by Elle Gray
Nine
Aggio’s Italian Ristorante; Downtown Seattle
“Blake, it’s so wonderful to see you,” Aunt Annie says as I sit down at the table across from her. “It’s been forever.”
And there is passive-aggressive shot number one, in what I’m sure will be a night filled them.
“It’s good to see you, Annie. I’ve missed you,” I say, reciting the expected lines for my role in this little production.
“Well, I’m never too far away, you know. You don’t have to miss me unless you want to,” she chirps brightly.
I’m so used to hearing those exact words from her, in that exact order, I could have dropped that line on her before she uttered it. But this is the initial salvo in the coming barrage of passive-aggressive bombs she’ll be dropping. This is my atonement for being a terrible niece.
“I hope you don’t mind Aggio’s,” she continues. “I am so very fond of their eggplant parmigiana.”
“No, not at all,” I respond. “I enjoy the food here.”
While we were interviewing Jordyn and Katie, my aunt left a message for me, asking to see me tonight. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve seen her, so I figure this is my penance for that sin. I’m sure it’s going to be an hour of her railing on me for not making more time for the family and an hour of her telling me how much she hates my job. That seems to be the agenda for just about every family dinner. And she wonders why I don’t try to carve out more time for her.
It's not that I dislike Annie. And it’s definitely not that I’m not appreciative of everything she’s done for me in my life. She took me in after my parents were killed and my sister, Kit, was abducted. She raised me from that point on and provided for me. I will never say that she wasn’t good to me, because she was. In many ways, she became my second mother. I shudder to think where I’d be right now if Annie hadn’t stepped in and taken care of me.
But she’s a woman of very strong opinions and convictions. She’s also got a very strong belief in what is proper work for men and women. And she doesn’t think that my job with the FBI is proper in any way, shape, or form. She’s tried to talk me into quitting the Bureau since—well—since before I even joined. I made the mistake of telling her back in college that I was double majoring in Criminology and Psychology because I wanted to be a profiler for the Bureau.
Shortly after that conversation, she started trying to divert my career path to something safer and more appropriate for a young lady. She tried to recruit me to be a bookkeeper like her, or a librarian like my cousin, Maisey. But then I compounded the problem by telling her I was going to join the Bureau because I was going to find out who murdered my folks and abducted my sister, and that I was going to find Kit.
That lit a fire under Annie to steer me onto another course entirely. I can’t say I don’t understand where she’s coming from. Given the fact that my parents, who were NSA employees and were—despite the official police reports citing a robbery gone wrong—executed, for reasons I have not been able to find yet. But I will. If I can ever crack Mr. Corden’s code, it will be a big step toward doing just that. As far as Annie goes though, her fears are neither unreasonable nor unfounded. I just refuse to heed them. I refuse to be a captive to my fear and anger. I have the ability to do something about it, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
“So, what looks good to you?” Annie asks.
“I think I’m going to have the spaghetti carbonara.”
“Aren’t there a lot of carbs in that dish?” she asks. “And then you factor in the bread? Oh, I’d just be so bloated.”
Shot number two—this one a lot closer to home though. So close, I actually feel the wind from her passive-aggressive missile whizzing by. I smile sweetly at her.
“There are a lot of carbs,” I admit. “But considering I’m always in a high-speed chase or fighting off a bad guy, I could use the energy.”
A frown starts to crease her lips, but she’s able to catch it, replacing it with a smile that looks entirely stiff and wooden. She doesn’t reply though, not willing to engage me directly. I shake my head. This whole choreographed dance is as useless as it is irritating. But this is how we do things in our family. Every family has its quirks and challenges. It’s just that some—like ours—seem to have more than most.
I keep hoping one day my aunt is going to see the light. Or at least, simply accept that I’m an FBI agent and nothing she can do is going to change that. I love what I do. I’m passionate about it and I feel like I’m making a real difference in the world.
