Aidan took off his headphones and rubbed his temples, looking tense even here, among family and friends, goofing off.
Not a good sign, Ree thought. Time for a Spanglishvention.
“Hang in there, kid,” she said in Spanish. Not her normal “I grew up speaking this with my dad” Puerto Rican Spanish, but “horribly pronounced if grammatically correct” Spanish, with an accent that sounded like it came from a Valley kid drunk on cheap tequila.
Aidan perked up and responded in equally bad Spanish, “I am not Hang in There Kitty.”
Ree cracked a smile, which Aidan matched. She ruffled his hair, and he brushed her hand off, scrunching up his face in mock annoyance.
“Whichever way the universe goes, you’re going to do great,” Bryan said from behind the counter.
Aidan nodded at his dad and went back to his laptop.
• • •
At 3:30 PM, Ree finished up her shift, hugged Aidan on her way out, and headed home.
If I’m going to try this and something explodes, it should be my something, not Bryan’s, Ree thought. There was also the whole magic-in-public thing.
Ree returned to The Shithole, made sure Sandra hadn’t randomly come home for an unknown reason, then set to work.
She had done as much research on the local suicides as she could during downtime at work, reading the news articles and chasing some of the chatter across social media sites from impromptu digital memorials that the girls’ friends had put up and set to public. It was an intriguing puzzle, with seemingly no connection between the victims other than their romantic circumstances. That’d be one hell of a specific serial killer, assuming there was malicious intent. Ree had no idea what magic could or couldn’t do to people’s minds. It was disturbing, the same kind of disturbing that led Ree to stay up too late at night watching horror movies.
Setting her mind to the task, she changed into one of her “I am serious screenwriter” outfits. This one was a charcoal pantsuit with two buttons, a hint of extended shoulder, and an orange silk blouse. With that, she should be able to pass for a young and casual Someone Important.
Next she pulled the first series DVDs for the BBC Sherlock down from its shelf and popped it in.
All right, so I need to focus, internalize the awesome. But is it about the character or the show? The writing or the feeling?
Probably the feeling, she decided, hoping she wasn’t about to explode thousands of dollars of tech.
Ree smirked internally at how crazy it all was. But as much as it was crazy, it was also exciting. Magic. Real magic. And monsters and superpowers. She shook out the nervousness and queued up the first episode, “A Study in Pink.”
As she watched, Ree dialed in to Benedict Cumberbatch’s Sherlock Holmes, his mannerisms and speech; as she did so, she couldn’t help but smile again at the great shot composition and use of the soundtrack.
She’d just finished the scene where Sherlock uses his deduction-fu on the woman with the pink coat when the doorbell rang.
Damnit, don’t lose focus. If she had to start over, she’d lose time, maybe miss something.
Ree went to the door, still watching the show out of the corner of her eye, with the intention of brushing the visitor off. She peeped through the eyehole and saw the building’s superintendent. She opened the door a quarter of the way, leaning against the wall.
As her eyes scanned the super up and down, her mind went into overdrive, a buzzing in her mind driving her thoughts.
She looked down, and superimposed text popped in over his feet, the same font as in Sherlock.
It read: Left leg .5 inches shorter than right.
Her eyes scanned up the man’s leg to a patch of exposed skin where his stained shirt failed to cover his side.
A line of text popped up over his waist: Surgical scar above the left hip.
She noticed a metallic flash from a coin on a chain tied to his belt. 24th Infantry Division Challenge Coin.
Holy crap, it’s working! Ree thought as her mind raced.
She looked up to the man’s shoulders, then saw more text: Right shoulder displaced. Improperly healed.
Then she looked him in the face. Sun damage. Crow’s-feet. Wrinkles.
As the super opened his mouth to speak, Ree jumped the gun, saluting her super. “You never told me you had a Bronze Star, Sergeant.”
The superintendent took a step back, crossed his arms. “Excuse me?”
Ree continued without thinking, agape at what she was doing, her mind on Sherlock overdrive, jumping from fact to inference faster than she could keep track.
“Your left leg is half an inch shorter than your right. There’s a surgical scar on your hip, suggesting extensive reconstructive surgery. You never wear shorts, even during the hottest parts of the year, because you’re self-conscious about your prosthetic leg. The displaced shoulder indicates that you pushed a squadmate out of the way of something, I’m assuming a vehicle. Maybe during military action. More likely during an accident. You took the brunt of the damage along your left leg, hence the prosthetic. But you also displaced your shoulder when you landed, thrown by the vehicle. The sun damage on your face but not your waist suggests you were exposed to extensive UV radiation that, combined with the age suggested by your crow’s-feet and facial wrinkling, indicates that you could have received the injury only in Desert Storm. Casualties were rare in that action, but accidents can happen anytime.”
The superintendent rocked back on his heels, his eyes wide. Ree wanted to stop, but the words kept flowing. “And any soldier who saves one of their squadmates would receive not only the Purple Heart but a Bronze Star, likely with a Valor Device. That heroic act and the two tours it would take to have sun damage that extensive indicates you would have left the service as at least a sergeant. Had you achieved higher rank, it’s unlikely that you would become only a superintendent, though that could be due to the injuries. I’ve heard there have been great advances in artificial legs since then, but I imagine you’d have them by now. Troubles with the VA, perhaps? A shame.”
