, Mr. Foster," I say. "I was held up in the bathroom."

  "Say no more," he says, waving me to my seat. For a moment I think that's going to be all. But then he speaks again as I sit down. "I'm sure you won't mind making up your missed time during lunch period detention."

  I consider pulling out my stake and stabbing him right there.

  ELEVEN

  I'M in a bad mood as I pull up to my Dad's office in midtown. Yeah, failing to prevent the death of an innocent person will take it out of you. The lunchtime detention and midtown traffic doesn't help much, either.

  I don't hear anything more from my parents the rest of the school day. This is also standard procedure. We try not to talk about the job a lot over texts. It tends to leave a trail, and when your job involves stabbing things and setting them on fire, you want to leave as few breadcrumbs behind as possible. So without the extra information, all I could do is sit and stew for the remainder of the day.

  I settle into a parking spot—hey, look at that, some luck—and give Dad a ring. He says he'll be down in five minutes, so I settle in. It'll be at least ten.

  The next person I dial is Ariana. I haven't heard from her or Will all day, and I want to make sure they're not the missing kids. Thankfully, she picks up on the third ring.

  "Hello?" she sounds like hell. I guess the pizza did a number on her.

  "Hey," I say. "How are you doing? I missed you in class today."

  "I'm not doing okay at all,
" she growls. "I don't think you even know what food is."

  Despite her insult, I'm glad to hear that she's alive and accounted for, and my mood starts to lift. "Well, that's not fair! I ate it and I'm fine."

  "That's cause you've been raised on that garbage. Will and I grew up eating human food."

  "How's he doing anyway? I haven't called him yet."

  "Same as me. I talked to him an hour ago. Maybe you shouldn't call him tonight."

  "He's that mad?"

  "He's got a weak stomach." I hear her gag. "Oh God, I've gotta throw up again. Gotta go!"

  "Let's do lunch!" I tease as she hangs up.

  My Dad slides into the passenger seat a moment later. I guess it really was five minutes. "Good to see you," he says after he plants a kiss on my forehead.

  "You too. Where we headed?"

  "Washington Heights. Perkins is meeting us at a diner there."

  I nod and pull out. "So what happened? I only found out because some cops stopped by and questioned the principal."

  "I don't know yet," Dad replies. "I got word of the missing student through a source at the Board of Education. But they're afraid to even give me the kid's name."

  "I'll bet. A fourth kid goes missing from the same school? They all look like goddamn schmucks."

  "Language!"

  "Schmuck isn't even a curse!"

  "Language!"

  "Fine!"

  I pull onto the West Side Highway, and Dad leans back into his seat. "Oh, come on," I grumble. "Don't tell me you're going to sideseat drive?"

  "Maybe I should've asked your mother to pick me up."

  "You're welcome to walk," I shoot back.

  My lucky afternoon seems to continue, as there's no traffic on the highway, thankfully sparing Dad from my road rage.

  "So what have you found out?" he asks as we reach the exit for Washington Heights.

  "Not much," I answer. "Two of the three missing students dated a boy named Mark Bell. I spoke to a girl today who said he had a hot temper."