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Odessa Dean @OdessaWaiting ∙ July 13

Social media pro tip: post “how do I store leftover tacos?” & if anyone responds with suggestions, block them IMMEDIATELY. U don’t need that kind of negativity in your life! This is the hill I will die on. #eatmoretacos

I took a beat to process the possibility of leaving Williamsburg. I didn’t like it. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stick around a little while?” I asked. “I can help.”

My aunt gave me a cheery grin. “Sweetie, I’ve got everything I need at my fingertips. If I get a craving for Ethiopian food or a chocolate silk pie at three a.m., there’s always someplace open that delivers. I’ve got practically every book ever written and every movie ever filmed at the push of a button. I’ll be as right as rain. Don’t worry about me.”

I hated to admit it, but I wasn’t worried about her.

I was worried about me.

“I know, but who’s gonna take care of your plants while you recover?”

My aunt laughed. “You mean the plants you killed?”

She had me there. “What about Rufus’s litter box? You can’t hardly bend over.”

Aunt Melanie leaned against the edge of the bar separating the kitchen from the living room. “It’s all under control. When Earl came up earlier to drop off the mail and those chocolates, he volunteered to lend a hand if I need anything. Even mentioned the litter box specifically. He’s got a cat himself, you know.”

No, I hadn’t known that. I didn’t know much about him, except that he disliked me enough he would go so far as to volunteer to clean someone else’s litter boxes just to get rid of me. I mean, that’s some next-level passive-aggressiveness. I should know. I’m from the South. We invented passive-aggression.

“Oh.” That’s me. Odessa, undisputed queen of the witty replies.

“Really, you don’t need to fuss over me. Your mom called earlier and said how you’d be sticking around awhile to lend me a hand and I told her that was just plain silly. Now, I know you’ll need to quit your job and say bye to all your new friends, so take all the time you need. Mi casa es su casa.”

My hopes rose. Not at the thought of leaving my friends. I wasn’t sure how I would even begin to say goodbye to Izzy, Parker, or any of the staff at Untapped Books & Café. Even Todd. How could it even be possible that I could miss Todd? Huckleberry, the ancient shop dog, I knew I’d miss, but Todd? And yet the thought of never seeing him again stung.

Take all the time you need.

Mi casa es su casa.

It gave me hope. I couldn’t mooch off my aunt forever, of course. But maybe, just maybe, I could stay here long enough to find a place of my own. Not in Williamsburg, probably, but I could afford a place in Bed-Stuy with enough roomies. Or a little farther out if I had to.

Before I could open my mouth and thank her, my aunt continued, “What do you think? Would a few days be enough? I think Greyhound is running a deal, twenty percent off tickets for Wednesdays. My treat.”

My heart plummeted. Wednesday. It was already Saturday evening. I had three days to either figure out a way to stay in New York or pack up and head home.

Three days wasn’t long. It certainly wasn’t long enough for Izzy to find us an apartment. Three days to say goodbye to everyone I’d met. Three days to cram in every experience I’d missed so far—like taking the Circle Line around Manhattan or exploring the Cloisters. I hadn’t even visited the Bronx Zoo yet!

And there was the tiny little detail about having only three days to bring Vickie Marsh’s killer to justice.

My phone beeped and I reached for it automatically. It’s funny how even when the world was crashing down on me, I felt obligated to respond whenever my phone made even the slightest noise. Because maybe it was an emergency. Or maybe it was just a welcome distraction.

It was a text message. Whatcha doin?

I didn’t recognize the number. If it had been a phone call, I wouldn’t have answered. The only people who ever called me were telemarketers and politicians. Unexpected text messages didn’t seem nearly as invasive. Who dis? I responded.

Contrary to what some people thought, text messaging wasn’t ruining the language. It was enhancing it. I could speak and write in perfect, grammatically correct English when the occasion called for such things. But when tweeting or texting with limited characters, I happily and easily truncated accordingly. Besides, why take forever to type out a complete sentence when a few characters would do the job just as well?

Rodney, he replied. Then he sent a picture. In it, he was surrounded by snowy mountains. I couldn’t make out much of his face, since he was wearing ski goggles, a thick cap, and a colorful scarf. He had a scruffy, thick mustache that made him look like a walrus.

Even without fully seeing his face, I knew I’d never seen him before. That mustache made quite the impression. Sry, wrong #, I texted back. Then I blocked him. “Weirdo,” I mumbled aloud. There was a 60 percent chance that Rodney was harmless, but if I was wrong and he was a creep, blocking him now was the simplest solution. I certainly didn’t want him calling me, much less sending more pictures.

“Who’s that?” my aunt asked.

I shook my head. “Nobody.” She looked exhausted, like she might fall asleep standing up in the kitchen. “Can I get you something? If the tamales weren’t enough, I can make dinner. If you’d prefer, I can run out and get anything you’re in the mood for.” I wasn’t the best cook, but Izzy had taught me a few simple recipes that yielded surprisingly delicious meals. I’d never be as good as Parker, who was an absolute wizard in the kitchen, but I could make a mean mac ’n’ cheese.

And I didn’t mean the stuff that came out of a box with the sketchy orange powder.

“That’s sweet, but I’ve got plans to meet up with some friends this evening.” She’d been leaning against the counter, but when she started back toward her bedroom, she looked down with a sigh. Aunt Melanie had left a trail of water droplets from the bag around her walking boot. “Oh dear. I seem to have made a mess.”

“Don’t worry about it, Aunt Melanie. I’ll get it.” I grabbed one of Izzy’s homemade dish towels and mopped up the water. I gestured at the garbage bag. “Want me to take this off, too?”

