by Sarah Kuhn
A skitter of annoyance ran up my spine. Honestly. Who did they think they were dealing with? Neither of them watched nearly enough British murder shows to even come close to matching me when it came to a simple game of manipulation.
“Weren’t you just joking about hating every minute of that tedious task?” I said to Evie. “I’m offering my assistance where it makes most sense—the sifting is clearly the bigger job. And Celine will likely feel more comfortable if she’s just talking to one person. More like a friendly conversation than a full-on investigative session.”
And with that, I swept toward the back room. Where I was guessing Kevin stored all the bar’s records. And where I’d really have to school myself in order to not return to my most recent memory of the place.
“Lucy . . .” Rose began.
But I just kept walking, pretending not to hear her.
Text Messages Between Lucy Valdez and Rose Rorick, Six Months Before My Perfectly Reasonable Freak-Out
RR: Lucy, are you okay?
RR: Luce?
LV: Yes, of course, I’m grand! Why wouldn’t I be?
RR: I didn’t have a chance to catch up with you after the Bridezilla battle and the wedding . . .
LV: Ah, yes, quite exciting, wasn’t it? See you at the reception later?
RR: Of course. Thanks for helping my team herd all those civilians to safety. You were so authoritative. And great outfit. As usual. I’m surprised I didn’t see more shots of you in all the coverage.
LV: Well, it wasn’t really about me, was it? One of our fabulous superheroines got married, the other one saved the day. Quite the busy news hour!
RR: I just think sometimes you deserve more attention for all the work you do.
LV: You as well, you’re an integral part of saving this city from demons on a regular basis. But I don’t sense you got into this career for all the flash, hmm?
RR: Don’t do that.
LV: Do what?
RR: Whenever I try to ask you something deeper . . . like, something that’s not about detective shows or whatever, you somehow turn the conversation back to me.
LV: Can you blame me, darling? I find you fascinating!
RR: That’s . . . nice, but . . .
LV: But nothing! Now tell me why you became a cop/detective/supernatural investigator person—specifically, a demon-busting cop/detective/supernatural investigator person. How have we not gotten to this story yet?
RR: It was . . . um, a kitten.
LV: A . . . what, now?
RR: When I was in high school, there was this stray neighborhood cat who had a litter of kittens. And there was this tiny, mangy one, the runt . . . I don’t know, the mom rejected it. It happens sometimes. I found it shivering, alone, and being menaced by the neighbors’ asshole poodle.
LV: Darling! You saved the kitten!
RR: I did.
LV: Wait, is that kitten . . . Calliope?!? Your mean old cat?
RR: She’s not mean! She’s sensitive. And yes.
RR: Something about that made me want to protect people—and kittens—who can’t protect themselves. And when all that demon shit started going down, it seemed like a natural fit.
LV: Rose Rorick, savior of kittens! I’m swooning. You’re such a marshmallow. Or I guess in fanfic parlance . . . a cinnamon roll.
RR: Shit. Don’t tell me . . .
LV: Yes!! It took me forever, but I finally found it!
RR: Oh, god.
LV: You have quite the vivid imagination, PadméIsMyQueen69.
Chapter Six
“So yeah, the last three years of photos and records are digitized,” Kevin said, nodding at the dusty computer sitting on the back room’s small desk. Said computer had been so obscured by piles of paper and other detritus that I hadn’t even noticed it earlier. “Anything before that is in the binders on the shelves.”
“I see,” I said, taking in the jumble of binders crammed into the metal shelving and trying not to wince. “Kevin, I know you were but a child yourself when this was happening, but do you remember Celine’s mother? She was apparently quite the star back in the day, and used to sneak Celine in for her performances.”
“Nope,” Kevin said, shrugging in his usual oh-so-helpful way. “But I find that part of the scenario highly unlikely—Mr. Gregoire, who owned this place before I did, was a real stickler for the rules. There’s no way any rugrats would’ve been able to get in here undetected.”
