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“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down. Start over again. Go slower.” L twirls, the skirt of his Mrs. Claus outfit flaring. We’ve barely made it inside the metal door, and I’ve tried to empty the contents of my head all at once, right by the hand-washing station.
“What are you wearing?” I ask, just now fully eyeing the oddly matched fabric. White leather and sequins that look oddly familiar.
“My costume designer has been out of the office on a personal emergency so I’ve gone back to my roots and I’m sewing my own look. And by sewing my own, I mean cannibalizing the stuff you’ve sewn and putting it together with hot glue.”
I nod, because that’s about what it looks like. “You’re right, and I’m sorry. I like the idea though. It looks like a tree skirt.” The white studded leather makes a circle skirt, half of it trimmed with red boa. “Actually, I just got a really great idea.”
“Sure, now you tell me.”
“What if you’re the tree? You said you wanted something original. What if we kind of follow the lead of Diego Montoya and do a massive headpiece? Green tinsel, LED lights, the whole damn partridge in a Christmas tree, and then you sort of just emerge from inside it? It’ll be an amazing reveal.”
“Ohhh girl, I love that. And a huge floating Jesus above it?”
“That might get heavy.”
“A star then. I am after all the star.” L slips into character, even half-dressed.
“Okay, now that we have that sorted. Let’s talk about how I’m going to end up murdered or in jail.”
“Step into my office,” L answers with a glance up the stairs. Whalon must be sleeping. Or naked. Or both.
By office, L naturally means the costume closet. We push aside the air mattress I’ve been sleeping on and take a seat on the two metal chairs that live in the closet. It takes me nearly thirty minutes to describe in detail everything that happened tonight.
When I finish, L gives a low whistle. “Suddenly I’m not much in the mood for Christmas,” he says before pulling back on his yoga pants and big jazzercise tank top with the sparkly letter L bedazzled on it. “I have one question.”
“Just one?”
“Okay, one to start with.” L crosses a leg over at the knee and leans forward. “I thought you said you hadn’t shown anyone the sketch book.”
I chew on my lip. “This is a good point. Rideout saw it. They’ve been talking, do you think he’d have told her about it?” I think back, all the way to the inception of my idea, suddenly doubting the part of my story where my partner in crime double crosses me and throws me to the wolves. “I’d told her the premise of the comic,” I say slowly. But I don’t think I even showed her the sketches.
“I worked on the one that has the feather boa scene right before I came here to see you. We had our talk and then I put them in my bag and went home to change for my first night as the Golden Arrow. They didn’t even leave my sight or my bag—"
I hit my own hand to my head. A vision clear as day appears in my mind’s eye. I’d emerged from the bathroom to find Lelani straightening my pile of notebooks. I’d figured she’d just been being a neat freak, but now knowing how quick and cunning she is . . . my money is on her having rifled through them. Wouldn’t I probably do the same if left alone with someone’s notebook? “She saw them, I just didn’t realize it until now. They were on her counter for about thirty seconds.”
“You think she planned this in thirty seconds?”
“No, but I think Lelani may be an evil genius, so maybe it was information at the time until she found a way to use it.”
We both nod because it’s the simplest explanation, as ridiculous as it sounds.
“But why?”
I scrub my hand over my face. I’m exhausted. “I don’t know why. We are making big headway for Ryan. We’ve uncovered so much information for him, in fact I think today Rideout and Matteo left to go intercept a Carry Car on Ryan’s information.”
And then I remember that I’d overheard someone at the meeting say that he’d received word that their shipment avoided detection. “. . . only I don’t think they found anything. They discussed it at the meeting tonight. That would be information worth handing over to the police. That would certainly get Ryan something. But no, Lelani is off on some tangent about uncovering the chemist. I mean knowing how smart she is, maybe she wants dealt in to the drug ring. Who knows?”
“Any chance she’s trying to shield you?” Trogdor wanders in, and hops up on the air mattress, clearly trying to indicate that he’s ready for bed.
“I thought about that. But then why tell them my name and where I live? I’ve already had a rock through my front window, and if I hadn’t heard them . . . pretty sure at the very least my kneecaps would be broken.”
“Yeah those sorts of people don’t play. Not when you could be putting millions of dollars of product at risk.”
We both stare at each other.
“What do we do about it?” I ask.