The waitress arrives and we place our dinner orders. A couple of moments later, she comes back with our wine and then departs again, leaving my aunt and me in an awkward silence for a few moments. But then the ice thaws and we’re able to make small talk for a little while. We catch each other up on our lives and everything going on with us. Although I decline to tell her about my whole blowup with Mark. That’s a whole other can of worms I don’t want to open.
Back in the old days, they would have called her a spinster. Today, they just call her bitter. Of the two, I’d say the latter is the more accurate term. And believe me, I’ve tried to get her—and Maisey—out there. Annie is beautiful, intelligent, clever, and contrary to everything I’ve said to this point, can be kind and quite lovely; She’s just used to doing things her way, as she has for so long, she has trouble remembering that her way isn’t the only way. But as a strong woman on her own, raising two teenage girls, she’d had to be that. I just want her to see that she doesn’t have to be that anymore.
Our conversation over dinner is blessedly normal and she’s stopped hurling her passive-aggressive barbs at me. We’re just two women enjoying a meal and some conversation together. It’s been a surprisingly refreshing evening; I’m starting to feel a little guilty for walking in here prepared for battle with her. The waitress comes by to clear our plates and I find I’m not in as big of a hurry to leave as I normally am, so we order dessert and coffee.
“So, there is something I wanted to talk to you about tonight,” she says. “I’ve just been sitting here trying to figure out how to broach the subject.”
I immediately tense and feel my guard going up again. I knew it was too good to be true. But Annie is staring down at the table and frowning.
“What is it, Annie?” I ask. “Are you okay?”
She nods. “Oh, I’m fine. It’s Maisey.”
I spoke to Maisey last night, so I know she’s fine. But judging by how much Annie seems to be struggling with her words, something is obviously going on between them. Maisey hasn’t mentioned anything to me lately, which tells me this is something on Annie’s mind rather than anything my cousin did.
“What about her?” I ask cautiously.
“I don’t know. Lately, she’s just been acting different,” Annie says. “She’s been acting strangely.”
“Strange how?”
“She’s been secretive. It feels like she’s hiding things from me. It’s not like her at all,” Annie says. “Maisey always told me everything before.”
A grin curls my lip and I shake my head. Maisey and Annie are close. Always have been. But my aunt has always kept Maisey under her thumb a bit. Some of her fear and bitterness was rubbing off on my cousin, and when I saw that, I made a point of talking to Maisey about it. I told her at the time that her life was her own; she needed to live it for herself and for nobody else. She deserved to be happy and experience all life had to offer. I was very clear when I told her I didn’t want to see her end up like her mother—secluded, isolated, and alone.
Maisey is a beautiful girl. She’s intelligent and clever. Charming and funny. She’s got one of those quirky personalities that make her absolutely adorable. Yeah, she’s naturally a bit shy and she’s never been the outgoing type—something I blame on Annie’s extreme helicopter parenting—but once you get Maisey out of her shell, she’s a force of nature and you can’t help but love her.
“She’s never hidde
n anything from me before, and I’m not sure what to think about it. I don’t know what’s happening with my own daughter right now,” Annie says.
I want to tell Annie that Maisey has hidden a lot from her over the years. More than that, I want to tell her that Maisey is a grown woman and that she doesn’t need to know everything happening in her life. In this case, I know exactly what Maisey is hiding from her mother, but it’s not for me to say. It’s not my secret.
Annie looks up at me. “Do you know if she’s seeing somebody? Is that what this is?” she asks. “Does she have a secret boyfriend? It’s the only thing that makes sense to me.”
I gnaw on my bottom lip for a moment, struggling with my promise to Maisey. When she first started dating Marco, she swore me to silence, and I don’t want to give up her secret. But I can see how much Annie is struggling with the idea that Maisey is freezing her out of her life and keeping things from her. But I can’t blame Maisey for keeping it to herself, given Annie’s tendency to nitpick at everything, especially our life choices.
