I took a couple of shallow breaths, and once I realized it didn’t seem to affect what she was doing, allowed myself to breathe normally. “This isn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be,” I told her, and then flinched as she ran the needle along a tender spot. It wasn’t quite like getting tickled with a feather, but it wasn’t being swarmed by fire ants, either.
As she worked, my mind wandered. When Detective Vincent Castillo dragged Seth out of my apartment in handcuffs last Friday, a huge crowd had been waiting at the door. They burst into applause as soon as the door opened, as if my brush with death had been a reality TV show. Then again, I guess by broadcasting the whole thing to the world, I had sort of set myself up for that.
As Castillo had predicted, Seth’s video confession went viral, but later that evening, someone released a TikTok of ferrets swarming over an obstacle course and my five minutes in the spotlight was forgotten.
I had to go down to the station and give my testimony, but between Seth’s video confession, the bracelet that had been in his possession, and the police tracing Stefanie99NYC back to his laptop and the café’s IP address, it was an open-and-shut case. Just as I’d hoped, one of the security cameras in Domino Park had caught him leaving the elevated walkway while everyone else was rushing to Bethany’s side. The footage from Untapped Books & Café was useless—Todd’s cheap surveillance system was too grainy to make a positive identification—but one of the regulars that day had noticed Seth coming in the back door when he’d come out of the restroom.
Castillo never outright said so, but I knew he was glad I helped put Bethany’s killer behind bars. I’d been tempted to rub it in, to remind him that he’d been convinced that Bethany’s death was an accident, but I thought that might be in bad taste.
Besides, I was seeing a lot more of him now that he and Izzy were officially an item. I liked having him as a friend, and would prefer to stay on his good side as much as possible. “Is Vince coming over for dinner again tonight?” I asked Izzy.
“Depends on what time he gets off work. I was thinking of making caprese pizza with vegan mozzarella on cauliflower crust. How does that sound?”
Horrible, I thought to myself.
“I’ll try anything once,” I told her reluctantly, glancing over at my arm. Before coming to Williamsburg, I would have never even considered eating anything with a cauliflower crust, much less vegan pizza. I wouldn’t have tasted stuffed croissants, raspberry Nutella crepes, or avocado toast, either. I wouldn’t have developed an appreciation for craft beer. I certainly wouldn’t have gotten a purple owl with button eyes tattoo.
“Speaking of dinner at the apartment . . .” Izzy sucked on her bottom lip for a second. “I got a text from my roomie at the schoolhouse. It’s safe to move back in now, and if I don’t act soon, I’m gonna lose my spot.”
“About that,” I said. “I talked to Aunt Melanie last night. Took some cajoling, but she’s good with you staying. At least for the next two months, until she gets back.” I didn’t love the idea of Izzy going back to a situation that sounded neither safe nor sanitary. And to be completely honest, I didn’t want to go back to living on my own just yet.
“That’s sweet, but you can’t keep sleeping on the couch,” she told me.
“Don’t worry about me. The couch is plenty comfy. Besides, I’ve already started making black-out curtains for the sliding glass doors.” After delivering Bethany’s soap-making supplies to Jenny and donating the rest to charity—turned out that most of her stuff was already at Marco’s and he didn’t want anything from the remaining boxes—the apartment had breathing room again. “I like having you around.”
“Are you sure?” Izzy asked.
“One hundred percent,” I assured her, and then fought the reflex to flinch when the tattoo needle, now putting in color, hit the already sore outline. The artist wiped the area and the soapy liquid stung for a second before providing cool relief. “It’s only for two more months, until my aunt gets back, but that gives you plenty of time to figure out what you want to do.”
“What about you?” she asked. I was grateful for the distracting conversation. The longer the tattoo went on, the more uncomfortable the constant stinging on my inflamed arm got. “Where are you going to go when Melanie gets back?”
“I’m not sure. I assumed I’d go back to Piney Island, but the longer I’m in Williamsburg, the more I don’t want to leave.” The thought had been growing in the back of my head for the past week, and I still didn’t know what to do. “I’d love to stay in Brooklyn, but I don’t think I can afford it.”
