C
HAPTER
8
A
fter Colin dropped me off at school again, I had just enough time to stash my bag in my locker and sneak into Journalism, my last class of the day. I slipped into my seat as unobtrusively as possible, but Ms. Corelli lifted an eyebrow and tapped her watch. Only today’s guest speaker prevented her from issuing a detention on the spot.
Nick Petros was a political reporter for the
Tribune
; he had a column on page two several times a week. The mayor was one of his favorite topics; organized crime and rampant corruption were others. My family’s name wasn’t mentioned much, these days. But when I’d Googled it, I’d found he’d taken quite an interest in my family thirteen years ago. Even now, my uncle would complain about him and his “libelous, muckraking, so-called journalism.”
Up close, he seemed like a decent guy. He wore pleated khakis and a long-sleeve black polo shirt, both of them pulling a little tight across the belly. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed back from a reddish face, sporting the broken vessels along his nose and cheeks I’d seen in the heavier drinkers at Morgan’s. He didn’t stop talking when I came in. Hands stuffed in pockets, he leaned against the podium and continued speaking, but I got the distinct impression he’d transferred his attention to me.
He asked a question, something about impartiality when reporting a story, and as several underclassmen waved their hands wildly, Lena nudged me.
“Well?” she asked out of the corner of her mouth.
“I took her home,” I murmured. “She’s fine.”
“Colin’s not. He was furious when I told him you’d left. I don’t care what you say. The guy is not indifferent.”
Not indifferent, intractable. I wasn’t sure which was worse.
Petros’s voice cut into my thoughts. “There’s always a disconnect between what you know and what you can prove. I write maybe a tenth of what I know, tops.”
“Isn’t that frustrating?” asked one girl.
He laughed. “Sure. I keep plugging away, digging up dirt, looking for the proof I need. Someday it’ll all come together. Might take a while, but that just makes it even sweeter.”
Lena whispered, “She’s really okay?”
“Yeah. Food poisoning.” I tried to sound vaguely repulsed, to discourage more questions.
Lena wasn’t buying it. “Sure.”
Petros ambled over to our table, and we both looked up guiltily. “Let’s ask our editors-in-chief. Tell me, ladies, do
you
run into a lot of ethically challenging situations?”
“For the paper?” Lena asked.
The Clarion
wasn’t really the type to print hard-hitting investigative pieces. We ran articles on the sports teams, service projects, the drama club.
“Paper, real life, wherever. I imagine things can get pretty murky sometimes.” He watched me closely as he spoke, and I squirmed in my seat.
“We’re a high school paper,” Lena said, brown eyes widening. “We leave the murky stuff to people like you.”
He swiveled toward Lena, who tilted her head to the side and gave him a bland smile. After a long, uncomfortable moment, he turned away, addressing the whole class again. “Remember, girls, if you want to print it, you have to prove it. If you dig deep enough, you’ll find the truth.”
Lena poked me lightly with her pen and wrinkled her nose, trying to break the tension. I smiled back gratefully.
Ms. C stood up, a little perplexed but still cheerful. No doubt this was not the career day speech she’d envisioned. “Ladies, how about a round of applause for Mr. Petros, and a thank-you for his offer to speak with us today?”
We applauded dutifully while he gathered his coat and briefcase. “I’ll leave some business cards, in case you have more questions.”
On his way out, he paused at our table again. “Here you go,” he said, handing us each a card. “Seriously, any time you two want to come down to Tribune Tower—tour the newsroom, shoot the breeze, ask me questions—swing on by. Nice to meet you both, Lena and ... Mo, right?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” I set the card deliberately on the table.
“He was weird,” Lena said once he was gone.
I’d had all the weird I could take for one day.
Once we were out in the hallway, she started in again. “What happened with Constance? How’d you guys get home?”
“I called a friend.” Hard to say what Luc was, but friend would do for now. “He’s good in situations like that.”
