Текст книги "The Boss's Daughter"

Автор книги: Aubrey Parker

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CHAPTER FOUR

Riley

“RI?”

I BLINK AND LOOK up at Dad. I feel the smile return to my face. It feels less natural – not because I’m not happy talking to him, but because I’m distracted. Dad’s executives and most of his employees have always felt like adults with a capital A. I grew up in this company, and think of most of the long-timers as aunts and uncles. They watched me run around these halls as a little kid then graduate to odd jobs as I grew older. I cleaned the office when it was in its old location, while Life of Riley was still a little unknown developer trailing far behind the big names building communities in Inferno Falls – names known by the entire country. I answered phones in my teens and did clerical work right up until it was time to head off to college. This company knows me, and I know it. We share the same name.

But Brandon Grant didn’t strike me as an adult. At least not with that capital A. He had to be at least twenty-five, maybe older, but he looked as out of place in that suit as I’d look in a chicken costume. I doubt Daddy sees it, but it’s plain to me.

He didn’t feel like an uncle, but like a generation younger, still in the family, like a brother. Yet that’s definitely not right, based on the way my heart started to flutter the second his hand touched mine.

But Brandon isn’t why I’m here. I had four years of college and four years of high school to be flighty and boy crazy. There’s no doubt what my father expects of me now. And as he and I discussed on the phone, I’m now ready to prove my newly enhanced worth to this company … whether he thinks I’m ready or not.

“Yes, Daddy?”

“So what do you think?”

“Of what?”

He nods toward the closed door. “Of Brandon.”

There’s no way I heard that right. It’s like Dad can see right through me, even with my big, innocent smile.

“Does he strike you as vice president material?”

“Oh.” I keep the relieved sigh inside me. “I don’t know. You know him better than I do.”

“He’s young, with zero executive experience. But he’s smart, and he’s had to do some acquisitions work as project head for a few sites. He’s a natural networker. He’s magnetic. People just like him.”

Magnetic? Brandon certainly polarized something inside me, but he didn’t strike me as the kind of person my father would characterize as “magnetic” or even a “natural networker.” He seemed subdued. Maybe even awkward.

“He seems shy.”

“He’s usually not like that,” Dad says, his face now curious. “I think he was intimidated. We just had lunch, and I took him around the office. He knew a lot of these people from talking to them on the phone, but he usually works on site. He came up through the ranks and got his start in construction. Not as a foreman, either. As a carpenter.”

“Oh,” I say.

“But he’s smart. And when I say ‘magnetic,’ I don’t mean loud and boisterous. I mean an understated kind of smart, and not from books. Thoughtful, I guess. He’s heading up Stonegate. On the south side of Cherry Hill. Where those little rock faces are?”

I nod. I’m trying to listen like a vice president myself instead of a girl with a flutter.

“It’s a tricky project,” Dad continues, “but when the architect and planner were having some little petty spat, Brandon played peacemaker then suggested much of the plan himself. Didn’t take or want credit, either; I only know because I was on site and saw him sketching through a street plan hitch and some drainage issues. Somehow, we came in under budget despite a lost week with the squabbles and tricky planning. And the best part is, even though I and a few other people have explained to him how astonishing that is – not just to come in under budget and on track, but to do so after a dispute – he just shakes it off. Thinks we’re blowing smoke.”

“Well, he seems nice,” I say. God, I sound lame.

Dad shrugs. “I’ve got a few other people who want the new VP slot, but my gut says Brandon’s my guy.”

My gut says something about him, too. But I just nod and pretend this is just a boring discussion.

The topic must be closed for Dad too, because he sort of resets, exhales, and practically claps his hands.

“Well, now! My little girl is home. I’m glad. What should we do to celebrate?”

“Want to follow me home and help me unpack my car?”

“I’m not that glad.” He laughs.

I sigh. “I’m pretty tired.”

“Late night?”

I wonder if this is an unintentional dig. Is he asking if I’ve been out partying? I never had a history, when I lived at home, of staying up to study and further my academic pursuits. I was a good student without effort, so I rarely bothered. I used each class in high school to ignore the teacher and do the homework for the previous class. It’s a bit unfair, now, that he’d characterize me as negligent just because school rarely required much effort.

I try to step into my father’s shoes and see things through his eyes. He raised me mostly by himself. Of course he’d notice my social life more than the time I spent staying quietly at home. The former causes more problems for fathers than the latter.

“Just a long drive, Dad.”

“Want to go to the Inside Scoop? Get some ice cream?”

