by Cleo Coyle
“When something frightens us, we try to make sense of it, get control of it, fight back in our own way. It’s human nature.”
“But, Mom, there never really was a giant in the sky—”
“No, and Franco’s not a bad person. If you love him, you have to sit down with him, confront him, face the truth—and know that you’ll be okay, whatever happens. It’s easy to let yourself domino your worries, tell yourself that if you lose Franco, you’ve lost love forever. But that’s just the thunder, honey, terrible noise to scare you. Look at your grandmother and all her heart has been through. You know what she always says? ‘Survive everything, and—’”
“‘—do it with style.’ I know.” She exhaled hard. “It’s just not . . . it’s not easy.”
“No, it isn’t. And leaving me to ‘snoop’ out answers will only make it harder, build up your fears and anxieties. That’s why I want you to sleep here tonight. Then put on your big-girl pants tomorrow, face Franco, and find out the truth. I’ll be here for you, no matter what happens.”
Joy took a breath and let it out. Finally, she nodded. “Okay, Mom, I’ll stay.”
“Have you arranged coverage in DC?”
“Everything’s set in Washington. And I can help you downstairs tonight. Sounds like you’re going to need it . . .”
As my daughter swiped her wet cheeks with the backs of her fists, a flood of memories flowed over me, and I saw my daughter in grade school again, crying over scuffed knees; in middle school, nursing bruised feelings; and through all those teen years with social fears and heartbreaking crushes. We’d spent so many hours together in the kitchen, just mother and daughter, talking things over.
If only she were that little again, I thought, and her problems were as easy for me to solve.
But who was I kidding? It was never easy. No matter how much any parent tries, every childhood is a series of hardships and humiliations, anxieties and terrors.
“How about a ‘Mommy and Me’ cookie?” I found myself asking. “We have time. Would you like that?”
Joy actually smiled. “Do you remember the ingredients?”
“By heart . . .”
2 tablespoons melted butter, 1 teaspoon vanilla extract,
pinch of salt, 1 egg yolk, 2 tablespoons granulated sugar,
2 tablespoons light brown sugar, ¼ cup flour, ⅛ teaspoon baking soda,
and 2½ tablespoons mini chocolate chips . . .
My daughter and I mixed the dough and baked our favorite cookies—large rounds of buttery-caramel goodness with the perfect crispy-chewy texture and laced with just the right amount of chocolate. We ate the warm treats with satisfaction, washing them down with glasses of cold milk. And for a brief, innocent gap of space and time, love became simple again.
Sixty-two
“SEE, Clare, I told you I’d deliver!”
Hours later, Sydney Webber-Rhodes was sitting at my crowded coffee bar in a pastel pink sweater and tartan skirt, her elfin features looking smug as a general reviewing her lockstep troops. Smartphone in her manicured hand, the Cinder CEO closely monitored her prepaid parade of trendy and beautiful people as they “hashtagged” happy comments to thousands of social media followers.
As for my part, the shop was in stellar shape. Joy and my baristas were diligently working to serve drinks and pastries as swiftly and cheerfully as possible—while keeping things tidy upstairs and down; inside and out.
Sydney had been right about those outdoor tables. They were as packed as the ones inside. The customers looked satisfied and relaxed, enjoying the cool jazz flowing through the sound system and the blazing hearths on both floors.
“My strategy is working,” Sydney declared with a wink of one hazel-bronze tiger eye. Then her pink fingernail swiped away, showing me the photos and videos being uploaded about our shop: from smiling selfies to images of coffee and pastries to GIF loops of our crackling fireplace.
“Notice how the crowd is changing?” She tipped her shiny blond pixie toward a large group of newcomers. “Those people are obviously not part of my alpha group, yet here they are—real customers!”
When the motley crew of vastly different ages and body types, most clad in down-market fashions, ordered drinks and headed directly upstairs, I knew Sydney was right and wrong. These new customers were “real,” but she was wrong about why they’d come. It wasn’t because of social media endorsements.