“Is Mr. Gregoire reachable?” Evie said. “Maybe we should ask him ourselves.”
“Nope,” Kevin said again. “He managed this place until the day he died eight years ago—Beyoncé rest his soul.” Kevin fluttered a hand to his heart and looked skyward. “And I plan on doing the same.”
From his tone, I wasn’t sure if that was a promise or a threat.
“Maybe we should talk to Stu Singh,” I mused. “He’s been behind that baby grand forever, has he not?”
“Noooooope!” Kevin sang out, taking even more relish than usual in his favorite response. “It was actually my visionary idea to hire Stu—he used to be one of the regular piano players at Nordstrom. I could tell he had a real way with the ivories because he was always mixing it up—getting into that old school Bollywood soundtrack stuff, playing really obscure Broadway shit while the other players were still on ‘As Time Goes By’ or whatever. I brought him in right before Mr. Gregoire passed.”
“And the timeframe we’re looking at is more like . . .” Evie gave me a questioning look.
“Let’s see—Celine said she came here when she was ten, and I think she’s about our age, so . . . eighteen years ago? Ish?”
“Damn,” Evie muttered. “Okay.” She rolled her neck, like she was getting ready to go for a particularly grueling run (which was kind of hilarious, given how much Evie hates running and/or anything running-adjacent). “I guess we’ll get to sifting.”
“Call us when you need me for the photo shoot,” I said, waving Kevin away.
“I will,” he said, his eyes sliding to the computer as Evie booted it up and an avalanche of icons appeared on the desktop. “Um. Don’t look in the ‘Taxes’ folder.”
And with that, he was gone.
“Of course, now I want to do nothing more than look in the ‘Taxes’ folder,” Evie said, shaking her head. “But I guess we should get to work.”
“See if you can find anything on that trainwreck computer while I attempt to locate the appropriate binders,” I said, striding over to the shelf.
The binders were at least mostly clearly marked, year by year, in cramped, teeny handwriting. I had to squint to make out the numbers and wipe away several impressive layers of dust, but I finally located a pair of binders from eighteen years ago and pulled them free—kicking up a whole new layer of dust.
“Ugh,” I said, coughing my way back over to Evie. “Perhaps this wasn’t the correct task to volunteer for. I don’t want to imperil my voice before the competition has even begun.”
“See, you should’ve gone with Rose,” Evie said, giving me a sly sidelong look.
I didn’t respond, just sat down next to her and plopped the binders on the desk, opening the top one to its first page. It contained an unremarkable collage of photos, people singing and looking like they were having a good time. Some truly unfortunate fashion choices of yesteryear were really the only elements of note.
“Luce,” Evie said, her voice gentle. “Look, I don’t want to keep pushing this if you’re not into it, but . . .” She paused, as if weighing what exactly she should say next. “Aveda and I noticed you and Rose were in here for a while,” she continued, gesturing around the back room.
“Well, yes, we had an investigation to conduct, didn’t we? Scanning and questioning Celine,” I said, glancing over the first page of the binder, trying to figure out
if it displayed anything more nefarious than an overabundance of flannel and shrunken baby t-shirts with nonsensical sayings printed on them.
“Yeah, but Celine came out and you guys were still in here for, um, kind of a long time,” Evie said.
I blew out a breath, keeping my gaze focused on the binder. I turned the page. More flannel. More people singing. Celine had said her mother looked like her, but there was no one in these photos who bore even a passing resemblance.
“Luce?”
Though Evie might not be skilled in the ways of the British murder show, she was persistent. Stubborn. So I might as well tell her what happened and get it over with—the barest minimum, of course.
“We kissed,” I said, not taking my eyes off the photo collage.
“What?!” Evie exclaimed. “Ohmygod, and you didn’t tell me until . . . until . . .”
“Until we had vanquished a possibly murderous microphone cord?” I finished, raising an eyebrow.