That does sound good. But it also sounds like the kind of thing we used to do when I was eighteen. Or fifteen. Or ten. I’d scrape my knee, and we’d go for ice cream. So after a long drive, I guess we’d do the same.

“No thanks. I just want to settle in.”

“Your room is just how you left it.”

I see a look on his face that I’ve imagined on the phone a lot recently – eyebrows up, asking a question without a question being asked. His words are like a hanging statement without a period, because there’s more if I leave him an opening.

“I’m not staying,” I say. “I need to get my own place. I’m barely going to unpack. Just long enough to do some apartment hunting.”

“It’s a huge house. You can keep to one end, and I’ll keep to the other.”

“Dad, no.”

“There’s even the private entrance. Remember? We had it put in when it looked like Grandma might come and live with us. Just close the hall door, stick to your kitchen and living room. You can pretend I’m your creepy old guy neighbor.”

“Dad … ”  

He sort of sighs, and I watch his shoulders sag. The big, powerful Mason James, humbled. But he knows all of this. I made it clear.

“Okay. I hear you, Princess.”

I decide to let that one go, but I’ve done my time being the princess. I’m not too proud to take help, and it’s not like he didn’t pay for school. But I can’t live at home. I can’t be a burden. I can’t be a spoiled little rich girl, accepting all that I’m given. Not because it’s a drain on Dad, but because it’s a drain on me. There were plenty of times I believed I was a princess: the nice house, the free car on my sixteenth birthday, the nearly instant fulfillment of pretty much anything I wanted. I don’t resent or regret any of it. I love my father, and I’m grateful for all he’s done for me. But the problem with princesses is that nobody works to become one. My mother and father (then just Dad) built this kingly empire from nothing, and now Life of Riley is Inferno’s largest developer – big enough that its work influences the economy, builds schools and parks. By contrast, I got my crown at birth.

“I’ll head over now. I just needed to stop by and pick up the key.”

“Marta’s there. She could have let you in.”

“Then I stopped because I wanted to say hi.” I squeeze Dad’s hand, because I think I just gave him too harsh of a shove. I need my space, but he’s still my father. “And because I thought I might need to fill out some sort of paperwork. With human resources or something.”

That look crosses his face again. “Why don’t you wait until Monday? Give yourself a week to get settled before leaping in.”

“I’d really rather start tomorrow.”

There’s a pause in which he seems to be considering a few things at once: my new hire paperwork, maybe; all the things I’ve been telling him lately over the phone for sure. Perhaps our mutual past. My future. Who I was and who, I’m sure, he still thinks I am.

He finally sighs. “Okay. Talk to Harold on your way out. Be sure to spell your name carefully so he gets it right.”

I laugh. Harold was one of my father’s first employees, apparently still happy as paperwork puppet master after nearly twenty years. Even if my name weren’t on the company stationery, he knew me in pigtails.

I’m halfway to the door when Dad says, “Forgetting something?”

I turn around. He’s holding up a small keyring. I recognize the shine, meaning they’re newly duplicated, and the fact that there are three: two for the front door’s knob and deadbolt, then one more. Almost certainly the second entrance.

I take the keys, kiss him on the cheek, and say thanks.

“Welcome home, Riley,” he says.

CHAPTER FIVE

Brandon

I’M IN MY TACOMA, CUTTING through Tiny Amsterdam on my way to Old Town and my shitty apartment in the Regency, when my phone rings. I still have a few hours of work left. I’m salaried, not hourly, but if I don’t get back up to Stonegate before end-of-day to watch my guys and gals, someone will inevitably do something stupid. But I’m not going in Shaun’s suit. I’ll be eviscerated by the guys I used to work with, all of whom already rib me for becoming fancy.

“Brandon,” says a female voice. The voice is husky, like sandpaper. The kind of voice I’ll never be able to find sexy in a woman even though everyone else seems to, given that I grew up listening to this one.

“Bridget.”

“Where are you?”

“Rum Street.”

“Ah. Are you looking for a hooker this time¸ or just sex toys?”

“Very funny.”

“Can you hop into the Broken Halo for me? Pick something up.”

“Gross.”

“Not because I want it. So that you can talk to Liz.”

I roll my eyes. I’ve had my eye on Liz for a while, but she’s not an easy get even though she works at a sex shop in Tiny Amsterdam. I know her from Bridget’s circles and don’t really want to see the girl in her native element. There might be something percolating between us, but it only happens when alcohol’s flowing. Liz and I might finally hook up when the next wave comes, then that will be the end of whatever friendship we have, of course, but that’s okay. Bridget thinks Liz and I might be good for more than a night, but Bridget thinks dumb shit like that, about me, more than she should.