L stands from the chair and stretches up, his hands brushing the ceiling of the closet. “That part, I have no idea. It’s hard to think of a plan to counter an evil genius when you worked all day and glued all night. I’ll double check the alarm system is up and running, and let’s talk about it in the morning. Do you think we need to worry about them coming here?”
I chew my lip. “Eventually. Maybe.”
Lawrence nods as if he expected the answer. “I’ll tell Whalon to stay at his place for a few days. I don’t want that sweet head of hair hurt in any way. Then we’ll figure out what to do to get ahead of this. Waiting for someone to come hurt us isn’t really my style of fighting.”
I stand too, and wrap my arms around his solid middle. “Thank you, L. You’re the very best friend a girl could ask for.”
Trogdor sneezes twice. “Or a corgi,” I amend.
“Well, I love you guys too.” He leaves with a blown kiss to Trog.
I flip off the light once he’s gone, but immediately the interior of the closet lights up with my phone screen. Matteo texting.
Just got home, love you.
I send a text back, love you too. I want to ask all about today, but it’s best to keep it short and sweet. I can basically hear the tired radiating off of those words. He needs rest. And so do I.
But despite the closet’s dark and familiar interior, I can’t fall asleep. There are too many things running through my head. How did the Carry Cars avoid detection? Have I put the story together wrong? Would they find me here? Would they hurt my dog? Would they hurt L or Whalon or Matteo?
And if Lelani indeed went back to plant a feather boa tonight, under the guise of looking for the guy’s cell phone, would I see it on the news in the morning? If the guys are planning on moving the drugs on Thanksgiving morning—likely dispersing them to several locations—why would we not want to try to stop them hiding little bits in all the hidey holes? The voice—the guy who seems to be in charge—said that they were going to use the vehicles again. All I have to do is pass this information to Ryan. It’s solid. To hell with Lelani and whatever game she’s playing. I’m going to go on the offensive but not let her know I’m going on the offensive.
But how do I do that?
I can’t waltz into the prison, demand to see Ryan, and hope for another opportunity to tell him stuff. We’ve already been advised that calls and mail are monitored. I’m allowed to drop off stuff like books, but even those are checked for notes or devices.
Books.
I’m allowed to drop off books. Comic books. And my roommate has already proven a genius in deciphering mysteries embedded in a comic. I . . . could definitely go to jail for this. In fact, I might need some of this information for my own plea deal.
But this idea is so close to evil genius, I decide to fully embody the Golden Arrow and go ahead and push the rules all the way to the limit. I flip the light in the closet back on, and immediately Trogdor gives me the evil eye and jumps off the bed, crawling under a section of long skirts, looking for some dark and quiet.
“Sorry boy,” I say as I gather my art supplies. “No time to sleep for me, I’ve got a drug ring to thwart.” And I need to finish this tonight so that I can drop this off first thing in the morning at the prison—and stop by Genius to pick up some others so that this one isn’t as conspicuous. I crack the door to the closet so that I don’t get too high off the fumes from my markers, and then I start drawing.
****
THE NEXT MORNING DAWNS gray and rainy. There are days that I miss my tranquil life of riding my bike to work, but today is not one of them. Today, I am so glad to have my purple beast and that I somehow managed to finish an entire storyline for The Hooded Falcon that will never see the published light of day.
Though I went to bed around four, I’m up a little after seven so I can take care of Trogdor and drive to the jail by eight when they open. And then maybe to my house for a legitimate shower instead of a hand-sink bath. The beauty of not having a set work schedule is that you can flex your day as your life demands. Like sending encoded messages to your roommate in jail. Stuff like that.
I do need to go into the office though. My stomach does a big flip when I think about running into Lelani. What on earth do I say to her? One thing at a time. I take a deep breath and gather my stuff together for the day. A day which includes typical superhero activities like maintaining my cover identity persona by going to work and getting a few things done, going to the police station for questioning, and then meeting with my superhero crime team to try and figure out a way to take down a double agent.
Typical Wednesday.
“Yo, MG! Come watch this!” Lawrence’s dulcet tones reverberate down the stairwell, causing all the metal in his office to echo slightly.
“What is it?” I’m trying to use a compact to remove the dark smudges of mascara under my eyes but I have the sneaking suspicion that it’s just how dark my circles are.
