Forty-five

MATT cracked his knuckles. “We’ll start with the basics by looking at the perfect Cinder profile. That would be my own.”

Settling down on the couch beside me, he pulled out his smartphone. “I tap the app and—”

I frowned. “An advertisement?”

“An offer. I’m a premium member of Cinder, so I have a Treasure Chest.”

“A what?”

Matt explained that basic Cinder use was free. But premium members, who loaded “Cinder dollars” into their “Treasure Chests,” got perks—special deals on dining, clothing, event tickets, bars, and clubs.

Because you could “allow” Cinder to access your social network accounts, the marketing was very target specific, and very effective.

“I get it, one-stop shopping—and a lucrative ancillary business for CEO Sydney. Now can we please create my Cinder-ella profile?”

He asked for my phone. I unlocked it, handed it over, and he downloaded the Cinder app.

“You’re using a fake name, I assume?”

“I can get away with that?”

“As long as it’s a free account. Once you go premium, you’ll need to use a credit card. And if you want to attract a lot of men, you’ll want a premium membership. It’s like paid placement in a retail store. You’ll get better exposure.”

That made me pause. “Do you think Richard Crest had a premium account?”

“To get as much action as he did, I’d say so.”

My heart beat faster. “Then Cinder’s administrators know his real name, his real identity! Not to mention his billing address!”

Matt doused my excitement with three words—prepaid credit card.

“There are plenty of ways to pay online without revealing your identity. The prepaid credit card is only one.”

“Are they hard to get?”

“You can buy them at almost any drug or grocery store.”

“Then a fake online identity isn’t difficult to create.”

“Not if you’re motivated. There’s even an Internet rumor that guys set up fake female Cinder accounts so they can read the comments their dates make about them.”

“I’ll keep my gender, thank you, but I do want a false name. I always thought Rafaela was pretty.”

Matt rolled his eyes. “Who can pronounce that? You want to use something simple, but not mundane. Exotic, but not silly.”

“What if my name really was Rafaela?”

“Here. Look—” He pulled out his own phone, activated the Cinder app, and showed me a screenshot of a woman straining to look natural in an obviously posed shot.

“Her name is Bernadette. Now, she knew enough to shorten her moniker for her profile, but she should have used more imagination.”

“Why?”

“Because no straight man wants to cry out, ‘Yes, Bernie, yes, Bernie,’ in that most intimate of moments.”

I buried my face in my hands. “I give up. You win.”

We finally settled on Kara C. The C was because the app didn’t display last names, unless you specifically chose to use one, which I didn’t. As for social media platforms, I told Matt to connect Kara C.’s profile to our Village Blend accounts. Later tonight, I’d simply add “Kara” to our barista staff list.

“Okay, Clare, now you have to mention your interests and likes. Are you fun-loving? Do you like long walks in the park?”

“Only when they lead me to forensic evidence.”

“Excuse me?”

“Forget it,” I said. “Likes . . . let’s see. I like coffee. Art. And the art of cooking. Live music. Theater. River walks. Sunsets. Swimming. Roses. Cats. New York history. I like trying new restaurants—”

“Good, all good.”

“I also like eating . . . almost everything. Pasta. Pastries. Candy—”

Matt groaned. “Stay away from liking ‘candy.’ It’s code for drugs.”

“Drugs? You mean like Styx? Is that why it was made to look like candy?”

“Styx?” Matt’s brow furrowed. “That’s one I haven’t heard of. What the hell is Styx?”

I told Matt everything I knew about the new party drug—courtesy of Mike Quinn and his OD Squad. How it came in powder form and was packaged like the old Pixy Stix in colorful, straw-shaped wrappers . . .

“So please be careful, okay? I still worry.”

“Clare, I’m never going to touch drugs again. And I stay away from people who use them, especially women.”

“You do drink.”

“Not to excess, and never on the road. Believe me, alcohol I can handle. Drugs and I are finished. You can trust me on this.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Oh, it’s done. A fully grown tree cannot be bent into a walking stick.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a Kenyan proverb. Basically, it means strength and wisdom come with maturity.”

“So you’re saying you’re mature?”

“Hey, I may not be the Dudley Do-Right your flatfoot fiancé is, but I’m not a stupid kid anymore, either . . .”

Matt studied my still-worried face.

“Listen, I became a husband and father before I knew what it meant to be either. At this age, I know what I lost. But I also know what I still have. I’m not going to risk my life; or screw up my business; or hurt you and Joy and Mother. Not ever again.”

That I did believe. “So who told you that proverb?”

“The smartest man I know—a truck driver in Kenya.”

“Did he teach you anything else?”

“Yeah, that a donkey’s thanks is a kick.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You should. You’re doing a good deed trying to catch this psycho, but you’re likely to get kicked in the process.”

“You know what? I can take it—along with my so-called ‘round behind.’”

“Your beautiful round behind.”

“Hey, we could put that in my profile.”

“The description or the photo?” Matt rubbed his beard. “We could do both.”

“For heaven’s sake, I was kidding! Let’s get back to work . . .”

With a shrug, Matt turned back to his Cinder app and began swiping left through random women. In the interest of creating the “perfect profile” for me, he stopped every so often to make a comment.

Pearls of wisdom followed. They were made of paste, but they had their uses just the same. I only remembered a few . . .

“This girl is frowning. That’s a red flag. If she’s not smiling on her profile picture, she never will.

“This one posed in front of her framed diplomas. She’ll probably keep reminding you that you’re no rocket scientist.

“This one likes ‘harness racing.’ Sorry, darling, but I couldn’t get into Fifty Shades of Grey.

“She loves children. That’s code for ‘I’m not looking to hook up with a guy. I’m looking to hook a guy.’

“Oh, my. Tiffany says she’s a waitress, but all her pictures have her in expensive Prada lingerie. Tiffany is a prostitute.

“This one loves to go to the ball.” Matt paused. “Wow. She has a nice smile.”

“The ball?”

“Yeah, give me a second, will you? I need to swipe right.”