--

Dear Craig,

I hope you don’t mind the late notice that I’m coming to New York City. The landlord was quick to evict me once he realized I was unemployed and only a student. As you’ve probably guessed, I’ve since resigned from the university and am hoping to find employment in America. Missie had crossed last spring and said she would offer me residence until I find a place of my own.

We missed you at the funeral. You could have at least come back for Dad, if not for Mom.

Your little sister,

Dela

I read my letter over one more time. The lettering seemed so messy, the words childish. With a sigh, I crumpled it up and tossed it into a nearby garbage bin. So much for the letter. Craig had never replied to my email, and this letter had been returned this morning with a notice that Mr Craig O’Connor had moved. Turning my wrist to catch the dim light on my watch face, I scanned the TV screens for my flight before checking the time.

One more hour until boarding.

--

The memory is insignificant, really. For most people, childhood memories become foggier as they age, but I am one of those who cannot seem to forget any of it at all, no matter that most weren’t even traumatic or important. Children’s memories are neither careful nor selective with details, and my first day of second grade at Easington Primary School was one of those memories that returned with surreal entirety when I smelled the lone pine tree standing outside the airport. It begins thus:

"One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three…"

The schoolchildren broke away from the seeker in predictable groups. Holly and her friends scrambled for hiding places in nearby underbrush, and Danny and his friends ducked inside the schoolhouse to hide, even though they could get in trouble with the teachers for doing so. As for me and my cousin, Wolter, we took off for the trees. It was morning recess, which started at 10:15 and went for a half hour. That part of the routine was no different from school at home, and I intended to enjoy the game.

Wolter grinned a gap-toothed grin at me as we began hoisting ourselves up the same pine. His real name should’ve been Walter; instead, the nurse who had written his name had spelled it wrong. Who could spell that wrong? jeered the children, who shunned him for his Irish accent. Because I also had a different accent—American—we were quick friends and practiced together the British accent.

“How high?” he now said, drawing his words out slowly to make sure he used the right accent. “How high do you want to climb?”

My answer was immediate. “To the top!”

The pine tree wasn’t tall, and soon branches sturdy enough to hold our weight ran out and we had to stop about two metres above the ground. This high up we could see the entire playing field, including Tom's back as he hid in bushes nearby.

Nolan, the seeker, had finished counting and the first thing he did was enter the schoolhouse. Five minutes later, he returned with five children—half of those who had first hid there--and all of them proceeded to search out Holly’s friends.

I held my breath as Nolan and George, one of his friends, came under our trees. Tom was a watery-nosed runt that few liked, but he was Wolter’s friend and my cousin was determined to defend him, even if he was too cowardly to have joined us up the tree. Splitting a handful of pinecones between us, we threw them.

“What was that?”

“There’s someone over there!”

Nolan and George sprinted off after the distraction as Tom ran for a safer hiding place. Wolter and I sniggered as we traded high fives.

Eventually everyone on the field, including Tom, and in the schoolhouse was found, except us. Because we weren’t popular, our classmates began to growl as they hunted us. Wolter swallowed hard as he studied their faces.

“They’re getting angry,” he whispered. “Maybe we should come down. We’re going to be the seekers for sure next game anyway.”

“Let them find us,” I said stubbornly. “It’s not hard.”

“I see you!”

It was Tom. He’d seen us climb the tree, and now he was pointing at our pine. Nolan darted over, mousy face triumphant, and began to clamber up after us.

“We’re coming down!” insisted Wolter, then he squalled as Nolan gripped his ankle. My stomach dropped and without thinking, I slid off my branch and slammed into Nolan, knocking his grip on my cousin loose. Down we tumbled out of the tree before crashing to the ground from the lowest branches, me on top of the boy. The other children shrieked and ran forward. Wolter quickly came down and threw himself at Nolan, who was getting up to punch me. In no time, I was caught in the midst of a furious fistfight.

“What is going on!”

One of the supervising teachers had arrived. The girls who were watching hastily stepped into the fight, pulling the boys and me apart. Nolan thrust himself forward.

“We were playing hide and seek and Dela jumped on me!” he shrilled, jabbing his finger at me. “She hit me first!”

“You were going to drag Wolly out of the tree!” I protested. My normal accent was back, and some girls giggled.

“Be quiet!” ordered the teacher. She was Craig’s teacher and disliked him. No doubt, she recognized me as his sister. “I don’t know how you Americans play, but we don’t hurt people just because of a game. Am I understood?”