Both thrilled and somewhat shocked at the frankness of how she was addressing the man, who could have her evicted from their beloved Shithole for any one of the many, many stupid things she and Sandra had done over the years, Ree continued, “Regardless. Your service and your sacrifice make you a war hero. So I thank you, sir.”
Ree extended her hand to shake without thinking about it.
Her super stood speechless. He did not meet her hand, instead wiping his on his pants leg.
Ree marveled at the twisty road of deduction she’d sprinted along. But in showing off that skill, she’d embarrassed the super and created a big bucket of awkward.
The show still ran, off to her right, as she regarded the clearly uncomfortable super. “What can I do for you?” she asked, conscious of each word to make sure she said what she wanted, not what the Sherlock mojo would have her say.
The superintendent took a second, then said, “I just wanted to tell you that we’ll have to shut off the water in a half hour so we can fix the water main.”
Ree nodded, and the super, whose name she couldn’t remember for all the Geekomancy in the world, took a step back and walked down the hall.
Another set of Sherlock text popped up as he walked.
Right leg stride length 22"
Left leg stride length 20.5"
Wow, Ree thought. It really works. I wonder what else I can do.
Thinking back, she realized the little details had been there all along—the coin, the stride—but she’d never considered them much, and she’d never known how to identify challenge coins by sight.
Ree closed the door and turned back to the television. Her vision focused on the DVD wall, and as she read titles on the boxes, the possibilities popped up in her vision, the text layering like a typewriter wound back to write and rewrite over the same page hundreds of times.
Superstrength. Wire-fu. Romantic serendipity. Cartoon invulnerabil
ity. Organic web-shooters. Superskill Intersect. Eidetic memory.
Ree closed her eyes and shut out the text before it overwhelmed her.
I really hope this gets easier, she thought as her mind continued to race.
She took in another breath, trying to hold back whatever part of her that was the rampaging intellect on a Sherlock binge.
Right. Time to go play girl detective before I lose this. And try not to freak out everyone I come across between now and then.
• • •
The winds were gentle, so Ree decided to walk the couple of miles to the Moorelys’ house. Listening to Massive Attack on the way, she tried not to look too long at any one person so as to avoid the creepily accurate Sherlock-read until she needed it.
A half hour later, she reached the 4700 block of Washington and saw the squad car parked outside.
Bloody hell, there’s already someone here.
The psychic paper should get her in, but would it convince a detective or patrolman not to ask her questions she couldn’t answer? Ree had taken only a couple of criminal justice classes, more to help with her writing than for real use. She could wait until the car left, but how long would that be?
Almost certainly longer than she could hold Sherlock in her head without getting an aneurysm.
Affecting her best official-person look, she walked up the steps to the front door. She knocked three times, holding the psychic paper in her hands and repeating in her head, I belong here. I belong here. I belong here.
A middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair answered the door. He had bags beneath his eyes larger than what you’d expect to see in a Long Island housewife’s arms the Saturday before Christmas.
“Hello?” he asked.
Ree held up the paper and said, “Agent Reyes, FBI. Are you Victor Moorely?”
“Yes. May I help you?”
“I’m here to ask some questions for our profile on your daughter, Mr. Moorely.”
“Why is the FBI involved?”
And now the B.S. skills. Here goes nothing.
“The FBI is taking a direct interest in the national teen suicide rate, and we have task forces established across the country. May I come in?”
It sounded better than she’d expected.
“Please.” He stepped back and opened the door, ushering her inside.
The interior of the house was pleasantly decorated, but there was a pall of sadness and neglect. Moorely pulled out a chair for her from their dining table, and they both took a seat.
“First, I’m very sorry for your loss,” she said.
Moorely nodded, clearly trying to find a small smile to utter his thanks.
“Do you mind if I ask a few questions?”
He nodded again, though a twinge of pain hit his face as he realized what was coming. How many times had he already answered A Few Questions? Had the media been here? How many outlets? His story would be rehearsed by now, for better or worse—in Lie to Me, Timothy Roth had told her that rehearsing a story made it more rote, but there would still be indications of deceit, if she could pick them out. Maybe she should have watched Lie to Me to prepare instead of Sherlock.
“Mr. Moorely, how long had your daughter been seeing William Smith?”
“They had been going out for about four months—they met through a local stage company.”
“Angela was a singer, yes?”
Moorely smiled, then half-choked, half-sobbed. He took a breath and said, “Since before she could walk.”
“Can you tell me what you think happened last night?” Ree had to fight the urge to step back and watch herself in the role. It was an insane cocktail: empathy for the Moorelys, curiosity, fear, and the strange detachedness of the Sherlock Brain—not to mention the niggling claws of her own relationship anxieties trying to personalize everything.
“William came over at seven, and we had dinner—Angela, William, my wife, Alexandra, and I. At about eight, they went upstairs to talk. William left at nine, and at nine-fifteen, we heard sobbing from upstairs, so Alex went up to check on Angela.”