“What do you need, Bridget?” I sigh.

“I need you to pull over.”

“No. I mean, why did you call?”

“I’ll tell you once you’ve pulled over.”

I consider protesting and pointing out that everyone in the world talks on cell phones while driving. I also consider lying – either telling Bridget that I have stopped or that I bought one of those hands-free headset things. But instead, I pull up beside a parking meter and kill the engine, because to not do so seems disrespectful. Maybe people drive safely every day while on cell phones, but try saying that while looking into the eyes of someone whose second set of foster parents died in a crash. And that was the set who didn’t hit her.

“Okay. I’m pulled over. What’s up?”

Bridget hesitates. It’s only three seconds or so, but it slows my breath. Bridget doesn’t hesitate. To Bridget, life is a game, and you win by punching your opponent in the crotch and taking their pieces while they’re planning their next move. She doesn’t flinch, or back down. Not since Keith, anyway.

“I need money.”

“Shit, Bridge. For what?” I don’t protest. She doesn’t like to ask for things, so she must be desperate.

“Don’t make me beg. If I weren’t waiting for Archive’s fucking quarterlies, which should actually be good this time around, I’d never even consider – ”

“I’m not prying. I just want to know if I can help.”

“Yes. You can help by loaning me eight hundred bucks.”

“Eight hundred!”

“Jesus, Brandon. I feel bad enough. Don’t make me – ”

“Stop being so defensive. You don’t want to tell me, fine.” I don’t go on because I’ve already put her on speaker and am trying to reach my bank’s website. Give her the illusion that I can help for at least a little while longer.

“I’ve got nodules,” she blurts.

I don’t understand that sentence.

“Nodules. On my vocal cords. Look. It’s not a big deal, but they can take them off right now, but only if I can give them a deposit ahead of time because I’m still paying off my last thing.”

Bridget’s “last thing” was a fracture in her femur that hopefully represented the last of Keith’s handiwork. It had been latent since their big incident then suddenly decided to flare up ten months ago and give her a limp. She tried to play it off jokingly as her pirate walk, but I made her get it fixed. She insisted on paying every cent. My protests that I was at fault for Keith fell on deaf ears.

“Are they … I don’t know … dangerous?”

“They’re nodules.”

I also don’t understand that sentence. Is it a yes or a no?

“I don’t know what the fuck nodules are, Bridget.”

“Like bumps.”

“And?”

She seems exasperated. Not by me; by herself. I’ve known Bridget since we were twelve, back when the foster care system first made us siblings. I know how painful this is for her – not the nodules, but the request for help.

“I’ll have to have them removed eventually, or they’ll affect my moneymaker.”

She means her voice. Bridget makes her living as a voice-over actor and an audiobook narrator. Her friends keep saying she should do phone sex, and I’m not sure if it’s a joke, and certainly don’t want to ask.

“It doesn’t have to be right now,” she says, “but I guess it’s a three– to five-week recovery period, and during that time I can’t work.”

“Will you be able to speak enough to meddle in my business?”

“Ha fucking ha. Look. I’m waiting on final edits of Sensation right now, and supposedly that’s at least five weeks. If I get it done now – like right now – I can be back in speaking shape by the time the script comes in. But if I wait, I’ll have a forced three-week break when I can least afford it.”

She’s right. We had this discussion the other night. She was all excited. Sensation has two sequels, Temptation and Reformation, and the trilogy already has enough gas in print and ebook that her best client, Archive Audiobooks, is ready to pay handsomely. But only if Bridget can keep their time frame … and maybe finally get the tiny break she desperately needs and badly deserves.

I nod to nobody. I’ve pulled up my bank account, and it looks like my entire net worth has topped out at $791.43. I made it to four digits once. That was a banner day. I supersized my Value Meal. I make decent money with Life of Riley, but it isn’t great. And holy shit, my debt has had children.

“Eight hundred bucks?” I try to sound casual. Just for kicks, I look inside my wallet, where I keep a twenty folded small for emergencies. Room to spare.

“I’ll pay you back, I swear.”

I’d laugh if I thought it wouldn’t insult her. Loaning money to Bridget is like making a Kiva loan. Her repayment rate is stellar, considering what most people would think of the recipient. Secure as Fort Knox. She’ll probably insist on paying interest. She hates imposing that much.