“You worry too much,” Izzy said, flapping her free hand in a dismissive gesture. Her other hand was still holding mine, providing comfort and support even though the tattoo turned out to be a lot easier to handle than I’d feared. The artist hadn’t exactly been overwhelmed with joy when I’d shown up with two friends in tow, but since she’d already met—and tattooed—Izzy, and Parker hadn’t lasted more than a few seconds, she didn’t seem to mind the extra spectator now. “Like you said, we’ve got two whole months. We’ll figure something out.”
By the time the tattoo was finished, my arm was slightly swollen and sore, like someone had been vigorously rubbing fine-grit sandpaper over it for the past hour. Which wasn’t far from the truth, I guess. The artist cleaned my arm, and before she could rub another layer of goo over it, I snapped a quick picture and posted to my Instagram account.
It was a good thing that my mom didn’t use social media, because she was gonna kill me when she saw this. Then again, I wasn’t a kid anymore. If I was old enough to solve a murder, I was old enough to get a tattoo, move to New York City, or do anything I put my mind to. I guess this adulting business wasn’t all bad.
Once the fresh tattoo was wrapped and the artist had given me detailed care instructions, I tipped her and we headed outside. As someone who survived off tips, I always tipped in cash. Besides the obvious drawback of business owners that skimmed a little off the top of tips left for their employees on a credit card for “service fees” or some such nonsense, cash tips were immediate money. That could sometimes mean the difference between eating ramen noodles and purloined ketchup packets for dinner and nothing at all.
Speaking of eating, “I’m starving,” I declared. Parker, who had been waiting outside on the steps, joined us. He must have been really wigged out to prefer to stay out here in the blazing heat instead of the cool air-conditioned shop.
“I don’t blame you. I’m always famished after a tattoo. Don’t know why,” Izzy said. “We’ve already got all the fixings for pizza if you want to make it for lunch instead of dinner.”
“Or, I know this little café nearby,” Parker suggested. “Best sandwiches in Williamsburg, and an impressive selection of cold local craft beer.”
“This café wouldn’t happen to feature a waitstaff in atrocious neon green polo shirts, would it?” I asked.
Parker nodded, “Oh, you know the place?”
“It is close,” Izzy agreed. “And you can’t beat the family discount. What do you say, Odessa?”
I grinned. Before coming to Williamsburg, I’d had a narrow definition of “family,” and I’d always wished I had a brother or sister, or at the very least, some nearby cousins. But recently, I’d discovered that the amazing people I met here weren’t just friends or coworkers. They were family. “UB&C it is. But in the event that Todd is shorthanded, we might want to sneak in the back door so we don’t get pressed into working.”
Todd and Andre had hired not one but two new waitresses to fill some of the gaps in the schedule. If one of them worked out, I would be ecstatic. If both worked out? I’d be downright delirious. But just in case they had both quit already, I didn’t want to end up serving on my day off.
“Agreed,” Izzy said, looping one arm around my right arm—the one that wasn’t still stinging from a fresh tattoo—and the other a
round Parker’s left. Her owl memorial tattoo was already well on the way to healing, the metaphor of which was not lost on me. Together, the three of us headed toward Untapped Books & Café, my mouth watering at the promise of a savory sandwich on locally made artisanal bread, washed down with a cold bottle of Pour Williamsburg Pale Ale. Here, in the heart of Brooklyn, surrounded by friends, I was living my best life.
#TheEnd.
Acknowledgments
This book exists because the lovely and talented Karen MacInerney encouraged me to find my voice writing quirky, unconventional, character-driven cozies.
Special thanks goes to my cheerleaders-slash-advisers-slash-therapists-slash–critique partners, Dare, La, Ris, and Liz, and of course to my weird and wonderful Potassium, who makes me laugh every day. I’d also thank my little writing buddy, Baileycakes, but puggles can’t read. At least I’m pretty sure she can’t.
I’m beyond grateful for my incredibly supportive agent, James McGowan; the BookEnds Literary Agency; the amazing Kristine Swartz; and the entire Berkley team.
But most of all, thank YOU for giving Odessa a chance.
Recycle. Hydrate. And always follow your dreams.
Photo courtesy of the author
Brooklyn Murder Mysteries author OLIVIA BLACKE writes quirky, unconventional, character-driven cozy mysteries. After shuffling around the USA from Hawaii to Maine, she currently resides with her husband and their roly-poly rescue puggle, but is forever homesick for NYC. In addition to writing, disappearing into a good book, and spending way too much time on social media, she enjoys scuba diving, crocheting, collecting tattoos, and baking dog cookies.
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