say something, and I brace myself out of instinct, registering his suddenly darting gaze and expecting something I'm not going to enjoy hearing, and then –
He vanishes, gone in the space between one blink and the next.
I almost trip over my own feet backing away, Marla replacing him on the couch as though she's been sitting there all along. Her grin widens as I jolt backwards out of shock, not used to other people appearing and reappearing the same way that I do. “Sorry, kid, but your time's up.”
“But I wasn't finished talking with my brother,” I blurt out.
It doesn't appeal to her sense of sympathy, apparently. “I noticed,” she says, pushing to her feet with that muffled groan older people always seem to make when they get up. “There's a cab outside waiting to take you to the all-night diner in town so you can wind down a spell before you set sail.”
“But –”
“You can find your own way home after that, I'm guessing.” She claps me on the shoulder, her warm expression not faltering when I yank my arm away from her touch. “Pleasure doing business with you, kid.”
8.
Thirty minutes later, Nate strides into the Berry Bay Diner, already chuckling as he swaggers towards me.
I stopped tapping my foot out of gross impatience about ten minutes after being tucked away in a booth with a plate of greasy French fries and a sweating glass of ice-cold lemonade, neither of which I touched. By the time Nate wanders in, his key ring twirling from one finger as he winks at the homeliest waitress in the place, I've had plenty of time to stare at my rapidly cooling meal and wonder exactly what the hell is going on.
Nate slides into the opposite side of the booth, making an apologetic face when his boots bump against my heels. “All right, I give,” he says, reaching for my plate and fishing out the least grease-soaked and limp fries from the pile. “What the hell are you doing out in Bugzapper, Bumblefuck, USA?”
“Visiting my brother.”
“Surprise, surprise,” he drawls.
I scowl, my arms crossed. “I didn't give you permission to eat my French fries.”
“You didn't give me permission to drink your lemonade, either,” he says, pulling my glass towards him. The lemonade swishes back and forth, paler than it had been when it first arrived, watered down by now with melted ice cubes.
On any other day I might just shove the cold food his way and watch as Nate the walking garbage disposal devoured every ice-cold French fry and washed it down with lukewarm lemonade. Knowing Nate, he might even lick the salt off the plate, even if it's just to get a laugh out of me. Of course, he's not currently distracted by the wellspring of personal problems I'm swimming through against my will. I imagine he doesn't even possess half of the insider information that I do about Graham's current predicament. I wouldn't be a Noble if I weren't holding my cards closer to my chest than I'd admit even to one of my best friends.
My expression must have darkened considerably, as Nate's face falls, the French fry in his hand dropping to the plate. “Aw, hell, Vera, don't give me that look. I was just trying to lighten up the mood some.”
“They arrested my brother for murder, Nate.”
“So I heard. I do work in high places, or maybe you missed that.”
“They arrested my brother for murdering Morris Kemp.”
“Yeah, I noticed that, too. The baconite fry your brain or something?”
I huff out an aggravated breath, already disinclined to continue my merry stroll across the eggshells of my father's personal life and Morris's role in it. There's only so much sympathy I can show for Morris that won't come off sounding suspicious, especially when it's coming from the daughter of the superhero he toyed with and fought against for decades. I don't even know why I'm connecting any sort of sympathetic feeling with Morris. I just don't enjoy the sinking sensation behind my sternum or my steadily growing
He vanishes, gone in the space between one blink and the next.
I almost trip over my own feet backing away, Marla replacing him on the couch as though she's been sitting there all along. Her grin widens as I jolt backwards out of shock, not used to other people appearing and reappearing the same way that I do. “Sorry, kid, but your time's up.”
“But I wasn't finished talking with my brother,” I blurt out.
It doesn't appeal to her sense of sympathy, apparently. “I noticed,” she says, pushing to her feet with that muffled groan older people always seem to make when they get up. “There's a cab outside waiting to take you to the all-night diner in town so you can wind down a spell before you set sail.”
“But –”
“You can find your own way home after that, I'm guessing.” She claps me on the shoulder, her warm expression not faltering when I yank my arm away from her touch. “Pleasure doing business with you, kid.”
8.
Thirty minutes later, Nate strides into the Berry Bay Diner, already chuckling as he swaggers towards me.
I stopped tapping my foot out of gross impatience about ten minutes after being tucked away in a booth with a plate of greasy French fries and a sweating glass of ice-cold lemonade, neither of which I touched. By the time Nate wanders in, his key ring twirling from one finger as he winks at the homeliest waitress in the place, I've had plenty of time to stare at my rapidly cooling meal and wonder exactly what the hell is going on.
Nate slides into the opposite side of the booth, making an apologetic face when his boots bump against my heels. “All right, I give,” he says, reaching for my plate and fishing out the least grease-soaked and limp fries from the pile. “What the hell are you doing out in Bugzapper, Bumblefuck, USA?”
“Visiting my brother.”
“Surprise, surprise,” he drawls.
I scowl, my arms crossed. “I didn't give you permission to eat my French fries.”
“You didn't give me permission to drink your lemonade, either,” he says, pulling my glass towards him. The lemonade swishes back and forth, paler than it had been when it first arrived, watered down by now with melted ice cubes.
On any other day I might just shove the cold food his way and watch as Nate the walking garbage disposal devoured every ice-cold French fry and washed it down with lukewarm lemonade. Knowing Nate, he might even lick the salt off the plate, even if it's just to get a laugh out of me. Of course, he's not currently distracted by the wellspring of personal problems I'm swimming through against my will. I imagine he doesn't even possess half of the insider information that I do about Graham's current predicament. I wouldn't be a Noble if I weren't holding my cards closer to my chest than I'd admit even to one of my best friends.
My expression must have darkened considerably, as Nate's face falls, the French fry in his hand dropping to the plate. “Aw, hell, Vera, don't give me that look. I was just trying to lighten up the mood some.”
“They arrested my brother for murder, Nate.”
“So I heard. I do work in high places, or maybe you missed that.”
“They arrested my brother for murdering Morris Kemp.”
“Yeah, I noticed that, too. The baconite fry your brain or something?”
I huff out an aggravated breath, already disinclined to continue my merry stroll across the eggshells of my father's personal life and Morris's role in it. There's only so much sympathy I can show for Morris that won't come off sounding suspicious, especially when it's coming from the daughter of the superhero he toyed with and fought against for decades. I don't even know why I'm connecting any sort of sympathetic feeling with Morris. I just don't enjoy the sinking sensation behind my sternum or my steadily growing
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