18
Life isn’t a fairy tale. If you lose a shoe at midnight, you’re drunk.
—MEME
We were still at the mall well past two when hunger hit. According to Osh, Reyes was going to keep an eye on Beep for a while. He wouldn’t get too close. Those were the rules. Our visits were very much like today: an orchestrated sting operation. We had to get in and out before anything—any supernatural being not working for us—noticed our presence.
By the time Uncle Bob took Amber and Cookie home, I had almost starved to death. I glanced around at the offerings. Mall food. I’d eaten worse.
After scoping out something that sounded only slightly less nutritious than a marshmallow cream puff, I sat down to eat. Uncle Bob sat down with me.
“I thought you were taking them home.”
“I was. Then I remembered we came in separate cars.”
“Want some?” I asked, scooting my delicacy closer to him.
“What is it?”
“No idea. It looked good.”
“Hmm.” He took a bite, then got to his point. “How are you doing?”
“Truth?” I asked, adding a hard edge to my voice.
He dropped his gaze. “Of course.”
“I’m in awe, Uncle Bob.”
His gaze drifted back up. “Awe?”
“Of you. What you did for me … I can’t ever repay you.”
“What I did for you?” The astonishment in his voice bordered on comical. “Charley, you’re special. I mean, I already knew that, and I know that you know that I already knew that, but … you are really special.”
“So are you.”
“No. Not like you. Not like … where did you come from?”
“Well, one night, my mommy and daddy decided to play doctor—”
“That’s not what I mean.” He only pretended to be gruff with me. “How did we end up with you? Of all the people on the planet.”
“Just lucky, I guess.”
“I’ll second that.” He took another bite, then glanced down at my stomach and asked, “But you’re good?”
I leaned forward and, just to make him as uncomfortable as humanly possible, kissed his cheek. “I’m better than good.” Not that I wasn’t worried about Eidolon, but Beep was safe, Amber’s stalker had been ferreted out, and I no longer had a knife in my stomach. That hurt so much worse than I thought it would.
“I’m glad,” he said. “Are you going to finish that?”
I pulled it back. “Yes. Go get your own.” I pointed out where I got the mystery meal just as my phone rang.
“Be right back,” he said, excited.
Shattered screen or not, I didn’t recognize the number, so I refrained from answering with, “Charley’s House of Hot Pickles,” and just said hello. It was so boring, I almost fell asleep.
“Charley Davidson?”
Damn. What bill did I forget to pay? I was so bad at the whole bill-paying thing.
“You are going to drive to the Giant on Fourth and Vineyard.”
“I am?” This person must’ve had ESP, because I didn’t even know I was going to drive to the Giant on Fourth and Vineyard. It was uncanny. And, frankly, a little out of my way.
“You are if you want to see your client Shawn Foster alive again. Come alone. Call the cops and he dies.”
The caller hung up, and I stared at my phone for a solid thirty seconds before dialing Shawn’s number. It rang a few times before voicemail picked it up.
“Shawn, if you get this, please call me.”
Just because they said they had Shawn didn’t mean they actually did. Granted, most people wouldn’t say something like that if it weren’t true, but how did I know it wasn’t Eidolon saying “Hi” again?
I wasn’t about to call Reyes back from his mission. Beep was our number one priority, and Shawn was my client, my responsibility, not his.
I put the phone away and schooled my features, contemplating the irony of someone calling and threatening me should I call the cops when I was in the process of having lunch with one. What were the odds?
Uncle Bob sat down with his own mystery meal.
“Who was that?”
I didn’t want to completely throw off my oblivious uncle. I might need him should things go south. Which, sadly, was often the case.
So, I’d give him a clue. If I ended up dead—a possibility Reyes swore impossible, but I remained far from convinced—Uncle Bob would know where to look for my body before it decayed too much.
“That was my hairdresser, Mrs. Foster.” I put my phone away. “Cookie knows her.”
He crinkled his brows as he chewed. “You call your hairdresser Mrs. Foster?”
“’Parently. I gotta head that way. I forgot I had an appointment.”
He nodded and took another bite. Poor guy.
“I wanted to thank you, Uncle Bob.”
He swallowed and leveled a curious stare on me. He was such a great guy. Even with the seventies style ’stache.
“You know, just for being you.” I leaned over and hugged him then left my trash on the table and hurried toward the exit, praying I’d see him—and his ’stache—again.