The Dimple Strikes Back by Lucy Woodhull

the only one smart enough to not carry any sort of ID on her person. Dina’s real name was on her passport, tucked in a backpack, and the blond guy was named Jan de Boer. We took pictures of their identifying information—all three of us, in case one phone got busted or whatnot. Then, we took selfies with everyone in the background. Finally, we announced that the three of us were emailing these pics to different people.
    Deliberately, and in front of Jane, I handed Ellen my phone and said, “Jane, please come and speak with us.”
    She rose from the couch elegantly and followed me into the bedroom, where Sam had propped himself against the wall again. His skin had taken on a horrifying grey cast, and I blazed hot all over. I squeezed my hands into fists, but didn’t punch anyone. I was the good guy, dammit.
    Sam smiled at Jane and said, “Ain’t she something?” while pointing at me. His hand fell limp to the floor. “Please sit. I can’t look up at you. Your dude out there is gonna make my chiropractor rich.”
    “Your dude Jan de Boer,” I supplied.
    “What do you want to talk about?” Jane got to the point in Jane fashion. She swept to the floor and sat cross-legged, as nimble as I was.
    I began. “Jane, Sam has told exactly no authorities about you. So your actions here of planning to murder all of us are premature at best, and super mean at worst. Really!”
    Jane sighed.
    “Janie, we had a deal, and I’ve stuck with it.” Sam shot her a look so sincere, puppies should take notes.
    “That’s not what’s being said.”
    “So you just decide to go on a murder spree?” He winced and pushed up straighter. “Shooting an internationally-known movie star is a fabulous idea? How many video recordings exist of Samantha on the train, in the station, all with your stupid Dina out there? You think no one will put that together?”
    Jane ground her jaw and snapped, “Movie star?”
    “I know, right?” I grinned. “Who’da thunk it? By the way, my agent now has a picture of you with me.”
    The elegant goddess of a woman uttered a word I never thought would pass her lips. She recovered nimbly into a blank, professional face. “Perhaps I overreacted. But there was an arrest recently—”
    “Yes, the arrest of a customer ,” Sam finished. “He probably won’t spend a day in prison. The rich rarely do.”
    “Hm.”
    “Call your dogs off, Jane, please. I really don’t want to see you in jail. And it’s not because you’d rat on me, it’s because I have genuine respect for you.” He leant forward. “There are plenty of millionaire buyers in the sea. This has to stop, though. Next time you pull shit, we’ll sing songs about your misdeeds at trial. I don’t suppose you could reassure the rumour mill that I am not a snitch? I’d greatly enjoy not being slaughtered.”
    She cracked a small smile and nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
    She rose to leave, and I said, “By the way, this entire adventure has been audio recorded for posterity. Have a nice evening.”
    We let them all go, with protestations from Nicolette duly noted. She and Ellen, armed, promised to follow the baddies back to the train station and watch them get on trains headed out of the country. This left me and Sam alone in the romantic, medieval city of Bruges. “I want to fall over and die,” groaned my dreamy lover.
    “No dying, but our hotel is somewhere in the old part of the city. I’ll let you collapse once we get there.”
    He agreed with a grunt. I mapped the address on my phone, and we happened to be only a few blocks away. I wondered what the ancient denizens of this city would think about my magic pocket-sized device that called forth any piece of information. They’d burn me as a witch. And all my roles in plays would have been portrayed by dudes. Nope, modern-day miracles were a blessing. Birth control separates us from the primates.
    I half-carried him out, but after a few minutes of my groaning and sweating, he