“The news!”
That gets me going. Leaping over Trog—whose morning goal is to be a perpetual tripping hazard tour de force—I race up the stairs. Or I try, because racing upstairs reminds me that I’m not fifteen anymore, fought a dude last night, had a railing land on my head, and slept on an air mattress. I feel about eighty-six.
L is sprawled on the bed in the corner, eating a bowl of cereal. I hear the shower running, so I plop down next to L, and reach for the remote.
“On Friday we officially start the Christmas toy drive for Los Angeles charity Christmas Kid.” On screen a woman with a microphone stands outside a toy shop, and she’s entirely too cheery for my taste. “There are four venues around LA that are holding in-person fundraisers and tickets will go on sale Friday afternoon. Including our very own favorite local celebrity, Latifah Nile. Be sure to check our website for these exclusive access tickets because they’re expected to sell out quickly! Those that don’t get tickets can still donate toys at stores like this.”
The shot pulls back to reveal a huge metal box, decorated like a gift with a ribbon and bow, balloons, streamers, a crowd of people I assume work at the toy shop, and a big brown mail truck with the charity’s logo on the side.
“Any place you see the secure donation boxes. The owners here at Toy with Me have a huge list of requested toys and will be happy to help you select the perfect gift to give this holiday season. Let’s let underprivileged children have a Merry Christmas. Todd, back to you in the kitchen, I hear you’re making stuffing!”
“You were sorta on the news!” I say, punching Lawrence’s arm.
“They could have at least mentioned the club,” he says turning the volume back down as the male anchor hams it up with a celebrity chef, tossing breadcrumbs in a bowl.
“Yeah, but they didn’t even mention anyone else.”
That mollifies him.
“Was there anything else before this?” I assume that if there were news of the bust last night it would have run top of the hour.
“No. Some stuff about the new hot toy for Christmas. Some robot flying thing that turns into a drone. Oh, and then some news about a wildfire that started about fifty miles north of here.”
“Okay. Sounds good. Except the toy thing, that sounds creepy. And the fire.”
“Comes with a GPS monitoring system and everything,” L agrees.
“Awesome. Well, I’m going to head to drop off some stuff for Ryan. I’ll see you this afternoon after work.”
“Sounds good.”
My stomach growls as I open the metal back door. Not having a kitchen near my room is really killing my ability to feed myself. And Lawrence isn’t known for his well-stocked pantry, especially now that he and Whalon eat out almost every night. Tearing open a granola bar, I pine briefly for a coffee before telling myself that I can have a drink of the swill at the office. Keurig coffee can barely be called that, but it does contain caffeine.
I poke my head out, in case there is a hitman waiting to bash me in the head or something, but it looks all clear. Only, as I stride through the door, it’s not. There’s another car parked on the other side of mine, and for a moment I panic, thinking someone’s come to run me over where I stand. Instead, relief washes over me as I recognize Matteo’s car. A moment later, he’s there and like some angel dressed in slacks, carrying a freshly made cup of coffee from my favorite coffee shop—the place where I first laid eyes on his handsome mug. And made fun of his herbal tea order.
The scents of cinnamon waft out of the cup and wrap themselves like lovers around my nose and taste buds. “Hello, my one and true love,” I say to the cup, cradling it in my hands and appreciating the warmth before taking a sip.
“And to you too, coffee bearer of my dreams.” I lean forward and give him a resounding kiss.
“Well at least I rank somewhere,” he jokes. He looks good. He looks really good.
“How did you know I needed coffee?”
“I figured the closet wasn’t stocked with a continental breakfast.”
“How did you know I was staying in the closet?”
“I called Lawrence to make sure you were okay. He said you’d gone to bed early. I know we haven’t talked yet.” He reaches out and runs a hand down my arm, ending at the tips of my free fingers. “I just . . . I miss you MG.”
My heart does some sort of weird tango swoop, then bursts ablaze like some sort of Burning Man parade vehicle. I’ve never felt this loved in my life. “I miss you too. So much.”
“Come home. Tonight. I’ve been working on something for you.”
I take in a breath, because how do I tell him everything that’s going on? How will I explain my late-night excursions? What if the drug people figure out where I am and hurt Matteo?
“We’ll talk about it,” is all I can manage.
