Page 19 of Sugar & Shadows

Attending the charming small-town bonfire last night had been pleasant, really. I’d been in DC for a long time. Long enough that I’d forgotten that small towns were filled with real people. Like Carrie Schwartz, my middle school English teacher, or Curtis, the mailman. I’d connected with at least a dozen people, each one eager to support me in winning back the festival.

Which I was fairly certain was impossible.

But achieving impossible outcomes was kind of my thing.

Ear buds in, I headed out on my morning power walk. I had a lot to do and needed support immediately.

“Yes?” Meg answered over what sounded like shouting. Before I could respond, there was static on the line. Then, “Jackson, get your damn shoes.” With a growl, she muttered, “You called during school drop off,” which I assumed was directed toward me.

“Sorry.” I winced. “But it’s urgent. I’ll DoorDash you the artisan donuts you like if you do something for me this morning.”

“Stop poking your brother in the eye.”

I frowned. “Sorry, what?”

Meghan Fuller had once been one of the NSA’s best hackers. Now, as a mother of a litter of feral small children in her mid-forties, she was semi-retired, but she was always up for a challenge, and she’d gotten me out of some serious jams over the years.

“Get in the van,” she instructed. After a moment full of scuffling feet and then the beeping sound of the door, she said, “Thank you for your generous order of Girl Scout cookies.”

“Thanks, Auntie Sabrina,” her daughter shouted in the background.

“Always happy to support the next generation of leaders,” I quipped.

I’d bought a thousand boxes and donated them to a couple of DC food pantries. This was the currency of our friendship. I bought cookies and used my connections to get Bluey episodes before they aired in the States, and Meg hacked into government servers when I asked.

While she drove to the school and the two of us made small talk, I walked along the cobblestone walkways downtown, passing charming storefronts and friendly townsfolk, taking in every detail—the signs, the planters, and every crack in the sidewalk.

“Okay.” She exhaled once the kids had exited the van. “Hit me, I’ve got three hours before I have to come back to pick up Blair at preschool, and Jackson’s got an orthodontist appointment later.”

“Do your kids know that their chauffeur is one of the most lethal and formidable hackers on the planet?” I asked.

“Fuck no.” She barked out a laugh. “You okay? Weathering the scandal? I promise I hid things well.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that Bitsy fucking Bramble had found some of it. “Yes,” I replied. “But I need help with something else. My hometown.”

“Mapleville?”

“Maplewood,” I corrected. “We’ve run into some trouble with tourism. Dealing with bullshit from the statehouse. I need a few records run.”

I rattled off the names of the people I wanted dirt on, the years of tax records I’d require, and a few legal records searches.

“Done,” she said, as if every detail of every request had been mentally noted. It probably had. She was sharp. “But are you okay?”

I eyed the nail salon ahead, formulating a plan. “No,” I said honestly. “But I will be.”

As I walked through the door, my suspicions were confirmed. The interior was hot pink with black and white photography on the walls and an LED sign that read bad bitches get beautiful.

Megan Thee Stallion blared from the speakers, and at the far side of the space was a glittery coffee bar anchored by an Italian espresso machine.

Between the massage chairs and tables and the loud chatter that defined feminine spaces, I loved the place already.

I waved hello as I stepped inside, notes of vanilla lotion, acetone, and espresso hitting my olfactory receptors.

The nail salon was the definition of efficient chaos. My natural setting. Not a thing was out of place, yet the establishment was warm and welcoming.

A young woman with pink-tipped hair looked up from the nails of the client across from her and gave me a wary glace.

“Monroe,” she said. “Welcome.” Despite the greeting, her tone was flat.