“She’s Canadian,” corrected Wolter, but I shushed him.

“Detention,” the teacher said crisply. “For you, Dela, and Nolan. Now get back in the schoolhouse.”

Nolan cried out in protest but fell silent when she gave him a hard stare. With Nolan glaring at me all the way, we trudged back to the schoolhouse.

Back in the schoolhouse, I sat down at my desk and peered out the window. The children were back to playing hide and seek. I glanced at Nolan; he was sulking and still glaring at me. I took a deep breath and looked away. I had never quite noticed before, but as I studied the peculiar scent of the school’s Gothic wooden frame, the Anglo-Saxon names of the authors of my textbook and the sound of the radio host’s voice drifting from the teachers’ office into the classroom I realized for the first time I was someplace very different. I could tell by smelling it before hearing it and that before seeing. And in this place, I had just made a new enemy.

That memory is also the earliest that I can recall so clearly of my childhood. Memories of Canada before then are vague, cloudy and mute, although as I left the JFK airport I smelled something formless and familiar, like the whiff of a baby plush toy long set aside. It was a whiff that reverberated into the musty corners of my mind, as scents usually are to memory, but conjured nothing that could be seen or heard. But nothing of it, nor the cautionary details of my childhood recollection, could’ve warned me of the Darsaw Pact and the Nothing People.

--

A week had passed since I arrived and Craig still hadn’t returned any phone calls. Missie told me to forget it, the bastard was probably too wrapped up in his own dramas to care whether I was here. I had to agree, but I wasn’t sure I could leave him alone until I knew the idiot at least knew I was in NYC.

I was searching for my flip-flops as Eric was heading out. Eric is Missie’s younger brother and about my age. I knew he crushed on me, but it was a boy’s sort of crush and I didn’t worry about it. He smiled his shy smile as he took his keys from a hook. Finding my flip-flops before his trainers, he tossed them to me before asking, “Need a ride? I’m heading to work early today.”

“That’d be great. I was thinking of dropping by Craig’s place—you know, so he can’t whine later that I hadn’t tried. After? I’d like to head downtown and look for a job. I don’t like always eating your food for free.”

Eric’s smile was uneasy as he went to retrieve Craig’s new address and to check it on a map. Missie knew the address because Craig has liked her since they met as children in London. I also knew that since Craig had lost his job, she and her brother worried for him as they saw him less and less and when they did, in shockingly unfavourable company such as the Hoolies. When Eric re-emerged from the kitchen, he had two hoodies in his hands. One of them was obviously Missie’s: it was a kimono-wraparound made of bright, crinkly red and gold material and held together by a stark black sash—just what the artistically peculiar Missie would wear.

“Here,” he said, shy even though I’ve known him since elementary school. “It’s going to rain today, and the weather forecast says it’ll be cold.”

I hadn’t seen Craig since he left the U.K. to study in America and I was in grade seven, but even before then we never were close. When I was younger, his reasons for disliking me were never clear and the knowledge intimidated me. His absence led me to breathe a sigh of relief, although for years afterward I taught myself to intimidate suitors if they tried dominating me. Facing Craig after seven years was different; I thought I was trying to re-establish familial connection with him, but I wasn’t sure if I actually hoped to prove he no longer made me fearful of him.

His apartment building squatted amidst multiple copies of itself along a narrow, littered street with a 7/11 at both corners; clearly, the landlord tried to keep the exterior somewhat decent, but drying laundry at every other floor and chipped, bird poop-stained windowsills defeated the purpose of dignity. The apartment at least had a locked front vestibule, which meant residents enjoyed some security. As I buzzed for Craig’s apartment, a female’s voice answered. My stomach did cartwheels.

When the door opened, the scent of tobacco smoke wafted into my face. I was used to cigarette smoke; what startled me was that I smelled the difference: it was of a different brand than the one Craig had smoked since he was fifteen. The door swung open to reveal a bleached blonde, the guilty cigarette in her fingers.

“Hello,” she said, examining me up and down, “You Delaney? Craig’s not in, but he will be soon. Do you want to wait for him?”

“Yes, thanks,” I said, offering a quick grin. I extended a hand to the blonde. “Nice to meet you.”

She took it with a mixed expression of scorn and respect. “I hadn’t introduced myself. I’m Haley, Craig’s roommate. Come in.”