My aunt has been screwed over by men in her life, and while I sympathize with her and understand her feelings, I think she should have moved past it a long time ago. I think rather than continuing to dwell on it, hardening her heart and her opinions, she should have been able to let it go. If for no other reason than how her attitude has impacted her daughter’s life.
“Do you know what’s going on with Maisey?” she asks.
I frown, still trying to figure out how to answer her. I don’t want to betray Maisey, but I don’t want to lie to Annie either. I told Maisey when she started dating Marco—months ago—that she should tell her mom. But she’s been hemming and hawing and dancing around the subject. It seems so silly to me that a thirty-two-year-old woman is keeping a secret like who she’s dating for fear of her mother.
Things would be so much easier if people would just stop hiding and communicate with each other.
“I think you should talk to Maisey about this,” I finally say. “I really don’t want to be in the middle of things, Annie.”
She frowns. “So, she is hiding something from me.”
“I think you’re both grown women and you should be able to talk to each other.”
“Is she dating somebody? Just tell me that much at least.”
I shake my head. “I’m not getting involved with this, Annie. I think you need to share your concerns with Maisey, and if there’s something she wants to tell you, she will.”
The truth is, I am kind of involved with this. After watching Maisey and Marco flirt shamelessly with each other for a really long time, I finally managed to push her to him. I was really glad to see it because Marco is a good guy and treats her like a queen. She deserves no less. But that’s where my involvement ends. Everything that’s come after is on Maisey. She decided to keep it from Annie. And it’s not my place to violate that trust—no matter how hard Annie is trying to get me to do it.
“If she’s dating somebody, why would she hide it from me, Blake?”
I shrug. “All I can say is that she knows you don’t have a high opinion of men. We both know that, Annie. You’ve made that perfectly clear over the years,” I tell her. “No man is ever good—or good enough. You find fault in every single man you come into contact with.”
“That’s not true,” she gasps.
“It is. I hate to say it, but you can be very judgmental. And you know how gentle Maisey is,” I say. “She sometimes feels intimidated by you.”
She puts her hand to her chest, her face a mask of horror. “I’ve never intimidated my daughter. I wouldn’t do that.”
“Not consciously. I agree,” I say. “But do you remember the boy who asked Maisey to her junior prom? I think his name was… Alex?”
“Alex Wingate. Yes, I remember him clearly,” she says, the disdain dripping from her lips. “Horrible boy, that one. He was a troublemaker, and there was no way I was going to let a boy like that influence—”
“That’s what I’m talking about, Annie,” I cut her off. “The fact was, Alex was a good kid. He got straight A’s in school. Was always polite and respectful. Nobody ever had a bad word to say about him. Except you.”
Annie looks at me, positively scandalized. “I can’t believe you’re saying all this to me.”
“I should have a long time ago—like when it was happening,” I tell her. “I should have told you that you were letting your own experiences and heartache impact Maisey. Your bitterness was creeping into her soul, and it was turning her hard. Like you.”
Annie’s eyes welled with tears. “Blake, I can’t believe this. You make me sound like a monster.”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but it’s something I should have said a long time ago. You got screwed by a man. I get it—I have too, in some ways. But at some point, you have to move past your pain, Annie,” I tell her. “You’re a wonderful mother in most every way, but your bitterness is poisoning your own soul—and Maisey’s.”
“This is outrageous,” she replies, her expression dark and angry.
“I’m sorry, Annie. But somebody had to say something,” I say. “I guess I drew the short straw.”
Without another word, my aunt slips out of the booth and gets to her feet. She looks at me like she’s about to say something, but lets the words die on her lips. Instead, she grabs her bag and bolts from the restaurant, leaving me sitting there feeling like a jerk.
The waitress walks up to the table, our desserts in hand, and looks down at me, uncertainty coloring her features.
“I guess I’ll take those to go instead.”
