Page 43 of Bad Intentions

I shake my head. “Thank you.”

“Not a smoker or shy?”

“Not a smoker,” I reply.

“Get comfortable,” Rika says. “Help yourself to whatever you find in my fridge, if you want a beer or soda.”

“Pop,” Trevor corrects her, and I smile in approval.

Rika rolls her eyes. “Right. Pop. You and your Pennsylvania slang.”

I grab a Coke out of the fridge and study the illustrations that seem to be everywhere on the walls.

“Who did these?” I ask in amazement. The illustrations of fantasy creatures and humans with pointy ears are elaborate, some in color, others in ink, flawless and gorgeous.

“I did,” Rika says.

“For yourself? Is this your hobby?”

“It’s a gig. I’m a freelance illustrator. Sort of.”

“Sort of?” I slowly turn around, taking in the living room-slash-art studio.

“I do commissions. It’s not steady.”

“These are beautiful. Why don’t you do this full-time?”

“Why don’t you sing full-time?”

The answer startles me. Rika’s staring at me, with no bitterness but that now-familiar dare in her eyes, leaning back on her palms, her blue braids almost touching the floor.

Trevor takes a puff of his pen, squinting at me through the smoke.

The question slightly irritates me, but I dismiss it. Rika is right. We all have our reasons for not doing what everyone thinks we should do.

“So, Trevor,” I say to change the topic. “Rika tells me you are quite a sleuth.”

He presses his palm to his chest and bows to me.

In less than half an hour, I get to know the man who is a documentary lover, a canophilist, a mushroom hunter—“Edible,” he clarifies—a conspiracy theorist, a believer that microdosing is good for your brain, that the American government is a pack of Russian spies, that most of us can't think for ourselves because the AI algorithm already invaded our online life and predicted what it’ll make us years from now, and that ninety percent of Earth’s population won’t make it to 2050.

Hello, Trevor.

I finish my soda in the time it takes to hear Trevor’s brief résumé. I’m sure I don’t need to tell him mine, considering his investigation skills.

“So, Rika tells me,” he says on the inhale as he puffs on the vape pen, “you are in a bit of a pickle.”

“Not really.”

“Not really?” He talks slowly, like nothing surprises him. “A kidnapper lured you into a house where you found a kidnapped girl. The kidnapper is now missing, in hiding, and is probably very dangerous.”

Probably healing, I add silently. He might be hurt, but I can’t tell these two that I saw him being hit by a car.

“Right,” I confirm reluctantly.

Rika shifts gracefully, like a cat, refolding her crossed legs.

“You can share things with Trevor or ask him questions,” she say. “He’s cool. If anyone knows all the dirt on the locals, it’s him. He probably knows more about your family than you.”