“I know you will. It’s not a problem.”

And it’s not. I’ve got a credit card. I’ll be paid again before the bill is due, and I can make the minimum payment as always. Rent is taken care of. I’m just on the goddamned edge, which is where I always seem to be. As a hammer-swinging grunt, I lived at redline. As a foreman, I lived at redline. As team leader, I still live at redline. On paper, I do well. It’s only unexpected, random events that knock me off kilter, and I’d be fine if those unexpected punches would stop coming. Too bad they seem to be nearly as reliable as rent and electric.

Now, if I could get the promotion? I’d move into six figures for sure. And if a hundred grand per year isn’t enough to sustain my shitty little life, there’s something wrong with the world.

“So … ?” Bridget says.

“I’ll bring you a check tonight. No problem.” A check because it’ll look official, like I’m Rockefeller and can spare it easily. Although come to think of it, I’d need to deposit my twenty to write her a check. So it’ll probably be a cashier’s check. Even more official.

“I’ll pay you back.”

“You said that.”

“You’re sure you can afford it?”

“Of course. No worries.”

I hear this little stirring on the phone’s other end, and I can picture Bridget warring with an appropriate response. Right now, her dignity wants her to reexplain how she has the money coming and this is just bad timing. But the bigger part of her knows she should be grateful first, defensive later.

“Thanks,” she says. Then we hang up.

It’ll be fine. I get paid soon. I have my credit card, and the debt can keep on waiting. I’ve paid 18 percent interest for years; it can keep on building. What do I care?

I need this promotion. Mason likes me. It’s hard to believe that with one side of my brain, but the other side thinks I’ve got a good shot. If I could move up to vice president, I’d make enough money to get out of debt. To leave the Regency and move into Old Town proper – or maybe Cherry Hill, in time. And it’d be another chance to prove myself. Land deals drive Life of Riley’s profit. The better I do, the more grateful Mason will be, and the more I’ll make.

Maybe the long road can finally be over. For me, and for Bridget.

I need to keep being impressive. Keep doing my job as well as I can.

I slip my wallet back into my pocket. The smooth leather sliding on my palm for some reason reminds me of the touch of the company’s namesake – Miss Riley James herself.

I shake the thought from my head. I make myself stop picturing the boss’s daughter, start my truck’s engine, and pull back out onto Rum.

I go home to change. Because for now, I’m still not the kind of man who wears a suit and has money … or resides in developments like I spend my day’s building, living the life of Riley.

CHAPTER SIX

Riley

THE WAITRESS STARTLES ME NEARLY enough to tip my coffee all over the table – I’m sure it’s an odd breed of college homesickness working its way through my system.

I told Dad I could take care of myself now – or, more accurately, that I want to take care of myself. I’m twenty-two. I never had to struggle like my friends. Phoebe, who should be here any second, grew up poor and managed to never resent me for having more money by the year while her family stayed where it was. She didn’t get her first job at Key Notes for “something to do” or “to teach me responsibility” like I got mine. And she isn’t a clerk at Très Chic because she loves clothing, though she does. For Phoebe – as for pretty much everyone other than me – working is survival.

While waiting for Phoebe, I started thinking about my forthcoming independence. About whether it was sensible or bizarre to insist on getting my own place when I already have one with doors I can lock for free. Whether it was grown-up or merely stubborn to demand a job at my father’s company rather than working with Phoebe at Très Chic.

A boutique job belongs to a kid, whereas a job at a real estate development company is something a proper adult might strive for. But then again, the development job was at my daddy’s company. Would I hold a token job with no true purpose or responsibility … or was I doing what I told myself I was doing, working my way up from the bottom, climbing rungs in a business I’d love to own once upon a someday?

Was I taking a chance and working hard … or merely the beneficiary of obvious nepotism?

That’s what I was thinking when I first sat in the booth, alone, looking out across the full tables at the trendy Nosh Pit – a place that didn’t exist when I left for school. So much of Inferno keeps changing. The town used to be home, but not exciting. Now it’s a hot spot.

I was thinking about how I’d find an apartment, then pay for it with my own money.

I was thinking about tomorrow, about the job my father would find for me, and whether it was best to accept whatever it was or jockey for something better. Or maybe it would be too good, and I’d have to ask if I could start with something worse.

I got to thinking about advancement. About working my way up from the bottom.