The interior was tidy if not clean, for Craig anyway. Pausing by the couch, I spotted a couple of wrinkled magazines flipped open and propped again the arm, and passed it to take a seat at the kitchen table. Haley stretched out along the couch to continue reading. Back in the apartment and in her element, she looked prettier than the makeup on her face pretended, and the neat ponytail and well-manicured nails challenged my initial impression that she was a prostitute. I had the feeling she meant to imitate my brother and dislike me, but if she didn’t I knew better, and to that end I felt oddly grateful.

“What brings you to America?” She asked the question without looking up. Flicking her cigarette butt deftly into an ashtray, she drew out a second one with the other hand. “Cigarette?”

“No thanks,” I said absently and pulled my feet on top of a nearby chair. “I got tired of islands.”

She seemed too absorbed in reading to have heard. After a while, “Huh. What’re you up to?”

“Job hunting. You?”

“Working with Craig. Goddamn, where’s my lighter?”

I tossed mine to her. “How long’ve you been together?”

“I’m his roommate.”

I laughed, and once she’d lit the cigarette, she shot me another of those grudging looks she so liked. “All right, I’m his girlfriend,” she admitted. “Don’t tell; our boss doesn’t like co-workers dating.”

“What kind of work is that?” I asked, grinning. I caught my lighter on the toss back.

She didn’t answer. Instead, “What kind of work are you looking for?”

I wanted to pursue the topic but decided otherwise. “The best kind,” I replied, and she chuckled. “But I’m only a high school graduate, so my options’re limited.”

“Huh.” She looked at the clock. “What’s taking Craig so long? He was just downstairs to get coffee.”

“He knew I was coming,” I suggested.

The door opened. If I hadn’t heard the approaching footsteps a heartbeat before I saw him, I might’ve jumped. When he did see me, I had taken a deep breath and refused even to twitch at the sight of him. After seven years, it took him a moment before he recognized me, and then his face hardened.

“I wanted to send an email but your address changed,” I pointed out. “I didn’t have this flat’s address, so no letter. I called and got voicemail. I thought I’d drop by and say hello.”

I knew what he looked like when he was younger; he’d always been heavyset with untidy hair and rough skin, but in comparison to the present Craig I was surprised at myself for being scared of him before. His appearance certainly gave me every reason to fear him a little: seven years had added more muscle to his regular bulk and his square, scruffy face wasn’t friendly even on good days. His untidy hair was trimmed to a near military buzz, and a five o’clock shadow gave him the look of a man who didn’t shower often even though his clothes, albeit casual, were clean and pressed. For all his burly air, he would’ve been a relatively attractive man if he stopped scowling all the time. Something about his glower rubbed me the wrong way—as it always had, and I found myself struggling with the childish urge to annoy him.

Craig looked at Haley, who raised an eyebrow. The very gesture suddenly deflated him, for his shoulders slumped, and stopping by her to accept a cigarette, he pulled the chair out from under my feet and sat beside me. “What’re you doing here?”

I was immediately suspicious of the rout. My memories of him knew him as an irreversibly moody and retaliatory man, not a resigned one. The change made me worried.

“You know how Dad was,” I began, trying to be tactful. “After Mom left. Well, it wasn’t news when he died. I thought I’d try my luck in America—”

“You shouldn’t have come,” he broke in harshly. “What about all that money to get here? What now? Where are you staying?”

“With Missie,” I replied. My words came out clipped. “There’s no family for me in Ireland, Craig, no matter that was the push for you to leave.” When he didn’t answer I stood. The coldness in the pit of my stomach told me there was no point in continuing this conversation. “I stopped by to see how you were doing.” I sighed. “Good to know you’re well.”

He stared at me—no, at Missie’s sweater. I could tell what he was thinking and didn’t care. He didn’t stop me as I headed to the door. As I was putting my shoes on however, Haley got up and came to my side.

“Here’s a business card of a friend of mine’s,” she said quickly. “He should have work for you.” She gave me a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

I struggled with unease for a moment, and smiled back. “Thanks.” I bobbed my head at Craig and her. “Take care.”

--

The sailor at Chelsea Piers squinted against the falling rain to scrutinize me. “You’re looking for work?” He sounded dumbfounded.

“For a Derek Gabald, exactly.” Shivering under my hoodie, I showed him the business card. “I was told he should have work for me.”

The older man shook his head as if he was amazed. “The likes of you shouldn’t be working here,” he said, grunting as he rose from his crouch. “Come with me.”

