midtwenties who is his only direct surviving family and his next of kin.”
“You got her—”
“Katherine Thornton, lives in Washington D.C. and works as a journalist. Got her degree in journalism in Dallas before moving right after graduation.” More tapping sounds as I pull up outside the café. “Looks like… She’s a freelancer, strength lies in political stories. Obviously. Broken a couple of relatively big stories before other more popular journos, but nothing to get her signed to a paper or website or anything like that. Gets the odd invite to the White House press conferences.”
“Do you have any contact information for her? I’m assuming the police have already contacted her.”
“Last known activity on her credit card was last night to Delta for a flight to Austin, so yes. And I’m starting to feel like a fugitive.”
“Call Anonymous or Lizard Squad. They’ll talk you out of it. It’s all for the greater good.”
“Yeah. Right. I’ll get on that information for Katherine and let you know.”
“Thanks, kid. Gotta go.” I hang up and look out the window at the café.
I don’t want to go in there for a second—not after what I learned at Gianna’s just last week. The thought of Wally cheating on Gianna with Rosie is very strange. I don’t know if I quite understand it, but I guess I was only a kid when they were married, and Lord only knows that adults do fucked-up shit all the time.
Example: We have to pay bills. That’s fucked up. Nun-in-a-porno kinda fucked up.
It’s crazy. I think, if I weren’t such a problem-solver, I’d be a psychologist. I’m obsessed with how the human mind works and the way it ticks. The ins and the outs and the whens and the whys and the hows.
Maybe that’s why I am a problem-solver. Because I can do the things a psychologist can’t. I can dig through the bullshit and find out things about people they’d rather stay buried, because that’s the best part about my job. One way or another, if I want or need to, your skeletons will be dug up. I can unearth just about anything with the help of my team and the people around me. Essentially, no one is safe. I’ll find out everything.
Hey, look. I’m the individual version of the NSA. Except I don’t keep a log of your text messages and shit. That’s odd. Even for me.
Sitting out here and going off on a thought tangent isn’t going to get me anywhere. All it’s going to do is make me even hungrier than I am, and that’s not good for anybody. No one needs a super-hungry Noelle.
Jesus, here I go again. I need a fucking intervention around here.
I force myself out of my car, grabbing my wallet on the way. I am at a café, after all. I can get food and information all in one trip. It’s so nice when a plan I didn’t know I had comes together. I dismiss the thought as soon as I open the door to Rosie’s and the bell above my head dings, announcing my arrival.
The café is quiet but not empty, and the murmur of conversation is just low enough that I’ll be able to talk with Rosie without being interrupted, but it’s not so quiet that anyone will be able to hear what we’re saying.
I don’t even want to do this. But here I am. Unable to control my own investigative urges. Damn me, myself, and I.
Corinne Banks, Rosie’s niece and an old school friend I haven’t seen in at least nine years, pops up from behind the counter. Her bottle-blond hair is the exact same shade, cut, and style it was when she left to chase her dreams in California, and she doesn’t look like she’s aged at all.
Probably Botox.
“Noelle! Hey! I wondered how long it’d be before you stopped by here. Aunt Rosie said something about cupcakes and pie.”
“I… Yeah. Little addiction going on.” I smile, ignoring the way she looks at my stomach.
Good lord.
“I thought you were in California,” I say before she can ask if I’m pregnant or something else ridiculous.
“I was, but my mom called and asked if I
“You got her—”
“Katherine Thornton, lives in Washington D.C. and works as a journalist. Got her degree in journalism in Dallas before moving right after graduation.” More tapping sounds as I pull up outside the café. “Looks like… She’s a freelancer, strength lies in political stories. Obviously. Broken a couple of relatively big stories before other more popular journos, but nothing to get her signed to a paper or website or anything like that. Gets the odd invite to the White House press conferences.”
“Do you have any contact information for her? I’m assuming the police have already contacted her.”
“Last known activity on her credit card was last night to Delta for a flight to Austin, so yes. And I’m starting to feel like a fugitive.”
“Call Anonymous or Lizard Squad. They’ll talk you out of it. It’s all for the greater good.”
“Yeah. Right. I’ll get on that information for Katherine and let you know.”
“Thanks, kid. Gotta go.” I hang up and look out the window at the café.
I don’t want to go in there for a second—not after what I learned at Gianna’s just last week. The thought of Wally cheating on Gianna with Rosie is very strange. I don’t know if I quite understand it, but I guess I was only a kid when they were married, and Lord only knows that adults do fucked-up shit all the time.
Example: We have to pay bills. That’s fucked up. Nun-in-a-porno kinda fucked up.
It’s crazy. I think, if I weren’t such a problem-solver, I’d be a psychologist. I’m obsessed with how the human mind works and the way it ticks. The ins and the outs and the whens and the whys and the hows.
Maybe that’s why I am a problem-solver. Because I can do the things a psychologist can’t. I can dig through the bullshit and find out things about people they’d rather stay buried, because that’s the best part about my job. One way or another, if I want or need to, your skeletons will be dug up. I can unearth just about anything with the help of my team and the people around me. Essentially, no one is safe. I’ll find out everything.
Hey, look. I’m the individual version of the NSA. Except I don’t keep a log of your text messages and shit. That’s odd. Even for me.
Sitting out here and going off on a thought tangent isn’t going to get me anywhere. All it’s going to do is make me even hungrier than I am, and that’s not good for anybody. No one needs a super-hungry Noelle.
Jesus, here I go again. I need a fucking intervention around here.
I force myself out of my car, grabbing my wallet on the way. I am at a café, after all. I can get food and information all in one trip. It’s so nice when a plan I didn’t know I had comes together. I dismiss the thought as soon as I open the door to Rosie’s and the bell above my head dings, announcing my arrival.
The café is quiet but not empty, and the murmur of conversation is just low enough that I’ll be able to talk with Rosie without being interrupted, but it’s not so quiet that anyone will be able to hear what we’re saying.
I don’t even want to do this. But here I am. Unable to control my own investigative urges. Damn me, myself, and I.
Corinne Banks, Rosie’s niece and an old school friend I haven’t seen in at least nine years, pops up from behind the counter. Her bottle-blond hair is the exact same shade, cut, and style it was when she left to chase her dreams in California, and she doesn’t look like she’s aged at all.
Probably Botox.
“Noelle! Hey! I wondered how long it’d be before you stopped by here. Aunt Rosie said something about cupcakes and pie.”
“I… Yeah. Little addiction going on.” I smile, ignoring the way she looks at my stomach.
Good lord.
“I thought you were in California,” I say before she can ask if I’m pregnant or something else ridiculous.
“I was, but my mom called and asked if I
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