As a private eye I used to go all pinstripes, sharp angles, and fedora, but I’ve shifted my approach. Maybe it’s my renewed sense of motherhood, maybe it was just time, but now my standard gear is blue jeans, black sneakers, and arugula-colored utility jacket with inner mesh lining that’s stylish and flexible enough for my needs.
And
with all the changes in E-Town lately—standard combustion engine and electric
cars slowly being converted into hover vehicles, a realm-wide Monorail coming
online, new android models being introduced—it’s difficult not to focus on your
appearance more than ever. It’s an element of your life you can control.
If
that’s the case with Wanda, then she’s gone to great lengths to advertise the kind
of woman she wants me to think she is. Her way of communicating that she wants
very much for me to take her seriously, that her daughter has legitimately run
away, but fears I’ll reject those claims because Wanda’s been rejected before
and can’t bear to be turned away again.
“But at
eighteen,” I say, “Darla’s legally an adult. So even if she’s missing, if her
whereabouts are unknown to you, technically… she’s not a runaway. Have you filed a police
report?”
Sitting
knees together, hands folded atop her purse, Wanda Fyne’s mind is swirling. She
has that look, as if she’s debating how much to share with me, and how she
should do it, afraid to say the words out loud, but desperate for help.
To the
side of us is a circular table with various files, receipts, maps, notepads,
holomessages, and new VR goggles. Behind Wanda is the door to my second-floor
office, my name stencilled in black letters on frosted glass: Angela
Hardwicke, Private Investigations.
“I,”
she finally says, her voice unsteady, “we… my husband and I, we’re… Darla’s
been…”
Wanda’s
holding her breath, her chest tight, to the point I’m afraid she might pass
out.
“When
was the last time you saw her?”
Through
pursed lips, she exhales. Though her makeup is impeccable, no amount of blush
can hide the weariness behind her eyes. “About three weeks ago.”
“Does
she live at home?”
“No,
I’m sorry. I should’ve said. She lives on campus.”
“Which
one?”
“The
Wrolen School of Celestial Design. She used to come home every week or so, but
lately…”
Celestial
design. Missing teen. Complicated from the start.
“I’m
sorry if this comes across the wrong way, Mrs. Fyne, but if I got paid for
every college kid—freshmen in particular—that didn’t call home on a regular
basis, I could afford my own galaxy cruiser. Does she travel throughout the
realm? College kids are big on road trips.”
Wanda
reaches into her purse for a tissue. She dabs at the corner of her left eye.
“No,” she says. “I don’t know. But her suitemate said she’s been on campus.”
“I’m
sorry,” I say, confused. “I thought you said she was missing.”
“She
is, Miss Hardwicke. In every way that matters. It’s just… you have no idea what
it’s like. Darla, she was such a… and now she’s…”
When
you’ve been halfway across the Cosmos and back, when you’ve seen the kinds of
chaos and existential madness that can befall... someone... anyone… even an
entire galaxy, ripping apart the fabric of time, space, and dimension, those
experiences are imprinted on your soul. And yet deciphering the mechanics of
the Universe is easy peasy lemon squeezy compared with the mystery of teenage
girls. I know. I used to be one.
“I
don’t know what you’re asking me, Mrs. Fyne. If Darla’s at school, there’s no
one to find.”
“It’s
not a missing person,” she clarifies. Dusty sunlight filters through drawn
window shades, crawling along the hardwood floor. “It’s a robbery. A theft. A
desecration.”
“What
theft?”
Wanda
Fyne comports herself, her eyes cold and hardened and brimming with a pain.
“Someone’s
stolen a piece of Darla’s soul. And I need you to get it back.”
Sounds like a good book.
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