Derek Gabald turned out to be a middle-aged man, round-faced and pimply and built along the lines of a stereotypical prairie farmer, on which his too-small business suit looked ridiculous. When he looked up, I was unimpressed by the spark that came to his eyes when a bachelor sees a young woman entering his office. Later, I would wonder what possessed me to follow Haley’s advice and take a job from such a man—but then I was merely interested in looking for a well-paying job. I returned his grin with a stony smile.

Once the door snicked shut behind the sailor, he sat back in his chair, an unusually thoughtful look on his face. “Darsaw’s got their heads stuck up their asses,” he said suddenly.

“Excuse me?” Who was this man to say something so rude to a guest? “Have I the wrong man?”

“Oh, you’re British. Or Irish?” The caution disappeared from his face. He saw my business card and took it. “Let me see that.” Reading the To Haley scrawled across the corner, he returned it to me looking pleased. “A job, eh?” he said, grinning as he looked me up and down. “I've got one. Pays twelve dollars an hour, ten hours a day for three days a week. How’s it?”

Twelve dollars an hour! I could start renting my own place within a few months! “What is it?”

“Waitress in our first-class cabin,” he explained. “Amazing how much some are willing to pay for a two hour and a half dinner cruise on a little thing like ours, when there’re planes and trains and such. We’re popular for holding fine lunches and afternoon tea, like your country. You interested?”

I started rummaging into my bag for a resume but he stopped me. “I can see you’re well enough,” he said with a sly wink that nearly made me grimace. “You start this Sunday. You’ll get a uniform—it’s really cute, you’ll like it—and your schedule for the month. You saw my ship: it’s called Valencia—report there at the cabin at nine in the morning.”

I hadn’t expected to land a job so quickly, much less one that paid so well. I knew I wasn’t going to refuse. “Thank you, Mr Gabald.”

“Call me Derek. I’ll see you soon.”

I hurried out of the office.

--

The uniform was cute—if you liked the whole sailor-girl thing, although the pencil skirt and heels made walking on a boat difficult. I’d worked in a cafe two years back, but once I was met by a senior waitress named Julie for training, waitressing first-class proved to be so much more demanding. I began to wonder if it had been a good idea for Mr Gabald (I thought it grotesque to call him ‘Derek’ no matter if everyone else did) to hire me without looking at my resume. Julie laughed when I said as much. “He isn’t a good judge of who’s capable,” she explained, then seeing me wince added hastily, “but you’ll learn,” and began to laugh.

Passengers began to board around ten-thirty. First-class passengers were let on early, and they came at an idle trickle that paused at the gift shop or to chat with the sailors, knowing full well that regular passengers could not board until they were seated at their tables for lunch. I squirmed as I eyed the lady in rich silk clothes, manicured hands and glossy lipstick and her partner, a short man in an expensive dove-grey suit and sleek hair. They had their child with them, a sweet-faced boy toddler wearing a green Egyptian cotton set. I was pleased to see that he was at least unaware of his wealth, pulling at the fine fabric and giggling as he slapped the laced tabletop to make the silver cutlery rattle.

There were few wealthy people in my part of Ireland, and then I rarely came so close to them. A quick glance at the other waitresses told me that they were unperturbed by their wealth, even looking upon their customers with familiarity—and not that of an experienced waitress. They were all from decent families; my accent had deceived Derek and Julie of my background and apparent status.

Julie had to grip my elbow to make me focus. “Here’s your coffee and tea,” she whispered, handing me a tray loaded with two china pots. “Your section’s tables 21 to 27, remember. Good luck!”

My section included the family with the toddler, at table 21. As I approached, I heard snippets of their conversation as the wife spoke to her husband, “…don’t understand why you cannot put aside Lafavore for a moment. He won’t harm us, as long as you are with Darsaw. As for Doeniz, you must be careful: he…” She trailed off as I approached them. I did my best at a warm smile.

“How is everyone today?” I gestured at the overturned cups. I hadn’t missed the mention of that elusive ‘Darsaw’ again and regretted not hearing more. “Would you like tea or coffee, sir?”

