“Thank you for the offer,” Ruby says. “Out of curiosity, what would you have done if I’d actually asked for motor oil?”
Cameo shrugs. “Called to the front for it.” They busy themselves with the electric kettle, and in short order come over with two steaming mugs, tea bag strings hanging over the sides, and place them down on the stump. They sit, and given Cameo’s height it looks like they’re sitting in a child’s chair.
And I realize this is the first time I’ve seen them in repose. It’s a different kind of intimacy to see someone in their pajamas. Even in my T-shirt and dirty jeans and boots with no socks, I suddenly feel overdressed.
But also, like I’m intruding, so I get to the point. “Dorothy Simms and Melody Fairbanks.”
They pick up their mug and take a tentative sip.
“You knew them?” I ask.
“Not well.”
“What can you tell me about them?”
“Hmm.” They make another go at the mug, so I pick up mine to take a sip. It’s too hot but I cradle it anyway because the warmth feels good on my hands. After a few moments of contemplation they say, “Simms spent a great deal of time here during the construction, and I know she consulted on this place a little, but her purview was mostly Einstein.” They raise an eyebrow. “What is this about?”
“Honestly, I don’t even know where to start, but as you can imagine”—I give a little wave to the rest of the hotel—“there’s a whole lot of nonsense going on right now. And I’m trying to put some pieces together. It’s just…weird, right? One goes missing, one goes Unstuck, both around the same time?”
“Always wondered about that.”
“Do you believe in coincidences?”
“They happen.” Cameo puts down their tea. “What exactly are you looking for?”
“I don’t know. Someone who knew them both. Any correspondence between them. Maybe material that didn’t make it into Simms’s book.”
Cameo shrugs. “Ask the husband.”
“Whose husband?”
“Simms. He’s the one who put together that book about her. I met him a few times while they were here and have spoken to him a few times since. He’s caring for her while she’s…” Cameo trails off, not wanting to say it. “You should give him a call, tell him I suggested it. And now”—they place down their mug—“there’s something else we need to discuss.”
Uh-oh.
They take a breath. “I heard about what you said to Mbaye. You understand that was both needlessly cruel and completely unfair, correct?”
“Look, I…”
Cameo puts up a hand. “I need to know you know that what you did was wrong.”
“Why?”
“Because if you can’t see that, you might be too far gone.”
“He was supposed to check the gas lines that day,” I say. “That day. What do you want me to say? I mean, do you know how hard this is? I am a five-minute tram ride away from a machine that’d let me go back in time and check it myself. To tell Mena not to go in the kitchen that day. Anything. But I can’t because of the goddamn rule I have dedicated my life to protecting. Every day it’s a struggle to not touch.”
Cameo leans forward. “Loss is an injury. Like any injury it triggers a pain response. And that pain can be overwhelming. But injuries are supposed to activate a healing response, too. That’s why loss hurts less over time, and one day it’s just a scar. The evidence of it never goes away, but the pain does. Unless it gets infected. And then it doesn’t heal.”
I take another sip of tea, filling my mouth with something other than the words I want to say.
“Grief is normal and healthy,” Cameo says. “But there’s something called ‘complicated grief.’ It’s when you lose the ability to think rationally. You might think the person is going to reappear…”
I grip the mug a little tighter at that one.
“…numbness, bitterness, lack of trust in others. What you need is some kind of professional help.” Cameo puts up their hand before I can open my mouth to protest. “And I get it, you’re a badass, you don’t need nobody, but the fact remains, the wound is infected. It’s not going to get better if you stay here.”
I take another sip. Put down the mug. Uncross my legs and stand.
“You and Reg ought to form a support group, since you’re so clearly obsessed with my shit,” I say. “We done here?”
Cameo slumps in the chair and sighs. “I guess so.”
“Thanks for the intel,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady, but not doing a great job. As I get closer to the door I turn again. “Ever hear anything about a secret room in this place?”
Cameo doesn’t look at me, just shakes their head, but whether it’s in defeat or to answer the question, I can’t tell. I open the door when Cameo says, “One other thing.”
I don’t turn around. “Yeah.”
“I checked the log and asked around. There aren’t any children staying here.”
“You sure?”
“Almost positive. Even if we missed it, with kids come requests for cots and chicken fingers and complaints from guests when they run around in the halls. There’s been none of that.”
I consider it for a moment, then say, “Someone screwed up.”
Though I don’t really believe it.
I step outside and leave the heavy feeling in Cameo’s room. Set my spine straight and march to the lobby, knowing that it won’t be long before I get another glimpse of Mena. Which is all I need. It’s all I ever need.
“What time is it?” I ask Ruby.
“Perhaps Cameo was right about…”
“What time is it?”
“Eight forty-seven.”
“See if you can raise the husband.”
* * *
—
I opt for the security office rather than my room. I check in with Nik, and he lets me know he’s working downstairs with the TEA crew that’ll be on rotation.
Ruby floats to the charging port and I’m considering whether I should call Allyn to check in, when the video screen pings me with an incoming call from Jason Simms in Utah. That was quick.
A stocky Black man with disheveled hair and a face covered in stubble appears on the screen. He’s a man who doesn’t sleep well and when he’s awake, he wishes he were sleeping. If he’s still burning a candle in the window, then this won’t be a pleasant phone call.
“Yes?” he asks. In the background I can make out a wide blue wall, the color similar to the carpets here.
“Mister Simms. My name is January Cole, and I’m the head of security at the Paradox.”
He nods. “Been awhile since I heard from anyone out in those parts. How’s Cameo?”
“Lovely, as always.” I consider asking how his wife is but it seems rude. And also I don’t want to know the details. Because knowing about her—and from the weight he’s carrying on his shoulders, the answer won’t be nice—it’s just going to give me a glimpse of my eventual future.