“Yeah, but you're an editor-in-chief now,” I said. “And I was not crying. I do not cry, especially in public. I make people cry. Sometimes in public, sometimes in private–”

  “Sometimes by hitting them in the privates,” Darnell said, clearly picking up my rhyme, “sometimes by hitting them elsewhere. How you been doing, Sienna?” He gave me a grin – mostly sincere. For a reporter. “And I may be the EIC of Flashforce, but once a reporter, always a reporter.”

  “I heard that as, 'once a bastard, always a bastard,' and I couldn't agree with that sentiment more.”

  “Hey, we're not all shitbirds who sit behind a computer screen all day sending emails and clicking refresh on social media,” he said. “I still do shoe-leather reporting. So do my guys.” He winced. “Though HR doesn't let me call them 'guys' anymore. Pretty sure I've gotten a few talkings-to about that. Whatever. My crew does real reporting. Which is why Flashforce isn't just a seedy clickbait site anymore.”

  “Yes, I've heard,” I said, maybe a trace mocking, “mostly from you, but still – you're legit now. Serious reportage is being done in your hallowed halls, much to the discomfort of the rich and powerful, as well as the people who miss your lolcat gif listicles. Of which I am one.”

  “The old ones are all still there,” Darnell said. “We're just not spending time making new ones.”

  “And the world is the poorer for it.”

  “Okay, the witty repartee section of the conversation has been well-represented,” he said, coming a little closer. “So...six months gone, huh? Where you been?”

  “Somewhere a real reporter could have found me,” I taunted.

  “You as good as dropped off the face of the earth,” Darnell said. “No one could have found you. We were taking bets – I was guessing you were staying with the Inuit up in Alaska. Hiding out in an igloo. Eating fish. Hunting whales with a spear.”

  “I do not hunt whales,” I said, “out of solidarity with my big-boned brethren, since so many assholes on the internet have associated me with them over the years.” Was it really possible that no one knew where I'd been all this time? If so...man, I'd really done a great job keeping a tight circle of friends. And Lethe and Persephone had a tight, secret circle in New Asgard. Which was less surprising, given what had happened to so many meta cloisters during the Sovereign years. I lowered my voice. “I just needed some time to recover after Minneapolis, Mike. Get my head on straight.”

  He clicked off the recorder in his hand. “You want to talk about that?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You giving me a choice?”

  “Yes,” he said, voice getting low, bordering on gravelly. “I'm willing to put a lot on the record, but that? Everyone knows you're an alcoholic. I just want to know you're okay.”

  “I'm getting by,” I said. “Day by day. Thanks.”

  “All right.” He clicked the recorder back on. “Have you been in discussions with President Mitchell?”

  “I can't comment on that.”

  “Executive privilege?”

  “Bad taste,” I said, rolling my eyes and starting west. “Am I the only person who doesn't want to just spew everything private across the internet?”

  “Yes,” he said without a beat. “It's called social media, and that's literally what it's for, people spraying every thought they have, every interaction, constantly, 24/7/365. This is modernity.”

  “I think I prefer antiquity, then.”

  “How do you respond to people who look at the damage you caused in Galveston and think that you're a throwback to a previous era?”

  “I did not cause any damage in Galveston,” I said, surprisingly muted. Guy was doing his job, annoying as it might have been. “My brother went down there to stop the hurricane and was kidnapped by a group of thieves orchestrating a robbery using the hurricane as cover. I rescued him as quick as I could, but unfortunately I'm not a miracle worker, I'm not omnipresent, and I'm not all-powerful. I just wasn't in time.”

  “But that museum–”

  “It was in Houston, not Galveston,” I said, and from his arched eyebrow I could tell Darnell knew that, even if his readers didn't, “and I did my best. Unfortunately, I was followed and attacked by a cartel group. Chaos ensued. People died. I wish they hadn't, but I preferred them dying to me dying, so...there we are.”

  Darnell clicked off the recorder again. “Okay, you might want to show a hint more of remorse. Two hundred people died, as I understand it.”