Evie shook her head in exasperation. “So what’s the problem? That means you’ve finally found the exit out of Friendlandia, right? Isn’t that good? Doesn’t that mean you can fall into sweet, squishy coupledom and have awesome weekends filled with brunch and, I dunno, hours of you showing her your knife collection? Honestly, what could be better?”
“Evie.” I was horrified to hear my voice shake. Somehow, during her speechifying about the unmatched wonders of domesticity, tears had welled in my eyes. And now, one of them slipped down my cheek.
“Oh . . . oh, no!” she said, her eyes going wide as she stuffed her hands in her hoodie pockets, searching for a tissue. She finally found a sad, crumpled scrap of one and offered it to me. “Lucy, what’s wrong?”
“I . . . I can’t have that,” I murmured, dabbing at my eyes with the tissue scrap.
“Why not?” Evie pressed.
“I just can’t.” My voice broke on the last word.
Evie was silent for a moment, wrapping her arms around me. I closed my eyes, more tears slipping down my cheeks. Something about her words had poked at a deep ache underneath my heart, that vein of something soft and sad that I usually managed to banish from my mind entirely. I didn’t know why I was so upset. Who cries over the mere idea of brunch?
“Please,” Evie finally whispered. “Please tell me what’s wrong. What’s really wrong.”
I took a shuddering breath. And felt the words start to fall out. For once, I couldn’t find the strength to stop them.
“I don’t think I’ve ever told you . . . well, I’m fairly certain I’ve never told anyone . . . about the time I met my father.”
“Your father?” Evie said, her voice twisting up on the last syllable. “I thought you didn’t know who he was. Except that your mom said he was a British spy of some sort.”
I nodded and dabbed at my eyes again with the tissue scrap. “I knew . . . I mean, somewhere deep down, I certainly knew the story Mama told me was one of her fairy tale twists on the truth. But I thought there was at least some truth to it. Like, maybe he wasn’t exactly a spy, but he could have been in Scotland Yard or something at the very least.”
“Totally,” Evie said, her voice soft and coaxing. “I can totally see you as the descendant of some kind of international law enforcement.”
“I always wondered about him,” I continued. “When I was eighteen, my curiosity reached a breaking point. I just had to know. So I used all the, ah, skills I’d acquired watching my British murder shows and I tracked him down.”
“A real Stout and Haley,” Evie said, trying for rousing.
“Scott and Bailey,” I corrected. “We met at a diner. One of those overly themed places where everything is red, white, and blue and all the servers are supposed to talk to you like they’re auditioning for a community theater revival of Grease.”
“Guh.” Evie shuddered. Interactive theater was one of her worst nightmares.
“Indeed. I waited there for two hours past our agreed upon meeting time. I went through three baskets of curly fries. And Evelyn, you know I don’t do that level of junk food. Finally, he walked in. My heart felt like it was about to beat out of my chest.”
I paused, gathering my memories. I could still smell the grease in the air, could still feel the heady thrum of the same five sock-hoppy songs playing on a loop. My stomach clenched just as it had back then, when my nerves had mingled with the weight of an excess of curly fries.
“What happened next?” Evie prompted.
“At first, it was lovely,” I said, my voice growing hesitant. “He was handsome, charming. He spoke with that plummy British accent. And he was so well-dressed. Pocket square and everything. I thought perhaps I had gotten my sense of style from him.” I smiled faintly at the memory, feeling both affection and pity for my younger, more innocent self. “Our conversation was flowing in the beginning: pleasantries, awkward jokes, discussion of British murder shows. Then of course I started asking questions. He gently told me that he wasn’t a spy, that was just a little joke between him and Mama. He was British, though.” I smiled in spite of myself.
“I told him that of course it didn’t matter, I just wanted to really know him,” I continued. “He told me he was a ‘jack of all trades’ type, that he actually lived in the area. But he’d been such a mess when I was born, he and my mother decided between them that it would be best if he wasn’t part of my life. He claimed he’d regretted that forever.”