And where was the bottom in Life of Riley? You could say it was a position like receptionist, but the real ground floor is in construction. I don’t know all the logistics – yet – but I’m pretty sure Dad used to subcontract then moved construction in house when he realized how much he was blowing on middlemen. Compliance and union issues had been a real pain; I’d been hearing about them on and off when calling or visiting home.

If I really wanted to start at the bottom, I’d come to work with a hammer.

I’m not planning to do that, but that man I met today? Brandon Grant? He started in construction. So it’s possible. It does my heart good to see that my legacy is a true meritocracy. Do good work at Life of Riley, and you can rise to vice president. Bearded or not.

For some reason, Dad’s question about that beard snags in my mind. He was joking, of course. Brandon, if he gets the position, really should at least trim his beard, though. It looked a little overly … well … construction guy-ish. It’d help his chances. I don’t think he needs to shave it. I don’t normally like beards, but on him, it works. He has those soft blue eyes topped by eyebrows that aren’t bushy, or timid. A thoughtful brow, really. Like he was, as Dad said, used to being quiet and absorbing what others said then pondering his way to decision. Short brown hair. A way of behaving that’s not quite shy, but not at all forceful. Strong and silent, judging by my scant moments of exposure.

“Top you off?”

I’m so lost in thought that the sudden snap to reality causes me to slap my coffee cup with my hand. I jump a bit in my seat, then turn to see a red-haired waitress standing beside me.

The waitress seems rattled. She’s holding a coffee pot in one hand and has placed the other across her heart. Other than the coffee pot, she might be someone out for a stroll down the aisle. The Nosh Pit’s trendiness extends to the waitress uniforms: knee-length and pretty-enough-to-pass-for-real dresses, almost formal. They comes with slim black belts, and her no-skid restaurant shoes actually have an open toe and a small heel. The heel must be optional because I also see women in flats, and the waiters are in pressed shirts and what look like shoes worthy of a street side polish stand.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

I smile. It comes naturally. Many of Dad’s friends treat restaurant staff like shit, but several of my friends have served. And besides, this girl is probably just a few years older than me. If I’m going to stay in this town and make a proper name for myself, she and I might one day orbit the same circles. Everyone works their way up, and from what I understand, the Nosh Pit is far from the bottom.

“It’s no problem,” I say. “Just off in the clouds, I guess.”

“Would you like more coffee?”

I nod. While she’s filling my cup, I notice a name stitched into the dress. It should look terrible, but the designers managed to make the stitching look almost like a monogram.

“Abigail,” I say.

She looks up.

“Do you go by Abby?”

“I like Abigail better.”

I’m just about to say I admire when people use their full names rather than shortening them when Phoebe shows up. She isn’t delicate, and nearly sideswipes the server, as if she thought Abigail was about to steal her seat.

The server blinks. Her red hair is straight and understated. She has a spray of subtle freckles, and it almost looks like she’s tried to cover them in makeup that’s mostly worn off during her shift. Her nose is tiny and porcelain; the freckles lie across them in a delicate blanket. Normally, I’d never want red hair or freckles for myself, but they look stunning on Abigail, and I’m momentarily jealous. I’m all white teeth and blonde hair. Put me outside on a sunny day, and I swear, I’ll vanish.

“Hi,” she says to Phoebe. “Can I get you anything?”

“Coffee.”

Abigail hangs around for a baffled moment then turns to go. I’m left facing Phoebe, who’s perusing the menu even though I know she won’t order a thing. She told me to meet her at the upscale diner despite having eaten dinner at home. When I suggested we meet at a Starbucks instead, she laughed in a pitying way that suggested I was too uncool to know better.

“Hi,” I say, making a point to stare her down.

Phoebe looks up with just her eyes then folds the menu and sticks it off to the side, in the rack with the salt, pepper, and sweeteners. She looks properly up at me then crosses her arms on the table. Phoebe has intense, deep-set brown eyes and a deceptively stylish mop of brown hair. It looks like a mess but is carefully choreographed.

“So,” she counters.

I always get the feeling I’m keeping Phoebe from something. It’s easy to forget that she was the one who called me last week, demanding to know when I’d be home so we could hang out again. It’s easy, now, to forget that she called me again today, before I was half-unpacked, and demanded I meet her here the minute I finished.

“So yourself,” I say.

Phoebe’s mouth cocks then she’s sliding her tongue into the corner as if thinking, or cleaning her teeth. The impasse breaks, and she sits back.

“What you been up to?”

“Oh, just four years of college. You?”

“Selling clothes.” Her eyes tick toward the red-headed waitress, who’s neared the kitchen. I really do like her uniform. I’d wait tables if I could wear that. “You met Abigail?”