He drops my hand. “Are you still mad? Listen, I talked to Kevin. I had the most honest conversation with him ever and —”
“I believe you,” I say. Shit, I’d forgotten that days ago I’d been one hundred percent positive that Rideout was responsible for framing me. And that Matteo thought that all of this fighting is over him not trusting me. I mean, it is. It was, but now things are even more complicated. I’m in a hole, and I don’t know how to get out. “This isn’t about Rideout. It’s not just about him, I guess. I’m not even mad anymore, I just need some time to process. And I want to talk, maybe tonight? Or tomorrow?”
He seems disappointed in my response, but he nods like a gentleman. I pull him close for a hug, because I think he needs the reassurance. “I’m not going anywhere; it’s just been a crazy week.”
His languid returned hug becomes stilted. “Crazy how?”
Shit, I really, really need to pay more attention to what I say. “I had that big work meeting yesterday,” I say. “Remember?”
He relaxes a little. “Oh yeah, of course I do. How did it go?”
“Awesome. You are looking at the new Head Writer for The Hooded Falcon. They loved my story idea.”
He gives me a big hug and a big kiss. “Congrats.” His watch beeps. “I’ve got to run; I have an early meeting. I’ll—I guess we’ll see you later this afternoon. Well, I won’t, but they’ll let me know when you’re in. I wanted to let you know that whatever happens, I’m here for you and I love you.”
Well that sounds ominous. “Yeah, okay.”
I try to suss out what he meant by ‘no matter what happens’. Like, what could happen in a questioning? They don’t have something on me, do they? Proof? A fingerprint? Surely I’d be under arrest if so. But Matteo is a blank canvas.
“Eat something,” he says by way of parting words, and tosses me a bag. I open it to discover a croissant and almond butter in it, and wave as he pulls out. I’m so glad he takes care of me.
Now armed with breakfast, coffee, and the reminder that I have the world’s best boyfriend, I join the morning traffic headed downtown—next up, LA county jail.
I’m only twenty minutes into my drive when Lawrence calls my cell. Repeatedly.
“I’m driving,” I grouse, hitting speaker phone and waving a middle finger at someone who doesn’t know how to zipper merge.
“Yeah, you’re going to want to pull over.” He can tell I’m in the car.
“I can’t. There’s a lane closed and No. One. Knows. How. To. Drive. Except. Me.” I punctuate the diatribe with honks of my horn, which earns me a brake check from the person who ignored the rules and merged with the car ahead of him instead of letting me pass.
“Did you see the news?”
“No. I mean, yes. We watched it this morning. You and me.” My coffee curdles in my stomach. “Why.”
“Well they came on after the break—it was a gift-giving guide already, can you believe it—no that’s not important. They came on with breaking news to talk about you. Well sort of you. I mean the Golden Arrow.”
I really wish I could pull over because now my hands are shaking. “What did they say?
“They said there was a report last night that the Golden Arrow copycat attacked a lawyer at his house last night. Stole his wallet. Tied him up and disappeared.”
“What?”
“Yeah it’s not good, you left that part out, what happened?”
“Definitely not that.” I press a hand to my forehead. “Okay, this is okay. It’s obviously just something made up. No one is going to believe it.”
Lawrence makes a noise that he describes as ‘sucking his teeth’.
“L.”
“I don’t know. They gave him a press conference. He’s a rich white dude. In a suit. He’s talking about pressing charges.”
“Yeah but they’d have to know who did it . . .” My voice trails off. Because the drug ring does know who I am. “Okay, shit. But they’re going to have to prove it.”
“He’s raising a pretty good stink. I think they’re going to try.”
I take a deep breath. “We’ve been careful. I wear gloves.”
“I hope so. He’s . . . he’s describing the person who attacked him as having a dyed mohawk. Apparently your hat slipped when the railing fell on you.”
Shit shit shit.
“It was pitch black out!”
L doesn’t say anything because apparently pitch black or not, he saw my hair.
“Okay. This is bad. This is really bad.”
“Let me know how the station goes today.”
“Yeah, okay. No pressure. Thanks for the heads up,” I say before hanging up and continuing my five-mile-an-hour journey downtown toward the jail. This certainly sheds light on Matteo’s weird comment this morning. In fact, I’m surprised he wasn’t weirder. Because this is bad.
Everything is closing in, and I’m directly in the middle of the trap.