  “Two hundred cartel soldados died. I wouldn't call them people. Sonoran farmers are people. Mexico City shop owners are people. Soldados are pieces of shit who profit solely from violence, exploitation and fear. If I accidentally stepped on a rabid mouse's tail and sent it yowling away, I'd feel more remorse than I do for what happened to them. The only thing I feel bad about there is the damage to the city and the museum itself. It seemed like a really great place until those assholes showed up and trashed it while trying to kill me.”

  Darnell had both eyebrows arched way, way up. “Okay, then,” he said. “What brings you to Washington now, if not meeting with the president?”

  “The president's in Galveston this morning,” I said. “So I definitely wasn't meeting with her. I've got business, though. Wrapping up some old stuff from when I lived here.”

  “Then it has nothing to do with the Ghost of DC?” Darnell watched me closely.

  “I don't know anything about any ghosts,” I mumbled, probably not very convincingly. “I gotta go, Mike.” I turned, ready to flee into the sky.

  “Wait,” he said, and clicked his recorder off again. “I know you're working the case. I only have one source, though, so – old school reporter that I am, I need a second to confirm.”

  “I thought there were sleazy ways around that. You know, standard operating procedure for reporters these days.”

  “Hey,” he said, “some reporters may take those shortcuts, but not me. I'll get that second source, and my confirmation, and I'll print it. Be better if you were the one to admit it.” He cocked his head at me. “You know I think you're honest, and you do important work. I'm looking for ways to help you here, Sienna. Make you look better, if possible.”

  “You've always been fair to me, Mike,” I said. “I got a lot going on right now, okay? You can't use my name on this.”

  “Done,” he said. “What can you tell me?”

  “Two things,” I said. “Yes, I'm helping the FBI with the Ghost, or whatever ridiculous name you press people have given it.”

  “These people are vanishing into thin air,” Darnell said. “It's not such a ridiculous name.”

  “Fine,” I said. “I'm also helping DC metro PD while I'm in town. Trying to give them a hand restoring some order.”

  “That's a – if you'll pardon the pun – tall order.”

  “Well, short girls get it done,” I said, then paused. “I really don't want that attributed to me. It sounds vaguely slutty.”

  “Don't worry, it's off the record,” Darnell said. “And thanks. I'll keep your name out of it all. Though I'd already confirmed the DC thing. Just hadn't had a chance to ask you, yet.”

  I sighed. “How quick did Prevo dial you up to tell you?”

  He grinned. “I don't talk about my sources. Like you, I'm not on social media barfing my feelings all day, every day.” He gave me a quasi-salute. “I'll get this to press. Thanks for the scoop. You still got my number, right?”

  “I do,” I said, and hesitated. He must have seen me in conflict, because he didn't make a move to leave. “Can I ask you about something else, unrelated, completely off the record, maybe never to be published?”

  He flashed his recorder at me to show that the light was off, the record button not depressed. It was a really old recorder; most people just used their phones these days. “Sure. What's up?”

  “I got something sprung on me last night,” I said, hesitant. “Something I should have known, that's missing from my mind.”

  “This the Scotland thing again?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “How much do you know about that?”

  “That it was a real bad succubus,” Darnell said. “The UK government inquiry is still going through that mess, and every new revelation they release makes it look worse. Thousands dead. Scotland basically under the control of that crazy person. And her reach extended well beyond that little island. She destroyed your offices in Minneapolis, didn't she?” He hesitated. “Again, I mean? For the...what? Fourth time?”

  “I don't even keep track anymore. Anyway, yeah. That's mostly right. But she took something from me. A memory, and boy was she thorough, because I have no recollection of this...thing, nothing surrounding it, no hint of anything related to it.”

  “Okay,” Darnell said, brow knit together. “What is it?”

  “Apparently, while I was on the run, a couple months before I left for the UK...I got married.”

  It took a second for that to sink in. “And you don't remember...any of it?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Not the wedding, not the man, not how we met...nothing.”