They were here because of Esther.
For the past few hours, I’d tried to spot the Washington Post photojournalist whom Sydney had mentioned was coming. I wanted to provide some background on Esther’s ongoing urban outreach work and her extensive experience with poetry slams. But so many people were taking pictures that I pretty much gave up the guessing game.
Anyway, I had another fish to catch, and so far, my net was empty.
Then something intriguing happened.
Cody arrived in an agitated state. Hurrying through our front door, the athletic woman plowed through the crowd like a rugby forward barreling toward a goal. It was the first time I’d seen Cinder’s square-jawed head of security since our encounter at Equator—which surprised me because Team Tinkerbell had arrived early with Sydney. Its members were now wandering around in their pastel shirts. Only Cody had been absent. Now she rushed up to her boss, tossed back her brownish blond pixie, and whispered almost frantically into Sydney’s ear.
The CEO’s satisfied grin morphed into an eye-blinking frown. When she realized I was staring, she checked her reaction and asked—
“Clare, is there somewhere I can go for a private conversation?”
“Of course, the pantry should be quiet. I’ll show you.”
As Sydney and Cody moved through the crowd to get behind the counter, they crossed paths with AJ, who’d been recording video interviews with happily Cinder-matched couples. Sydney tapped her shoulder and motioned for her to follow us.
Unfortunately, our pantry wasn’t bare. Vicki Glockner, one of my part-timers, was desperately looking for more paper cups.
I turned to Sydney. “You’ll find more privacy in our back alley.”
I pushed open the back door. Sydney barely hit the cold pavement before she placed a call on her smartphone. I was hoping to eavesdrop, but she, Cody, and AJ moved too far from the exit.
Stopping in the middle of the alley, they began their conference right next to my coffee roaster’s venting pipe—a whole other kind of wireless communications device!
After telling Vicki to break open the boxes that Matt had hauled from his warehouse, I hurried down the steps to our basement roasting room, unscrewed the wing nuts on our wall vent, and placed my ear to the opening . . .
Sixty-three
THE women’s voices echoed strangely through the aluminum pipe, but I could make out every word. And though I’d missed Sydney’s phone conversation, I quickly got the gist of it.
“I warned you that someone’s been tampering with our app,” AJ said, “and I told you it wasn’t an outside hack!”
“You claimed it was Haley, and you were right,” Sydney returned. “She created a backdoor and buried it so deep it took a week for my digital forensic investigators to find it. I hired the best in the business, and they still can’t tell me who used it, or why.”
“Well, I can’t ask Haley. She’s dead.”
“I don’t need excuses, AJ. I need solutions.”
“Hey! If I hadn’t figured out that those user complaints and abuse reports were being deleted, you’d still be in the dark. I’m doing my best to help your investigators find a digital trail that leads to the saboteur—”
“I’ve got my own suspicions about that,” Sydney said bitterly.
“Who?”
“Someone from my past. But that doesn’t concern you. Just do your job. I want that backdoor closed. Permanently.”
Final
ly, Cody spoke. “The backdoor is the least of our worries. None of this explains the account surpluses. More than one hundred seventy thousand dollars—and it’s still coming in. I’ve spoken to a few users, and I don’t like what I’m hearing. This is far more serious than deletions of abuse reports. I think someone is setting us up for—”
“Enough!” Sydney said. “We’re not going to solve anything tonight in this alley. Let’s put our game faces on and get back to the party.”
Slapping brick dust off my apron, I raced back up the stairs.
By now, Vicki was gone from the pantry, leaving Dante’s sketches in clear view. And that’s where I found Sydney, frozen in place, staring at those portraits.
Sydney’s “game face” was nowhere in sight. She looked positively livid with her fingers gripping her smartphone so tightly that I thought the quartz face would crack.
Cody appeared confused but concerned. And poor AJ seemed completely clueless. None of them noticed me, so I waited a moment, hoping somebody would say something. Finally, I asked—
“Do you recognize him?”