“Coffee,” he said distractedly before turning back to his wife. “Kelly, you can’t ignore Lafavore. Darsaw can only do much to protect us. Doeniz is a pawn! He—”

“Tea, please,” Kelly interrupted coolly. “I’d like to have my child’s milk heated, please.” She handed me a bottle of powdered milk. I’d thought the toddler was too old to still drink from a bottle, but I took it. “Paul, please, you are overreacting. Let’s enjoy lunch, shall we?…”

I drifted from table to table, repeating the same coffee-or-tea service at each table. I quickly learned that waitressing in the cabin was a very good way to pick up news. I’d heard Darsaw mentioned only in passing on the streets, but it was here that I heard discussion of it so openly that I began to wonder if Darsaw was some kind of high-class society to which most of these tycoons belonged to. Only one table did not mention it, and it was my last, table 27, tucked in a corner next to the window and occupied by a young man.

I noticed several differences between the young man and those who sat around him immediately. For one he sat alone; two, he dressed in a white tailored blouse left unobtrusively untucked, a loosened grey tie and pinstripe pants—all to a degree of considerable finesse, with the artistic flare of someone who intuitively knew how to dress well and down at once. Three: unlike the upright stoic seat of the other customers, his long frame was languid, sleek and set, like a large cat. And when I came over with my tea and coffee, he looked up and smiled.

“Coffee, please,” he said in a friendly voice. Closer up his smile was startlingly attractive. “You worked in a cafe?”

His comment won a chuckle from me. “Is it that obvious?” I turned over his cup and poured him the coffee. “Will someone be joining you?”

“Nope,” he said absently, reaching into a bag beside him. “I’ll probably be drinking lots of coffee so I’ll be seeing you.” He pulled out a newspaper and began to read the comics.

He’s like an old man, jolly and ready to idle away the years before his death, I thought as I left his table, tickled by the paradox. See that there’re all kinds of people in the world.

Back behind the counter, Julie gripped my elbow again. “Stop being so sweet,” she advised. “You make us look cheap. We don’t work in a cafe; we have to be polished and distant.”

“But I’m Irish,” I quipped. “That doesn’t come naturally.”

That stirred a laugh amidst the waitresses, and I went to heat the toddler’s bottled milk.

I quickly learned that most first-class restaurant members were painstakingly particular about their orders, and that they enjoyed discussions with me about each dish and especially new ones or wine choices. After my first such encounter where I was forced to refer to Julie for help, I was taught a five-minute spiel on every item on the menu—all of which in the stress of the situation I remembered everything. The work was regrettably interesting: regrettably, because within that two and a half-hour trip alone eight sampled bottles of wine and five barely-touched orders were wasted because a customer was dissatisfied—and interesting because I had never met so many individuals who could be as affluent as well as remarkably petty. I knew the mere cost for a spot in the cabin was exorbitant—yet the dandy stayed aboard, drinking the house brew and reading the newspaper and, once that was finished, Machiavelli’s The Prince.

The Valencia sailed along the eastern coast in a circular route, never losing sight of the seaboard. When thirteen-thirty came, we had docked on schedule back at Chelsea Piers and our customers long finished their meal. As the other waitresses retreated back into the kitchens for a late lunch, I watched the diners rise elegantly from their seats, sated with rich food and experience, when I saw the dandy leave his seat and head to the table of the Pabrianis—the family with the toddler, as I had learned. He leaned over to whisper something in Mr Pabriani's ear and the older man’s face paled. He clasped the younger man’s hand gratefully, then took off his coat and sat back down. Puzzled, his wife remained standing.

“Paul, why are you sitting down? We have to meet my parents—”

“We’re staying on,” interrupted Paul. “Lafavore’s men are waiting for us ashore. Kelly, please. I’ll call your parents for you—”

“But we promised we would visit!” protested Kelly, her voice rising. “You can’t believe there really is any danger—”

“I do,” said Paul flatly. “Sit down. It seems the price of our safety will be paid by the Darsaw Pact once the Wolfpack deals with the problem and sends them the receipt.” He tilted his head at the dandy, who had returned to his table and apparently engrossed in his book. Kelly stared disbelieving at her husband at the dandy before sitting down, thoroughly miffed. Sam the toddler actually looked baffled but soon turned his attention back to a stuffed toy in his arms.

Dragging a stool to me, I sat down to hide from sight behind the counter to finish my lunch, plate balanced on my lap. I’d overheard enough dinner conversations to know whatever they talked about didn’t usually sound nonviolent and little legal at all. The Darsaw Pact protected these rich folk, as did the Wolfpack and this dandy, whatever his affiliation was. As for Lafavore… I had no clue. Who, or what, could be dangerous enough for these people to fear?