  “I can think of a couple of my ex-wives who'd like that same treatment,” he said. “But still...shit. You find the guy yet?”

  “No,” I said. “My agency, I'm sure they'd help, but we're not exactly professional detectives, y'know? We ride the coattails of whatever LEO we're assisting, y'know, use their resources. I can't have them doing that here, it'd be inappropriate.”

  Darnell nodded. “Same for your TBI contacts, then. I could nose around on this. I know people who owe me favors. Give me his name, the particulars. I'll find him for you.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks.” I lifted my phone, texted him the details – name, wedding date, location. “It's not much to go on.”

  “Jeremy James Wade,” Darnell said, frowning at his phone. “I'll do what I can with it.” He started to walk away, then stopped, jerking back around. “Wait. You spent six months getting sober, and you come back to your brother being kidnapped, the Ghost of DC, and this?”

  I gave him a trace of a smile. “Well, we wouldn't want to make my life too easy, Mike. I might start getting complacent.” A text buzzed my phone from Shaw – an address, and a plea to join him there. “Gotta jump.”

  “I hope you mean that literally,” he said as I leapt into the air and took off. His follow-up was lost to the wind, but I had a feeling it would have been funny.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I landed in the Deanwood neighborhood on the far eastern fringe of DC, guided to the address by my long-suffering GPS. I'd texted Cassidy en route asking her to call me. By the lack of immediate response I hoped she was sleeping or doing something offline and not just ignoring me out of convenience.

  Sunlight streaming between the boughs of trees, a soft breeze doing nothing to mitigate the steamy heat. Moisture rippled in mirages above the pavement at nine in the morning; I was worried what it was going to be like if I had to spend the whole day in this town.

  A couple of police cars and an unmarked SUV were parked outside the address in question, and a uniformed DC officer nodded me through at the gate. The house was a boxy old two-story clad in white clapboard and reasonably well maintained. The neighbors were out, carefully pretending not to watch the action, but glancing enough to show they were.

  Another officer opened the door for me and I waltzed right in. A cherrywood staircase rose up to a landing before me and right-angled up to a second floor I couldn't see. An aged dining room set was in a room to my right; to my left was a parlor or living room with overstuffed, pea green furniture. Shaw was seated on the couch nearest me, opposite an older woman with gray hair done up in a granny bun, a handkerchief in front of her face. She did not register my arrival at all, and her eyes were so puffy and red I wondered whether she could even see me.

  “Sienna,” Shaw said, rising to greet me, “this is Peggy White. Her son Anthony went missing last night.”

  Now she took notice of me, though I still wasn't sure she could see me. “Oh. Hello.”

  “Hello, Ms. White.” I eased into the parlor. It really did feel more like a parlor, the house design dating to the way, way back, like it was something destined to be bought by the historical society at some point. “I'm sorry to be here under these circumstances.”

  “I just don't understand,” Peggy White said, mopping at her eyes. “Tony was such a sweet boy. A good boy. I don't know who would want to hurt him.”

  I glanced at the mantle, where several photos waited. There was a nice age progression in motion of Tony going from boy to man; the latest was a candid of him holding up a certificate and smiling, glasses and a thin beard/mustache combo. The certificate was anodyne, reading “Achievement Award,” which, to me, could have meant anything from an Employee of the Month-like commendation to a citation for outstanding achievement in the field of being an asshole.

  Kidding. If anyone deserved that award, it was clearly me.

  “Where did Anthony work, Ms. White?” Shaw asked.

  “He was a content moderator for Socialite,” Peggy said. “You know, decided what posts were appropriate or not for public consumption.”

  “Oh, so he was a censor,” I said.

  She shook her head slowly, and it seemed to breathe some life into her. “No, no. Most of the stuff he dealt with, it was horrible things. People would post videos of torturing dogs, skinning them alive – those were the things that kept him up nights, playing his music and reading his books. He didn't ever want to strike down a post just because of something it said.” She sniffled. “Though he did edit them. You know, for grammar and spelling.”