Sydney’s tiger eyes remained on the sketches. “What are you doing with these, Clare?”
“This guy is the one in the viral video with Carol Lynn Kendall, the mystery man who started this mess. He’s wanted for questioning by the police for giving them a fake identity. He’s been abusing women he meets on your app. And I think he has something to do with Haley Hartford’s death.”
Cody’s expression turned fierce. “What makes you think so?”
“One of my baristas saw this man sitting with Haley, having some kind of meeting. She showed him something on her laptop, and he handed her an envelope.”
Sydney’s face went white. Then she locked gazes with Cody.
“What is it?” I asked. “What’s going on? Did this man hire Haley to sabotage Cinder?”
Suddenly, Matt burst into the pantry, pulling Joy behind him. “Clare! Clare! Oh, there you are. We have to talk. Now!”
As Matt moved toward me, Sydney and her Tinkerbells fled, leaving my question unanswered. Determined to corner Sydney later, I turned to deal with my bellowing ex-husband.
“What?” I said, throwing up my hands. “What do we have to ‘talk’ about?”
“Dad’s acting crazy,” Joy said. “I don’t understand why he’s freaking out. It’s no big deal.”
Matt shook his head. “This is a big deal, Joy, bigger than you think. Now tell your mother. Go on, tell her what just happened to you.”
Baffled, Joy faced me. “Some guy mistook me for someone else. That’s all. He thought my name was Kara.”
Sixty-four
MATT was right. This was a big deal!
I grabbed my daughter’s arms. “What guy approached you? Describe him!”
“An older guy with glasses and a bad toupee. He acted like I knew him. He was kind of sweet, actually.”
Relieved, I let go of Joy’s arms.
Then Matt grabbed mine. “Did you hear that?! Some creep was looking for Kara. And I doubt he’s going to be the only one. You’ve summoned a dozen dating app lowlifes and put them on the prowl for our daughter!”
“Mom? Dad? What are you talking about?”
I held my head. “God, you’re right. Joy looks like me in that old photo. But she wasn’t supposed to be here!”
“Well, she is here. And now she’s a target. I’ll bet that was Mr. Reveal His True Self out there propositioning her, too.”
“How do you know about that?!”
“Mother called me. She never actually said the words, but I could tell she was concerned that I was behaving like that pervert. I assured her the only people who got pictures of my hoo-hah were working airport X-ray machines.”
Joy threw up her hands. “Dad, what do I have to do with some old photo of Mom? Or with a picture of your—what exactly is a hoo-hah?! Will one of you please tell me what’s going on?”
“What’s going on, young lady, is you’re grounded.” Matt pointed to the ceiling. “You are going upstairs right now and locking the apartment’s door behind you.”
Joy laughed. “Dad, you can’t ‘ground’ me anymore. I’m an adult!”
But he has the right idea, I thought. “For your own safety, Joy, you have to go upstairs. We have plenty of help down here.”
Joy eyed us both. “Since when do you two agree on anything? Sorry, I’m going back to work.”
Matt blocked her path. “Let your mother explain the situation first. Maybe you’ll change your mind when you realize the peril she put you in.”
I didn’t want to involve Joy in this, but it was obviously too late. So I quickly shared the story behind the Barista APB. No surprise, Joy was undaunted.
“Count me in! I’d love to help put a lying, cheating heartbreaker under arrest!”
Every bit Madame’s granddaughter, she was all for catching the stinky fish, which prompted Matt to suck air. For the next five minutes, he tried to talk her out of it—and failed.
“Fine,” he relented at last. “You can stay. But”—he barked at me—“if our daughter is going out there to hunt for a predator, she’s not going alone!”
“What does that mean?” Joy asked.
“That means, all night, I’m going to be on you like, like . . . like birds on a hippopotamus!”
