Sixty-five

AS I watched my ex-husband chase after our daughter, I felt a measure of relief—not total, but enough—because when Matteo Allegro vows to protect his baby (hippo or not), no male parasite on the planet stands a chance of getting near her.

And, yes, the vulture-like proximity of my ex-husband could scare off the likes of Richard Crest, but Joy’s safety came first. Besides, my whole staff was on the lookout for the man; and, after years of hearing Quinn’s war stories, I knew there was more than one way to catch a creep.

For instance, take this new wrinkle with Sydney Webber-Rhodes.

She recognized the face in Dante’s sketches, and that recognition obviously upset her. Why?

It looked to me like this Richard Crest character had paid Haley Hartford to do work for him. And from what I overheard in the alley, Haley had set up some kind of digital “backdoor” to the Cinder programming.

Had Crest paid Haley to create that door so he could manipulate the app? Was he the one who remotely erased abuse reports and negative comments? If so, why did he want to sabotage the app? What would he gain by doing it?

Cody mentioned something about money, too—over six figures of deposits into the Cinder treasure chests that couldn’t be accounted for. That made no sense, either. Extortion typically involved robbing a company of money, not adding to its coffers.

As I returned to the front of our shop to find Sydney (and attempt to get some answers), I noticed the cool jazz on our sound system was lowering in volume. Suddenly, Esther’s voice poured out of our speakers—

“Good evening, and welcome to the Village Blend! We are about to begin tonight’s open mic poetry slam in our upstairs lounge. Join us right now for some rap with your frap and wit that won’t quit. Plus an important unveiling. Come on up and see what the talk of the Village will be!”

The buzz of conversation grew louder as curious customers swarmed our spiral staircase. Across the room, Sydney’s gaze found mine. What the hell is going on?

I pointed upstairs, wanting her to see for herself.

Immediately, she typed into her phone. The pastel Tinkerbells got the message and joined their boss at the crowded base of the spiral stairs.

Meanwhile, I hurried back to the pantry, climbed the empty service staircase, and slipped onto the packed second floor. Esther tossed me a wave. I flashed a thumbs-up, and she mounted our temporary stage.

Apron gone, my zaftig barista pushed up her black glasses, pulled the microphone off its stand, and took on her role as tonight’s MC.

“All you Ellas and Fellas, you princes and princesses, and especially you paupers, peons, and peasants who seldom get invited to the ball, lend us your ear! And, if you’re so inclined, lend your tongue for our first round of slam fun . . .”

I noticed Sydney and her posse cresting the steps. The large room was packed, every café table filled, but they quickly found standing room near the back.

“Which brings us to tonight’s special theme . . .” Esther continued. “May I have a table drumroll, please?” She held the mic out to the audience, and they lightly pounded our tabletops.

“Dating Disasters and Horrible Hookups!”

As the crowd lit up with laughter, the Tinkerbells frowned, and Sydney’s megawatt game face went dark.