She crossed her arms. “Mmn-hmn. Not Colin. Mystery guy? You said he was gone.”
“I may have been wrong about that,” I said cautiously. Telling her about Luc seemed dangerous. It was safer for everyone when the two halves of my life, Arc and Flat, didn’t touch, but a part of me yearned to share. Instead, I shrugged a little, like it didn’t matter. “What did I miss?”
“Mass, for starters.” We ducked around a cluster of freshman. I heard Constance’s name and kept my eyes down. “I told Sister Donna All Souls’ Day was too much. You wanted privacy. I think she bought it.”
All Souls’ Day, when we remembered those loved ones who had died in the past year. Ironic I would have forgotten when I still longed for Verity every day.
“Thanks.”
Lena grinned. “What are friends for?”
By the time Colin had dropped me at The Slice is Right, my headache had subsided, even if my worries over Constance hadn’t. In the cramped closet that served as Mom’s office, I tossed my bag on the ground. As I dug out a pair of brown cords, a small card—four inches square, stiff cardstock—fell out. Drawn on it, with careful, detailed strokes, was a sunflower. It wasn’t mine—my artistic abilities were limited to stick figures and photography. Whoever had drawn this had pressed hard enough to leave grooves in the paper. Probably it had fallen out of one of my library books, but it was too intricate and pretty to throw away. I slipped it into my pocket and headed out.
After wrestling my hair into a ponytail, I grabbed an apron from the stack by the office door. The Slice’s aprons, the color of a granny smith apple with a ruffle
and
rickrack trim, were bad enough, but the matching kerchief was worse. It was constantly slipping to the side, squashing my hair, making me look like a deranged milkmaid. I picked up a pencil and order pad, waved to Tim, the cook, and readied myself for another day at The Slice.
The Slice is Right was home. In some ways, even more than our orange brick bungalow, because once my dad went to prison, The Slice was our only source of income. Back then, I didn’t realize it. All I knew was that we spent long hours at the restaurant and that my mom was happier there than at our house. At home, my dad’s absence was apparent in every room—two places set for dinner instead of three, unread stacks of
Sports Illustrated
and the
Wall Street Journal
piling up until the subscriptions ran out, quiet mornings where there used to be booming laughter and tickle fights. The Slice, on the other hand, was so crowded and busy you could go for an entire shift without realizing what was missing. And the regulars were always happy to see you, especially when you had a full pot of coffee and a warm piece of pie.
The restaurant had always been my mom’s domain. She’d poured her heart and soul into making it work for twelve years. I was her daughter, but The Slice was her baby.
Framed in the rectangular pass-through between the kitchen and the counter area, Mom was talking to someone, animated and attentive. Curious, I craned my neck to see who was making her so cheerful.
Elsa Stratton? My former lawyer was here for a visit? Somehow I didn’t think she was getting her Thanksgiving order in early. The clink of silverware on china and the other customers kept me from hearing anything but the last few words.
“I’ll contact you when I hear more, of course,” Elsa said.
Even from across the room, I could see the flushed excitement in my mom’s cheeks as they shook hands. After Elsa had left, I pushed through the swinging doors.
“What was Elsa doing here? Is it Verity’s case?” When the police had questioned me after Verity’s death, she’d accompanied me at my uncle’s request. She was the type of lawyer who inspired shark jokes, and her hourly rate was more than I earned in a month. I’d been very relieved she was on my side and not the opposition’s.
“And good afternoon to you!” Mom trilled. She came behind the counter to give me a hug before taking off her apron. “Did you have a nice day?”
“Why was Elsa here?”
“Oh, it’s a long story, and I’ve still got to go to the bank and make the Shady Acres delivery. Let’s talk at home?”
“Right.” I should have known she’d never talk about anything important in front of the customers. “Lena and I might stay late at school tomorrow, work on our history presentation.”
“Why don’t you invite her here? Take a back booth and study.”
