“Library.” Tink picks up Wendy’s card from where it’s sitting on top of the books and looks at it. “Good thinking.” He stares at it a moment longer, then glances up at me. “That was nice of you, I mean. For her.”
I nod. “Yeah, no problem.”
And for some reason, someweirdreason, I feel my face get hot.
I guess I’m just glad Tink thinks that.
That I’m nice.
Is all.
CHAPTER 19
TINK
Wendy Darling.
I have a name. A full name. An honest-to-God government name.
I try not to jog back to my room so I can grab my phone. Pan might be confident that shoring up the usual suspects for his house game is going to get us what we need to know about Wendy’s family, but I’m…less certain, let’s say. The thing about the kind of guys—and it is mostly guys, unless one of them brings their old lady—who show up to underground poker games is that they’ve probably been kicked out of the legit card rooms for a reason, and that reason isn’t going to be “being too honest.”
And the more I think about it, the more that poking around Mike and JD’s stories at all feels like a bad idea. If people know what happened to them—and the odds of that seem high, given what happened to both themandtheir house—then asking too many questions, or even any questions at all, feels risky.
But a name, something I canGoogle…
This is perfect.
Fox, I could kiss you, I think as I flop into my bed and grab my phone from by my pillow. I mean, not actually. And I’m surefinding out her last name wasn’t his plan—although him taking Wendy on a library trip is admittedly sweet—but still.
I roll into my stomach and swipe my phone unlocked. Of course, I’d already tried searching up what I could. I’d looked up news articles after the fire, but they were bare-bones, to say the least—two unidentified victims, fire marshal still investigating the cause, neighbors never spoke to the residents and property deed registered to the LLC of some landlord who didn’t answer calls—and I hadn’t seen any updates since. Searching “Mike and JD” returned absolutely nothing useful. Same for “Mike JD London Valley,” “Mike JD Kensington” and every other combination of info I could string together. I threw Wendy’s name in there, too, just in case, but “Wendy London Valley” just got me targeted ads for two-for-one Frosties at the local franchise. I even opted in to Amber Alerts on my phone—nothing.
I swallow against my excitement, adrenaline spiking in my veins at the thought that I might be able to fix all of this. With my feet dangling off the edge of the bed, I bump the edge of my lock box—shoved halfway back under there to replace my period cup now thatthatnightmare is over—and, on impulse, I pull it back out, flick the numbers around, and lift the lid just enough to extract one of my girly cocktail cans. Fuck it, if I’m playing private eye, why not do it over a drink like an old-time movie?
Heel-kicking the lock box far back under the bed, I crack open my Rum Punch and dump the contents into a used—but clean—red Solo cup on my bedside table, then crumple the can, cross over to my window, and chuck it into the alley, aiming for the little patch of grass by the dumpster so that it doesn’t make a sound.Bullseye.I give myself a toast, slam the window shut and yank the roller shade, and return to my bed.
The sweet burn of sugared alcohol floods my tongue as I set down my cup and pick up my phone again. I chew my lip andthumb-type frantically, nothing but the glow of the screen in my room:Mike Darling JD Darling London Valley,search.The loading circle spins and spins and spins until finally,finallythe results pop down the screen.
I flick down to the first few, heart in my throat.
Loved this place’s openmike,darlingatmosphere for a coffee shop…
…darling London Valleylocation close to Marina shops and attractions…
Fucking stupid reviews. Why would that be what I want to see first? I scroll past, but the results break down pretty quickly from there, just grabbing random phrases from the terms and trying to string it together logically—fucking AI. What happened to normal Google?
I take another sip of my drink and try again, this time splitting out each brother’s name individually. No good: a bunch of rando LinkedIns, some Facebook profiles of guys the wrong age, wrong race, or wrong continent, and then more slop. “Michael Darling” does turn up an obituary listing at the top, which I tap on immediately, heart back to hammering—but it’s from 2007.
Goddammit. I blow out a breath, gulp nearly half of the remaining cocktail, and give it one last try:Wendy Darling,search.
The circle spins and spins and finally loads. But of course there’s nothing for her. No Amber Alerts I’d somehow missed—thank God. No secret Instagram profiles. Not even so much as a Roblox account.
“Rgh.” I make some wordless, frustrated sound and chuck my phone into my pillow. Then I follow it, and flop face down on the mattress in the dark. I lie there a moment, still in the quiet of my room. Usually, I love nights—privacy, seclusion—but right now, disappointment settles over me, heavier than I’d expected,swimming into my veins alongside the definite buzz I’ve now acquired.
After a moment, once it’s hard to breathe smashed into my phone and pillow, I roll back over and stare at the ceiling, my eyes adjusting somewhat to the dark. In hindsight, I don’t know why I thought this would get me more than I already have. My research skills begin and end with Google. I know enough not to leave myownpaper trail, online or otherwise, but that’s more like common sense. Not like I ran out of Gram’s with my freaking social security card tucked into my bra anyway.
But I don’t know what else to do. Pan won’t be any better than I am as a detective—obviously—and he thinks his poker game is going to tell us whatever we need, besides. Fox and Kit, I doubt it. The only one whomightbe able to turn anything up would be…
Blue.