  “One of those,” I muttered under my breath.

  “Did he have any hobbies of note?” Shaw asked, just keeping things on point.

  “Other than his books?” She seemed to think about it as she dabbed her nose. “There were his letters.”

  “Yeah, you already talked about him correcting peoples' spelling,” I said.

  “No, I mean his correspondence,” she said. “He would find errors in peoples' work, and send it to them.”

  I squinted at her. “On their Socialite posts?”

  “No, in books,” she said. “He would find errors in the books he read, mark them down, and then send letters to the authors.” Her face screwed up. “Now that I think about it, maybe one of them killed him. I guess some of those writers can get pretty salty about that sort of thing.”

  “We'll look into that,” Shaw said, jotting it down. “Is there a copy of Anthony's letters we could see?”

  “In his room,” she said. “He saved them all. Even the nasty ones.” She blew her nose, and it sounded like a trumpet.

  “Did he have any friends?” I asked. “That we could talk to, I mean? Or a girlfriend, maybe?”

  She really had to consider this one for a second. “No girlfriend, I don't think. And no real friends to speak of.”

  “Of course not,” I muttered, “he was a grammar Nazi.” She did not hear me, but Shaw did, and he looked absolute daggers at me.

  “He mentioned someone at work he talked with, sometimes,” she said. “Barry. I don't think they were close, though. Work buddies, you know?”

  “Sure,” I said, watching Shaw jot that one down.

  “Is there anything else you can tell us?” Shaw asked, clearly drawing things to a close.

  “I can't think of anything,” she said after a pause. “He was such a quiet boy. He kept to himself.”

  Hm, Brianna said. Isn't that what the neighbors always say about serial killers? I had to work hard to suppress a snicker.

  “Thank you, Ms. White,” Shaw said, pushing up to his feet. “We'll take a look at his room if that's okay.”

  “Sure, sure,” she said, and blew her nose again.

  Shaw beckoned me to Tony's room, and I followed. It wasn't a big space, and it was pretty bare overall, just a few posters on the wall, mostly anime. I took a few pictures anyway, thinking maybe I'd send them to my brother later, get some insight.

  “Found the correspondence,” Shaw said. He had a big three-ring binder with a three-inch thick spine open on the desk. It was filled with those little plastic sleeves for pages, and inside were hundreds of letters, some typewritten, some handwritten. He paged through them while I watched, and stopped at a handwritten one. “Seems our Mr. White got under certain people’s skin.”

  “He seems like the kind of guy who'd stop you mid-sentence to make you correct what you'd just said.” Other than the books on the shelves and the posters, there really wasn't much here. “You want to have the uniforms toss the place?”

  “Yeah,” Shaw said, picking up the binder of letters himself. “I'll have 'em bag and tag it, bring it all in as evidence. Some of my junior agents can sift through the unmentionables and sex toys under the capable eye of Lizzy.”

  “Great,” I said, “because the last thing I want to do is nose through this guy's underwear or his sex toys.” And there were definitely going to be sex toys here. There almost always were, in any search, but having seen his photo on the mantel? One hundred percent chance in this room.

  “Sounds like a plan,” Shaw said, and headed for the door.

  I started to follow him, but Brianna stopped me. Hey, you know what? she said. Maybe this would be a good time to try out that new power you just got.

  I almost tripped over my own feet stopping. “Are you out of my effing mind?” I asked, not even managing to make it to meta low, it burst out so suddenly. Shaw shot me a wicked look. “Sorry, wasn't talking to you on that one.”

  “What's that about?” he asked, and pointed at his head. “Someone giving you trouble upstairs?”

  You should give it a shot, Brianna said.

  “Not trouble, exactly,” I said, trying to work out a cogent, well-reasoned argument for why this was a bad, bad, horrible, absolutely awful idea. “More like...uhm...” How the hell was I supposed to explain to my old boss that I might have picked up the power to commune with ghosts?

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21