Ten
The Yellow Brick Road Tavern, Capitol Hill District; Seattle, WA
Astra and I got confirmation that our guy, Dylan Betts, is working the afternoon shift today, so we came down early to surveil the area and have a conversation with him. We sit in the car in a parking lot across the street that’s got a clear view of the bar he works at. The sky overhead is gray, choked with fat clouds promising rain soon. A cold wind rushes down the street, carrying leaves and other litter along with it.
The outside of the Yellow Brick Road looks like any of a thousand other bars in the city. A low fence lines the front with tables set out for outdoor drinking and dining that’s separated by the walkway to the front door—which is painted gold. The building itself is made of brick—and is painted parakeet yellow, with the bricks outlined in black to make it pop. The front door is an ungodly shade of green, and the walls to the other side of it are smoked glass doors that open onto the front patio. It’s a kitschy little hole-in-the-wall bar I’m sure is popular with the Capitol Hill hipster crowd.
“Tell me something,” I start. “Is that front door sparkling?”
Astra leans forward and stares at it, then laughs softly to herself. “They glittered the hell out of the door. So yeah, it’s sparkling.”
“That’s tacky.”
“It’s eye-catching. Draws a crowd. And besides, people love tacky,” she says. “Anyway, how’d dinner with Aunt Annie go last night?”
A rueful grin stretches my lips. “I’m not even sure if a total train wreck with a dash of a nuclear meltdown accurately captures the essence of just how horrible it was.”
“That good, huh?”
“Oh yeah,” I reply. “She knows Maisey is keeping something from her and assumes it’s her secret boyfriend.”
“I mean…” Astra chuckles. “Is she wrong? Your aunt is perceptive. Maybe she should have been a profiler.”
I laugh softly. “Never would have happened. FBI work isn’t a woman’s work, according to her. She thinks it’s better left to the menfolk.”
“Yeah, they do a stellar job of running the show.”
I crack open the file and look through the pages again. Before I went to dinner with Annie, I’d tasked our tech guru Rick with putting together a quick and dirty dossier on Dylan Betts. I just wanted to get a handle on who we were dealing with before we walked in the door. I’l
l have Rick do a deeper dive if I get a hinky feeling about this guy after we talk to him.
“So, what are you going to do? About Maisey and your aunt?” Astra asks.
“Stay as far away from that situation as I can. I told Annie I don’t want to be caught up in it,” I reply. “Really, the dinner was so pleasant until the end. But she kept asking about it and I told her to talk to Maisey about it, not me.”
“Why do I get the feeling that’s not the whole story?”
I sway my head from side to side, as if wondering how to phrase it. “I… may have also told her that she’s a bit judgmental and bitter, and it was infecting Maisey’s soul, and it wouldn’t be a big surprise if Maisey was hiding a boyfriend from her. She sort of… stormed out of the restaurant.”
“Yeah, that’s staying out of the middle. Well done.”
The flow of foot and car traffic is starting to taper off as the lunchtime crowd starts to filter back into the buildings all around us. A fairly large crowd of people exit the Yellow Brick Road—or the YBR as the kids apparently call it, according to the Internet—after a liquid lunch. We sit and wait another twenty minutes or so until the flow of the crowd thins to a trickle, then get out of the car and head across the street.
I pull the sparkling door open, allowing Astra to walk in first. I follow her in and let the door swing shut, giving my eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light inside.
“Sit anywhere you want, ladies. But you just missed out on the lunchtime specials,” comes a voice from behind the bar. “Although, for you two, I might just be willing to make an exception.”
As my eyes adjust, the figure behind the bar resolves itself into the form of Dylan Betts. He’s tall. Six-two, maybe six-three, with dark hair that hangs to his shoulders. He’s fit, has broad shoulders, a strong jawline, and sharp angular features. His black t-shirt is tight, showcasing his tattoo-lined biceps and the taut lines of his pecs. He’s a good-looking guy who definitely looks younger than his years, but the flecks of gray in his goatee give away the fact that he’s not a college kid.