“Yes, please. It’s just so annoying. I can hardly reach the silly thing, and oh, how it itches already.” She held her leg out stiffly, the heavy boot weighing her down as she clutched at the edge of the counter for balance.

I took the garbage bag off. “Happy to help.” I hung it up to dry in the bathroom shower so she could reuse it later if she needed to. It was obvious that she could use a helping hand, at least as long as she had to wear that clunky walking boot, but she was either too Southern to ask for help or too proud to accept assistance when offered. Or, I reminded myself, she was a grown adult used to taking care of herself and would have the hang of it soon.

My phone beeped again and I glanced at the screen. Huh. That was strange. Another unknown text message. Two back-to-back? Add in the creepy text from this morning, the blue daisies someone had sent me at work, and the mystery chocolates, and this was getting weird.

U busy?

Take a hint, Rodney, I replied.

Who’s Rodney? This is Aiden.

I rolled my eyes. They said that persistence was a virtue, but I preferred people who knew how to read a room. I didn’t bother replying. My phone jingled, announcing an incoming video chat. I declined it, blocked the number, and set the phone to silent. That Rodney, or Aiden, or whatever his name was, needed to learn some manners.

My aunt came out of the bedroom wearing a long black skirt and a bright yellow sleeveless blouse. She was drying her hair with a towel. “I’m going to a gallery opening in Chelsea. Not sure when I’ll be home, but if it’s late, I’ll try not to disturb you.” She ducked into the bathroom, presumably to apply her makeup.

“Sounds like fun.” I’d been on my feet all day. What I wanted most was to go up to the pool on the roof and soak my legs in the water while listening to a true crime podcast. But my time in Williamsburg was swiftly coming to an end, and I was determined to make the most of it. There was plenty of time to rest on the long—forty-two hours to be exact—bus ride home. “Mind if I tag along?”

“I don’t know if it would be any fun for you. Just a bunch of us olds standing around complimenting each other while drinking cheap champagne.”

“You’re not old. And I like art,” I told her. “And cheap champagne.” That last part was mostly a fib. Champagne tickled my nose and made me want to sneeze. I was, however, starting to develop a taste for mimosas. My favorite were the cranberry mimosas they served at the 3rd Street Diner during brunch on the weekends. It paired perfectly with their homemade lemon tarts. But champagne by itself? I could take it or leave it.

“Well then, hurry up and get dressed. I’ve already ordered an Uber.”

“Gimme just a minute,” I replied. A few weeks ago, I’d repurposed a shapeless dress with pink roses on a field of silvery gray I’d found at a nearby secondhand store into a simple yet elegant sundress that fit me perfectly. It was a challenge, finding clothes I liked that flattered my shape. Luckily, I enjoyed sewing and had made most of my clothes ever since my grandma taught me how to use a sewing machine.

Plus, the dress paired nicely with my cowboy boots.

The new art gallery was in Chelsea, a small, artsy neighborhood on the west side of Manhattan. Like everything else, most of the art scene had been pushed to the outer boroughs due to soaring rents. It was why Williamsburg had become such a vibrant, thriving community back when it was more affordable. Still, some New Yorkers stubbornly clung to the belief that life didn’t exist outside of Manhattan.

Vickie Marsh had been like that. It was a shame, really, that she had been murdered in Brooklyn. I wondered if in her last moments, she had been disappointed that she had to die somewhere other than her beloved Manhattan. Then again, she hadn’t called out for help, so I doubt she knew what was happening until it was too late. At least, I hoped as much. There was something comforting about a quick, painless death.

I know, I know. My mind was wandering down a morbid path when I should have been enjoying an evening out with my aunt. However, the subject of the art show was a woman who dressed up like a ghost and posed in graveyards so she could get the perfect picture in the light of a full moon and then blow the print up beyond life-sized and hang it on the gallery walls. The artist turned out to be a tiny woman. She was a decade or so older than my aunt, and was the center of attention at the crowded gallery.

I hoped that one day I might get my life on a track like that.

Then again, I didn’t see myself being famous anytime soon. I didn’t have any special talents to speak of. I could sew, but I wasn’t into designing haute couture. I was an excellent waitress. I had good coordination and balance—critical skills for anyone in food services—but I wasn’t sure I wanted to spend the rest of my life standing on my feet for eight hours a day trying to survive on tips. It was a good job, but it wasn’t what I wanted as a career.

I had zero idea what I wanted to be when I grew up.

Yeah, sure, I was only twenty-three. But I still lived at home. I never went to college. Other than the clothes I’d left in Louisiana, I didn’t really own anything. The car I drove back and forth to work back home was in my dad’s name. I wasn’t even on my own insurance.

“More champagne?” a man asked, oblivious to the fact that I’d barely touched the glass I’d been carrying around all night.

I clutched the stem of the champagne flute, not caring that the drink was now warm and the bubbles had already bubbled themselves out. I wasn’t planning on drinking it anyway. I just felt silly being the only person in the room without a drink in my hand, and after the six hundredth offer, I caved to peer pressure and accepted one. “Yeah, no. I’m good,” I told him without turning around.

“You sure?”

“I told you, I’m just ducky,” I said as I glanced over my shoulder to look the persistent waiter in the eye. I was prepared to give him some friendly advice, one server to another, about crossing the line from good service to pushy, but the man holding out the glass wasn’t dressed in the black-pants-black-shirt-black-tie outfit the other waiters wore.

Instead, his uniform was dark blue with gold piping down the pant legs with “Private Security” stitched in white lettering on the polyester blend button-down shirt. An oversized flashlight hung from his utility belt, the kind that doubled as a baseball bat in a pinch. The flashlight, not the belt. A gun was clipped to the other side of his belt. The uniform was unfamiliar, but the face of the man wearing it was not.

“Detective Castillo? What are you doing here?”