When our lunch break was finished, Julie and the other waitresses returned. “Now we clean up,” she said. The job was similar enough in cafes, except with the extra care to handling flowers and candles on the tables. None of the waitresses looked surprised at table 21 or 27.

As the ship refuelled and the ship prepared for the second trip, the sky darkened with black, waterlogged clouds. When boarding began at fourteen o’clock, a rainstorm had begun in earnest. I wasn’t surprised to find fewer customers this trip back, and most decided to enjoy themselves either in the drawing room next door while leaving the open deck at the stern alone in the rain. I was surprised however, to find the young dandy joined by company—to be exact, another man his age. When his guest arrived, he actually put away his book to talk.

Julie nudged me. “What are you staring at?” she demanded. “Coffee or tea!” She shoved me forward.

I wished she hadn’t. My feet were beginning to feel sore in the heels and the deck was rockier during the storm. Barely catching my balance, I headed to table 27.

With company, the dandy was no longer amiable. Whatever they discussed, it clearly wasn’t about yesterday’s football game or his exciting book. Meanwhile, the other man seemed quite agitated, talking in rapid undertones to a taciturn audience.

The new guest wanted nothing to drink. I was about to offer the dandy his sixth cup of coffee when the ship lurched, and I stumbled. Otherworldly graces had left the teapot and tray behind, but the lid of my coffee pot went flying, and so did the coffee.

Table 27’s patron moved startlingly fast. With one fluid motion, he pushed his chair back, caught the lid, and avoided being splashed. My hand slammed down on the tabletop, drawing a brief hush through the dining room.

“Oh my God,” I burst out, “I’m sorry. Did I—I mean, are you—”

“Not a spot,” he said and offered to take the coffee pot. “I’ll hold that while you get cloths.”

Very aware of everyone watching, I hurried back to the counter. Julie was already there, and she stuffed a bundle of cloths in hand and some spritz-on cleaner after a hissed, “Klutz!” Turning around, I nearly tripped again. Impatiently, I tossed the heels and returned to table 27.

The dandy had poured himself some coffee while I was gone, and he set his cup down to move his chair and let me clean the spill. Once I’d sufficiently mopped up the mess I resurfaced, face crimson.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated, stuffing the cloths and spritz bottle under one elbow as I retrieved the coffee pot. “It won’t happen again.”

“Not without the shoes,” remarked the young man, and he flashed a smile so alluring it smoked—a smile so different from his boyish one, I was sure he was showing off. When I felt my face go redder with embarrassment, I fled the table.

Back behind the counter, Julie shoved me a basin full of cutlery in boiling hot water. “Polish all of this and more,” she said brusquely. “I’ll take over your section.”

I’m fired, I thought gloomily. For good measure, I kicked the discarded heels under the counter and began to polish cutlery.

Two hours and a half passed at a deadening snail’s pace. We sailed alongside the rainstorm, which turned into a thunderstorm before abruptly slacking off as we turned back towards land. Once all the cutlery was polished I was set to work folding napkins into intricate designs that would hold the cutlery, and then I was wiping wine glasses clean. Table 27 and his guest eventually drifted to the drawing room, and soon only the Pabrianis and another table remained seated in the dining room. As neither table ate, the waitresses retreated back into the kitchen to relax, expecting me to let them know if their customers wanted anything.

Paul Pabriani had been drinking cup after cup of coffee, and the caffeine made him more skittish with every cup. Meanwhile Kelly grew increasingly impatient with her husband, as did Sam. Ten minutes before docking, Paul got up to use the men’s restroom, as he inevitably would have, she eagerly stood as well with Sam in her arms, hoping for a break from confinement. Paul shook his head.

“Kelly, promise me you’ll stay here,” he urged, voice strained. “The Valencia’s admirable in terms of security, which is why we left behind the guards—but these are the Nothing People we are talking about.” When Kelly didn’t meet his eyes as she sat again, he sighed and headed to the restrooms.

I tensed as Kelly waited for her husband to disappear into the restrooms before getting to her feet. “The rain’s stopped,” she cooed to Sam. “Let’s go look for a rainbow, before Daddy comes back!” She hurried to the deck.

Hair prickled on the back of my neck. Was the woman stupid? When I saw a man slip stealthily out of the drawing room, I dropped my glass and cloth and ran to the door. The woman hadn’t noticed the man.