“You know her?”

“Of course I know her. I know everyone in town.”

“No, you don’t,” I counter. Phoebe has always been antisocial. Or, more accurately, she’s antisocial with anyone who doesn’t seem especially hip, which is most people. “You’re an asshole.”

Her demeanor breaks, and she laughs. “I’m on the upswing. I started taking this course with a life coach online.”

“What kind of course?”

“On how to be a life coach.”

That sounds like a pyramid scheme, but I keep the thought to myself. The idea of Phoebe as a coach, life or not, gives me chills. But she’s always into something, always searching.

“Anyway, I’ve learned to open up. Network. You know?”

This is even harder to believe. My father’s employees network, not Phoebe. I try to imagine her handing out business cards and suggesting lunch. Maybe that’s what we’re doing now. Have I been networked?

“Sure.”

“I know all the players.”

“And the waitresses here. They’re players?”

“Servers know everyone. They hear all sorts of juicy shit.”

I sit forward. “Okay. Then tell me some ‘juicy shit’ you’ve learned from networking here.”

“Abigail walked out on rich parents and a full ride at Princeton. Oh, and an asshole boyfriend who was apparently sticking it in everything.”

“Telling me gossip about the person who told you the gossip doesn’t count.”

“Okay,” says Phoebe. “See that girl over there?”

I look where she’s not terribly subtly nodding. There’s another waitress at the diner’s far end, past the stylized chrome stools lining the counter. This waitress also has red hair, but it’s far redder. I wonder if there’s some sort of a dress code for hair, but the only other female server I can see is tall and thin, sharp but gorgeous features and dark-brown hair, her uniform adjusted for maximum tit exposure. On second look, it turns out the waiters and even the cooks all seem beautiful. It’s like eating at a modeling convention. Only the toad-like owner isn’t worthy of a glossy cover.

“Yeah?” I say.

“That’s Maya. Got herself knocked up in high school, and the guy ran off or something.”

I think I remember that. It might even have happened in my high school, certainly before I left. As business-expanding networking goes, Phoebe’s intel is worse than useless.

“You’re ridiculous,” I say.

“I didn’t get knocked up,” she says, her posture as defensive as her tone.

“All you’ve learned while I was gone centers around the Nosh Pit. You’ve achieved the networking equivalent of watching a teen soap opera.”

Phoebe grabs a sugar packet and throws it at me. It hits me in the face before I can block it then falls into my coffee, paper and all. Phoebe raises her hands, making her stylish black pullover drape from her arms like a bat, and says, “Score!”

“Seriously? Are you still at Très Chic?”

“Just until I get my coaching credentials.”

I want to fast-forward past this part. It’s embarrassing. Phoebe has had so many great ideas that haven’t panned out, it’s amazing that she still believes every new thing will be the one that finally works. But I don’t pity her. Phoebe is a happy mess. I’m more or less organized, now with a college degree in business, but I feel like more of a mess. Phoebe’s delusion means she has it made. My clarity, by comparison, kind of sucks.

“You’re not impressed? I talk to everyone. Either I talk to them while they’re buying clothes – ”

“ – at a fancy boutique store that most people can’t afford.”

“ – or they’re eating in here or at other places where the staff is my ear to the ground. So yeah. I’m Grand Central, Honey.”

I glance at the waitresses. I wonder if they know they’re part of Phoebe’s delusional master plan. I wonder if they realize they’re apparently Phoebe’s good friends, or even that they know her at all.

“Who do you want to know about? Try me, Bitch.”

“Nobody.”

“Your dad. Want to know what he’s been up to?”

I wonder if that’s a threat. She could say anything.

“No thanks.”

“Because, you know, maybe he’s been dating.”

“I don’t want to hear it. Not from you, anyway.”

“How about Police Chief Wood?”

“I don’t care.”

“Stygian Hart?”

“Who the hell is Stygian Hart? Is he the big crazy guy?”

“Frightening. Not crazy.” She points at me as if this is an important distinction, or as if I’ve accidentally insulted an institution. Then she crosses her arms. I’ve seen this before. It means I’m not playing along and need to hop on board. I love Phoebe. She’s always been one of my best friends, but she’s also always been nuts. I remember the time she insisted we engineer her Big Wheel to fly.

I sigh. Then something occurs to me. Something I’d been wondering about anyway, so I might as knock two birds from my sky.

“Okay, I say. Brandon Grant.”