“She’s pretty busy.” And too observant. If she came to The Slice, there was a chance she’d meet my uncle. Knowing Lena, she’d ask about stuff I couldn’t explain. Inviting her home seemed less tricky. “But she might sleep over on Friday, if it’s okay.”
Come to think of it, Lena had never invited me to her house, either. Maybe all her questions were a way of deflecting attention.
I refilled water glasses and coffee cups while Mom counted the register. “I wish you’d invite Colin in,” she said, peering out the window. “It’s not right to make him sit outside.”
“He likes it. He says it’s too noisy in here.” Also, he had a better view, should trouble come calling.
She shook her head. “You should take him some coffee, at least. And something to eat. Brandied pear is the special today. Or a nice piece of mince pie. He’d like that.”
I grimaced. “Mom, nobody likes mince pie except the crowd from Shady Acres.” We did a steady business from the local retirement apartments just a few blocks away, both walk-in and delivery. I’d never seen anyone order mince pie who didn’t qualify for the senior discount.
“Shush.” She glanced around, worried she might be offending one of the Shady Acres crew, but the only person at the counter was a girl my age. “Take him some pie before we close up.”
For a split-second, I considered arguing. Pie wasn’t going to fix our problems. Instead, I asked, “Who sent the flowers?”
Next to the cash register was a vase filled with cheerful yellow-orange sunflowers, electric in the sleepy air of The Slice. She glanced over as she headed toward the kitchen. “You know, I’m not sure. They just got here. Aren’t they charming?”
I wiped clammy hands on my apron. “Was there a card?”
“I didn’t see one. I’ll see you at home. Remember, Mass tonight.”
Intent on the flowers, I didn’t hear her leave. I dug past the glossy green filler and oversized blossoms, but she was right—no card. I fumbled in my back pocket, pulling out the drawing I’d found. Suddenly, neither the sketch nor the bouquet seemed even remotely charming. Had someone broken into my locker and put the card in my bag? I thought back to Nick Petros, the oddly piercing look he’d given me during Journalism. Were they from him? He’d given me his business card, in plain view of the entire class. There was no reason for him to be cryptic.
And then it hit me. This morning. Running into the old guy by the library, dropping my bag, his insistence on handing it back to me. He could have hidden the drawing inside my bag then.
I found exactly who I was looking for,
he’d said.
He meant me. Somehow, the old man had slipped into St. Brigid’s unnoticed and found me. He’d found me here, too, but why? Was he an Arc? One of Billy’s associates? It wouldn’t be the first time they’d tried to send me a message.
The plate glass windows in the front of The Slice turned threatening—the perfect way to put me on display—and I fought the urge to call Colin and beg him to come inside. If the old man was an Arc, I’d do better to tell Luc. Colin would notify Billy, and I’d lose what little freedom I had. Worse, Colin would launch into bodyguard mode, slipping even farther away from me. If the guy was trying to show me I was being watched, it was old news. I’d had people watching me since Verity died.
I jammed the drawing into my back pocket again and forced myself to act naturally. Arc or Flat, I didn’t want to show any fear. Instead, I checked on my booths, refilling coffee and clearing plates. The girl at the counter was still there, picking at her apple pie. The ice cream had melted, and she pressed the fork into the crust, making a crust-apple-cream sludge.
“You want me to take that for you?”
The girl looked up at me, hazel eyes startled. “I guess I wasn’t hungry.”
“No problem. More coffee?” The sturdy white mug was empty, though I’d refilled it when I came in. Judging from the tremors in her hand ... “I’ve got decaf.”
“Was that your mom?” She tilted her head toward the kitchen.
“Yeah. Family business,” I said, trying to smile as exhaustion crept up on me.
“You’re Mo.”
I looked closer. Chapped lips, light brown hair in a messy ponytail, and a challenging note in her voice.
Another message from the old guy? The Seraphim making a move?