I stopped again, my throat growing tight, and hastily swabbed at my eyes with Evie’s tissue scrap. She squeezed my shoulder, encouraging.
“I . . . I don’t know, Evie. Maybe that part should have made me angry, but he was looking at me so earnestly, so openly, and I felt such sympathy for him in the moment. It made me want to open up to him—and suddenly, all of these . . . these things were pouring out of me. I told him about how I’d grown up, always trying to make Mama smile. How I’d never felt like I could really show her when I was sad, but that I was actually sad a lot. How I’d missed him without even really knowing him. How completely and utterly lonely I was sometimes.” I swallowed hard. “I’d never said these things to anyone, ever. But I thought after what he’d told me . . . well, of course he would understand. He was my father, after all.”
I hesitated, scrubbing at my eyes. I didn’t want to talk about what came next. But Evie was waiting so patiently, her arm around my shoulder. I could feel her radiating all that warm empathy straight at me, trying to make it all better.
“He . . . ” I shook my head and tried to collect myself. “His eyes had taken on this glazed look while I was talking. And he started nodding in that mechanical way—like when someone isn’t really listening, they’re just waiting for their turn to talk. And then . . .” I swallowed again. “ . . . he reached over and gave my hand this impersonal little pat. And said he had to be somewhere, but was actually short on cash at the moment and wondered if maybe . . . maybe I could help him out.”
I choked on the last word, my voice turning into a sob. I could picture it like it was yesterday: this charming man with a rakish smile so much like mine, regarding me across an empty, grease-splotched curly fry basket. Not the least bit interested in the fact that his daughter had opened her heart to him. Not the least bit interested in his daughter, period. All he wanted was money I didn’t have.
I wasn’t a person to him—I was an opportunity. A thing.
“Oh, Lucy,” Evie said softly, hugging me tighter.
“I’d been hoping . . .” I paused and took a deep breath. “That meeting my father would help me understand some crucial, unknowable thing about myself. And in a way it did. It helped me understand that I could never open up to someone like that again—I could never show them my whole heart. It was simply too devastating to feel that flame of hope, and then have it completely extinguished.”
“Your mom . . .” Evie began, her voice tentative.
“That’s a pretty big fucking lie,” Evie murmured.
“In any case,” I said. “I realized earlier today: I can’t open myself up to Rose the way she deserves to be opened up to. After my father, I think I just . . . stopped opening up at all. And now, all these years later, I am simply not capable of it. I ran the second things started getting intimate. Rose deserves someone who will be with her fully. Who won’t shut down or run when the situation get even a little bit complicated.”
I thought my tone had been getting stronger as I told my tale, but my voice broke again, the tears falling in earnest. I didn’t sob. I didn’t snuffle. I just bowed my head and let them fall. I felt Evie hugging me again, resting her head against mine.
“You’re capable of anything you set your mind to, Lucy Valdez,” she said, her voice fierce. “And you deserve as much mundanity and brunch as you want.”
“No, Evie,” I said, my voice shaky but vehement. “I always like to say I ghost someone before they can become too attached to me—but Rose is already attached, so that is simply not possible. We’re friends. And I care for her so much, I have to keep us there. I have to.”
Evie went quiet and let me cry. The gentle pressure of her arm around me let me know she was still there, but she didn’t push me to talk any further—and since I’d already talked way more than I liked to, I was eternally grateful for that.
When I finally felt like my eyes could leak no more, I dabbed my face with Evie’s now almost completely disintegrated scrap of tissue and turned back to the binder.
“All right,” I said, straightening my posture and making my voice brisk. “Let’s keep looking.”
“If you ever need to talk more—”
“Yes,” I cut in. “I know.” I gave her a small smile to soften my tone. She smiled back, looking like she was dying to say much, much more.