“Kelly!” I shouted just as the man raised a gun. The alarm was just enough to startle the man and cause Kelly to spin around and shriek, and without thinking, I tackled the gunman from behind. Down he and I fell, his gun clattering to the floor. I tried to hold the man’s arms down, but he was much stronger and twisting around, he punched me in the collarbone with enough force to send me reeling back in pain. Throwing me off, he scrambled after his gun.

Bam—

The gunman jerked back and hit the floor with a thunderous crash. I flinched as blood and indescribable goo spattered across my face and down the front of my uniform. A heartbeat later, I felt the gun butt being pressed into my hand.

“Don’t say anything,” advised the dandy, and he retreated around a corner as people rushed out of the drawing room and restaurant to see what was going on.

--

There were flaws to the scene, Insp. Colby Harrise later told me. The attacker, identified as Matthew Strauss, a senior security guard at Kenji Warehouses, had been shot squarely in the forehead so that the bullet exited at the nape of his neck—a feat that would be improbable for me, for although Strauss was not tall I stood at the same height. If that wasn’t strange, for me to be hit by ichor was impossible if I had shot him. And if Kelly Pabriani’s testimony was true, it also shouldn’t have been possible for me to have tackled him, fallen and resurfaced in time to shoot him straight through the brainstem in such a short a time.

I remained quiet as he read the discrepancies to me, scanning my face for a reaction. “This question cannot have an incriminating answer,” he began firmly, “but are you part of the Wolfpack?”

I did not reply.

For all my silence and his doubts, the case was concluded that I had shot and killed Mr Matthew Strauss upon coming to the defence of Mrs Kelly Pabriani and her son, Samson, and therefore innocent of murder. Mr Gabald was quick to praise my actions as “heroic, quick-witted and exemplary for his establishment,” and when the news reporters arrived Julie snagged a snapshot with me. And in gratitude for saving his wife and son, Mr Pabriani promised me to reward me deservingly.

I was not allowed to leave the Valencia until two a.m., and then one of the officers drove me back to Missie’s apartment. Eric answered the door immediately, still in his work clothes and a coffee in his hands. Missie followed close behind, wearing a bathrobe over her nightgown. I had called them earlier to tell them what had happened, and despite my reassurances and repeatedly telling them to sleep, they were wide-awake. Missie berated the officer with questions, and in my exhaustion I heard little of their conversation except, “…shouldn’t matter that the public knows who she is. Who said anything about the Wolfpack? She’s the new girl at work, desperate to do well and happened to do a little more. Dela’s a hero, and that’s all anyone’s going to see.”

Eric left the living room, where I slept, to put my uniform in the laundry. I had wiped off what I could but there was no way the bloodstains would ever completely wash out. When Eric ran into me on the way to the bathroom with a towel and toiletries in hand, I told him patiently, “A girl needs to shower, even if it’s two in the morning. Go to sleep, you have work tomorrow.”

I waited to hear Missie and Eric retreat into their rooms before turning on the shower. The night had been so cold and wet my skin was numb from it, and as the scalding hot water pounded my head and body I ached all over, especially where I’d been punched by Strauss. Closing my eyes, I replayed the encounter and ensuing commotion in my mind, everything with which I recalled in chilling clarity. I had told the police only that an instinct had made me intervene. Don’t say anything. Why hadn’t I said anything else? Kelly Pabriani hadn’t either, for although only I knew that Matthew Strauss was table 27’s guest she’d also seen clear as day the dandy who actually killed the gunman.

I wasn’t a hero. Perversely, I was less than a hero because I had in fact not killed the man. But few cared about the facts—Insp. Harrise’s words rang in my ears—and no one seemed willing to condemn me as the fraud I was. If that dandy—well, it seemed cruel to call him such now—hadn’t stepped in, I might’ve died alongside Kelly Pabriani and her son. What had I been thinking, to interfere anyway?

As I ran my fingers through my hair I touched something soft and crusty behind my ears, and with hands that trembled I worked it out; I didn’t look, but I knew it was more of Strauss’ brains. Rinsing it off my fingers, I leaned against the shower wall, fighting down nausea.

This doesn’t change anything, I told myself. If my feeling is right and there are implications to the attack that the Pabrianis don’t want publicized, as long as I don’t talk about it the entire affair will blow over and I’ll forget it. And I don’t want anymore to do with the Darsaw Pact and the Nothing People if I can help it.

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Author’s Theme Song: Moving Mountains by Usher (you probably saw the title is Usher’s latest album’s title too :P)

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