Forty-Seven

I called Max to tell him what I thought was going on with Peter, that the magician had retrieved other items his father had stolen. Max said he’d pass along the information to the investigating detective.

Next I texted Brixton to tell him the news, then drove to his high school, where classes would soon be ending for the day. I had no confidence he’d heed my words and refrain from confronting the magicians.

Brixton rolled his eyes when he saw me, but his demeanor changed when he climbed into the truck.

“I’m supposed to help Mom at the teashop, but I don’t feel like it. Can you drive me home?”

“How about we still go to Blue Sky Teas but I join you for a cup of tea first? It might help.”

Another eye roll. “I know you guys think tea solves all the world’s problems. But it really doesn’t.”

I had a good idea why he was upset. “You’re disappointed about Peter Silverman, aren’t you?”

“He lied to me, Zoe. He never wanted to help his father’s reputation. It was all a lie.” He stared out the window as we drove past rows of blooming spring flowers. “How am I supposed to trust anyone?”

We drove in silence to Blue Sky Teas. When we arrived, Brixton took his mom’s place behind the counter without a word, and Heather joined me at a small tree-ring table. Today, the mason jars were filled with a rainbow of tulips, and the whole teashop smelled like a flower garden.

“I’m worried about Brixton,” I said, keeping my voice low. I hesitated. “Can I ask you about his stepfather?”

Heather’s eyes lit up. “Abel. He’s the best thing that’s happened to me since Brix.”

“Brixton seems to idolize him, and I know he gave Brixton that guitar he loves. Why won’t he talk about what Abel does?”

“What does that even mean, what we do?” Heather studied her paint-stained hands for a moment before she looked back up at me. “Such a loaded expression, don’t you think? I mean, am I a painter because I paint, even though I don’t make much money at it? Or do I work in a café, since that’s what I’m doing for money?”

“I wasn’t trying to be philosophical. I’m trying to help Brixton. He’s really upset, and I think it has to do with Abel.”

Heather looked to the counter. “He looks okay to me.”

I sighed and tried a different track. “Brixton doesn’t have anything to be ashamed of, so why won’t he tell me what keeps Abel out of town?”

Heather plucked a yellow daffodil from a braid of her blonde hair and picked the petals off one by one. “It’s embarrassing,” she whispered.

“Is he in jail or something?”

She crushed the flower stem between her fingers. “In a way, it’s worse. If he was in jail, it wouldn’t be by his own choice.”

I wasn’t sure I followed that logic, but I went with it.

“He works for Big Oil,” she said, her voice so soft I could barely hear her.

“Oil?”

“Shh. Yes, it’s awful, isn’t it? I protest them all the time! He doesn’t want to do it, but he’s great on the oil rig.”

I looked up to the faux blue sky above the weeping fig tree and laughed.

“What’s funny?” Heather’s face flushed. “See, I’m so embarrassed just talking about it to you. I told Brix it would be better if everyone thinks he’s a painter like me.”

“I’m so glad that’s all it is. And you’ve just reminded me how easy it is to be wrong about people.”

I was too tired to stay awake for dinner that night. I didn’t fight Dorian when he brought me a tray in bed and put me to sleep.

At midnight I was awakened, I wasn’t sure by what. I’m used to the patter of Dorian’s feet on the roof.

I got up to walk through the house. I found the source of the noise almost immediately. Dorian had dropped a hefty notepad in front of my door. There was a note on the top sheet.

You are sicker than you will admit. Ivan is in the hospital, so I have taken the liberty of taking my book to his home library. Do not fear, it is not missing. I am a fresh set of eyes (how American I am becoming!) and will return home with new ideas.

I sighed. A simple life, Zoe. A simple life.

I drove my truck toward Ivan’s house. It was walking distance, but the truck would be the easiest way to get Dorian home without him being seen.

A plume of smoke rose in the distance, coming from Mt. Tabor. A bad feeling clenched my stomach. It looked like it was coming from the theater. But unlike the fake fire in the Prometheus and Persephone stage show, this fire was very real. My tires screeched as I turned and headed toward it.

I found Dorian outside the back of the theater, hiding next to a dumpster. His wings flapped in earnest. He was horribly upset.

“I went inside because I thought I heard a voice calling out for help, but it was too hot. I dropped my book! It is inside, burning.”

The sound of sirens sounded in the distance.

“Hide, Dorian.”

“I know!” he snapped. “I hid from the men in the theater last week, as I will hide now.”

He’d “hidden” from Wallace Mason and Earl Rasputin, yet Earl had posters that resembled Dorian. Could it really be that simple?

“Dorian,” I said. “I know what happened.”

Dorian heard the urgency in my voice and stopped.

“They didn’t see you in the woods by the cemetery,” I said. “Wallace Mason and Earl Rasputin saw you in the theater. Both of them, when they were spying on the magicians just like we were, when they hoped to get inside information about the location of the Lake Loot. That’s why Wallace was clutching your stone toe, and why Earl had a knife. They were defending themselves from Baby Bigfoot, and in the confusion and darkness, Earl stabbed the wrong man.”

A faint cry of distress interrupted me.

“Merde,” Dorian whispered. He gave me one last look, then followed the sound of the anguished cry into the burning theater.