“Is your wife home now?” Ree asked.
He shook his head. “She’s in the middle of a case and couldn’t get any of the junior counsel to take over. She should be back by six.”
There went the afternoon. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll wait to speak with her as well. Sorry to have interrupted. What can you tell me about William?”
Victor Moorely sat back in the chair, a mix of anger and friendliness passing over his face. “He’s a good kid—he gets good grades, he’s funny. I was excited for Angela, thought maybe she’d been one of the lucky ones to meet a good guy so early. My wife and I didn’t meet until we were in our late twenties.”
Ree nodded. She’d need to talk to William as well. Sigh. This was going to become a full-time job, and all for what? The chance to LARP her favorite TV shows?
“Have you spoken with William since the dinner?” she asked.
“Alex called him after . . .” Instead of finishing his thought, the man broke down in a fit of sobs.
Crap. Moorely hunched forward, looking down. She waited a few moments before trying to probe again, but he just sat there, folded over himself. Ree sat up as straight as she could, armoring herself with the role of the FBI agent, immune to the raw human emotion of a man broken by grief.
“Mr. Moorely, are you all right?”
He made another short choking sound, then breathed deep. He sat up and wiped his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
The investigative questions had come easily, popping up in her mind like she was being fed a script. This time the words were her own. “No need to apologize. It’s the only sane thing to do.” He nodded, so she continued. “Can I see her room?”
Probably eager to do anything other than talk, the bedraggled man stood and led her upstairs to a room decorated in posters and signs that read Parents Keep Out and Twihards Only. Ree opened the door and took in the room all at once, like a panorama photo in 1080p plastered in her mind as she unleashed the Sherlock Brain.
Slightly messy. Pastel colors. Layers of blankets and colorful sheets on a simple wooden bed frame. White faux-wood desk with shelves built in. A flat-panel screen and desktop below. Speakers flanking the screen.
The pop-up text returned: Average media consumption.
Small TV on a dresser. Guitar in the corner on a stand. Posters of sparkling vampires, androgynous boys, and famous divas lined the walls in equal proportions.
Sexually inexperienced.
Everything was as it should be for a normal teenage girl.
Except for, that is, the bloodstain on the floor beside the bed. It was two feet wide, slightly oval-shaped.
For a moment, Ree saw Angela’s body on the ground, in photo-realistic detail, the blood pooling beneath.
Ree closed her eyes, forcing the sight out of her mind. She opened them again, and the body was gone.
Died here. Wasn’t moved, popped up in Sherlock text.
Ree scanned the room for another few seconds, taking in data. Nothing was relevant.
No signs of struggle.
More Sherlock text: No secondary pool from a bloodied weapon.
Ree returned to her own thought processes, holding back the Sherlock Brain.
Where was the weapon? How quickly had the parents found her—what had she done that would let her bleed out without anyone hearing? Eastwood had said there was a trace of magic on the death, but what kind, to what effect?
She was floundering in deep water here. She felt her Sherlock-ness receding, and looked around the room one more time, her eyes passing over a silver locket she hadn’t noted as relevant before. A bit of text popped into shape above the dresser, reading Locket, fading out as soon as it appeared.
Ree gave the locket a once-over. It contained an old picture of a woman who could have been Angela’s mother or grandmother. Ree briefly searched for connections, then filed the image away for later.
With the
Sherlock Brain gone, she was left with exhaustion and the sense of needing to smoke. Which, since she hadn’t smoked since college, she blamed on the detective. Use the effects, get the needs. Made sense, if in a disturbing way.
Eastwood damn well better teach her every single trick and give her a pony for this.
She stepped around the room, taking extra care to avoid the stain on the carpet. Moorely stayed at the door, like he couldn’t bring himself to cross the threshold.
With all the magic gone, Ree was left on her own. Pulling the door partly closed, she tried to assemble her thoughts, figure out how to put the pieces together.
What did she need? Emails and other online messages, maybe lists of friends to talk to for a third-party perspective.
Ree opened the door a crack, seeing Mr. Moorely standing outside, his eyes unfocused.
“If possible, I’d like to get access to her computer, check to see if there were some hidden factors.” Hidden factors? The hell was that? This is going to fall apart fast without the magic. Less talking, more snooping.
Moorely didn’t respond at first, so Ree opened the door all the way, blocking the blood as best as she could with her body, and stepped out into the hall.
That broke him out of whatever reverie had been holding him. He shook his head, then nodded. “Sure. Her passwords probably have something to do with Justin Bieber, or maybe Tyra Banks.”
Ree nodded and opened the bedroom door again. “I’ll work here until your wife arrives. Thank you for your help, Mr. Moorely.”
She closed the door, sealing herself in again. Ree heard steps in a slow descent. A shiver ran over her body at the thought of losing a child. She didn’t even want kids, but the idea of losing them was far worse. To have the ghost of a person who was part you, part the person you love, haunting you for the rest of your life.
Shit. Ghosts. Were they real, too? Was Angela’s spectre hanging around in the room? Ree looked over her shoulder, realizing that while she didn’t have a clue about how to deal with spirits, she still didn’t want to be surprised by one.
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