Joy’s mouth fell open. “A hippo? Really, Daddy? I’ve gained a few pounds since the last time you saw me, but a hippo?!”
Turning on her heel, she headed back to the front of the shop, Matt hurrying behind.
“Baby, that’s not what I meant! It’s just an expression—in Africa, the birds love the hippos. It’s a mutually beneficial relationship. They keep ticks and parasites off their backs—”
“Eew!”
Sixty-five
AS I watched my ex-husband chase after our daughter, I felt a measure of relief—not total, but enough—because when Matteo Allegro vows to protect his baby (hippo or not), no male parasite on the planet stands a chance of getting near her.
And, yes, the vulture-like proximity of my ex-husband could scare off the likes of Richard Crest, but Joy’s safety came first. Besides, my whole staff was on the lookout for the man; and, after years of hearing Quinn’s war stories, I knew there was more than one way to catch a creep.
For instance, take this new wrinkle with Sydney Webber-Rhodes.
She recognized the face in Dante’s sketches, and that recognition obviously upset her. Why?
It looked to me like this Richard Crest character had paid Haley Hartford to do work for him. And from what I overheard in the alley, Haley had set up some kind of digital “backdoor” to the Cinder programming.
Had Crest paid Haley to create that door so he could manipulate the app? Was he the one who remotely erased abuse reports and negative comments? If so, why did he want to sabotage the app? What would he gain by doing it?
Cody mentioned something about money, too—over six figures of deposits into the Cinder treasure chests that couldn’t be accounted for. That made no sense, either. Extortion typically involved robbing a company of money, not adding to its coffers.
As I returned to the front of our shop to find Sydney (and attempt to get some answers), I noticed the cool jazz on our sound system was lowering in volume. Suddenly, Esther’s voice poured out of our speakers—
“Good evening, and welcome to the Village Blend! We are about to begin tonight’s open mic poetry slam in our upstairs lounge. Join us right now for some rap with your frap and wit that won’t quit. Plus an important unveiling. Come on up and see what the talk of the Village will be!”
The buzz of conversation grew louder as curious customers swarmed our spiral staircase. Across the room, Sydney’s gaze found mine. What the hell is going on?
I pointed upstairs, wanting her to see for herself.
&nb
sp; Immediately, she typed into her phone. The pastel Tinkerbells got the message and joined their boss at the crowded base of the spiral stairs.
Meanwhile, I hurried back to the pantry, climbed the empty service staircase, and slipped onto the packed second floor. Esther tossed me a wave. I flashed a thumbs-up, and she mounted our temporary stage.
Apron gone, my zaftig barista pushed up her black glasses, pulled the microphone off its stand, and took on her role as tonight’s MC.
“All you Ellas and Fellas, you princes and princesses, and especially you paupers, peons, and peasants who seldom get invited to the ball, lend us your ear! And, if you’re so inclined, lend your tongue for our first round of slam fun . . .”
I noticed Sydney and her posse cresting the steps. The large room was packed, every café table filled, but they quickly found standing room near the back.
“Which brings us to tonight’s special theme . . .” Esther continued. “May I have a table drumroll, please?” She held the mic out to the audience, and they lightly pounded our tabletops.
“Dating Disasters and Horrible Hookups!”
As the crowd lit up with laughter, the Tinkerbells frowned, and Sydney’s megawatt game face went dark.
Sixty-six
GIVE it a chance, Sydney, I texted to her from across the room. Keep an open mind . . .
“If you’re unlucky at love, you’ve come to the right space,” Esther declared. “Planet Earth!”
The crowd laughed.
“Too big? Too broad?” she continued. “Then you will applaud when we narrow it down to this room, this lounge!”
Hearing his cue, Dante stepped onstage and pulled a string that unfurled his handmade banner against the back wall.
WELCOME TO THE VILLAGE BLEND’S
SHOT DOWN LOUNGE
As the whole room laughed and clapped, Dante swept his hand over the banner like a game show host and a few females in the audience added wolf whistles.
