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Then the door opened and Luna stepped through, peering around almost comedically. She was met by a total onslaught of greeting from the guys. The air was filled with cries of “Luna!” and “Lulu!” and “Loopy Loop!” amongst other nonsensical nicknames that I didn’t even remember the origins of.
Luna grinned and waved around, fist bumping each of them, then allowing herself to be pulled into a huddle of sweaty rock men. I hung back, letting her have her moment with them.
And the tension in the room had disappeared.
Luna
Iwas spending an increasing amount of time reading conspiracy theories online about Priscilla Lamb’s disappearance, hoping for some small clue that would unravel the whole thing for me, while listening to her entire discography of music in the background.
But I wasn’t really a detective. I was a writer, professionally, and a musician, as a hobbyist. I didn’t really know what I was looking for. A link to Emory Brock would have been the most helpful.
I investigated everyone she was known to associate with at that period of her life, and none of them had links to Emory either.
Due to this burning curiosity, I was still somewhat overworking myself, splitting my time evenly between Apollo and Sylvester.
Apollo’s sessions for his second memoir had become even more rambling and chaotic. Any attempts I made to steer the conversation were met with a monologue even less on the topic than his original rant, so I stopped asking questions.
I was worried he had sensed a change in my demeanor – that I was now more invested, somehow, in uncovering things about Apollo than I had been during our first book. Hopefully, if he had noticed that, he could chalk it up to the pressure of success following how well-received our first collaboration had been in the book charts.
During one such session, a long monologue comparing the various failings of his brothers, during which he was assigning ratings to various qualities of theirs – ‘ugliness’, ‘stupidness’, ‘boringness’ – in an effort to produce a ranking of which of the four of them was the worst, we were interrupted by a knock on the door.Praise whoever is at that door.
Apollo stood up, seeing who was there. This was odd, since he would usually lazily yell, “Come in!” and stay seated, barely paying attention to his visitor at all. I instinctively swiveled around to see who it could be.
Of course, it was Priscilla Lamb at the door. She was black and sequined, as usual, but this time in a jumpsuit that fitted tightly around her bust then flared out into the pant legs. Her black hair was artfully curled around her ears and shoulders. She smiled at Apollo, and then at me, with that iconic purple semi-circle of her mouth.
Apollo headed towards her, not looking at me. “Wait here for one moment. I just need to speak to my... visitor.”
Had he been about to say ‘mother’? Surely not... the tests came back negative.
Out loud, I made it sound like no big deal. “Sure, no worries.”
The door closed behind the two of them. Without really thinking about what I was doing, I stood up and crossed the room, taking my recording device with me. As quietly as possible, I opened the door an inch, so I could look and hopefully hear outside. I’d claim I was needing to use the ladies room if anyone caught me.
I spotted them both. They’d moved further down the hallway, and Apollo was facing away from me, but I could catch snatches of what they were saying. Maybe the recording device would be sensitive enough to pick up more than I could hear with my ears, if I could stay quiet and still. I stuck it out through the gap in the door, and listened as hard as I could.
Apollo sounded exasperated. “I don’t think that’s a good idea...Mother, you keep saying...shouldn’t make hasty decisions here...”
I couldn’t piece it together, exactly, but I’ddefinitelyheard the word ‘Mother’.
Priscilla laughed a lot, and threw her hair over her shoulders like she had in the old music videos of hers I’d been watching. “My darling boy...trust your Mother, hmm?...like the good old days...knows best, and I always do...”
Then Priscilla’s eyes strayed over her son’s shoulder to meet the one eye I was using to peer out through the door, and I felt an electric jolt of fear run through me. I quickly, quietly, closed the door and took my seat again, placing the recording device back on the table, wondering what it had heard.
I waited, convinced I was done for, until Apollo returned back.
He entered through the door, grumbling incoherently under his breath. His attention wasn’t on me at all, which was a good sign. He sat down heavily in his chair. “Apologies for the interruption. I find myself sadly not in the mood to continue with our memoir anymore today.”
I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t, so I stood up. “Um, that’s no problem. I hope everything’s alright... And we can reschedule for another day, no problemo.”
No problem. I was clearly nervous. I hoped he was distracted enough not to notice. I picked up the recording device, turned it off, and departed as quickly as I could. My pulse was racing and I was keen to make my rapid exit from the building, to the outside where I could breathe easily.
But as I was being escorted by a member of Apollo’s security, a hand reached out from a doorway and grasped my shoulder. I cried out a sound of surprise, something like,aaahh!The security guard and I spun around at the same time. Seeing who it was, the guard nodded and departed, leaving me at the end of one arm of Priscilla Lamb.
She retracted her right-hand claw, nails glittering purple and extended in the dim red light of the corridors. She smiled, that iconic smile again. It held no hint of malice, but it wouldn’t – it was her signature smile, perfected over decades of music. Apollo wasn’t the greatest actor, could never hide his moods when he was in them. But Priscilla, on the other hand, radiated artifice.
Then, with one of those purple fingernails, she beckoned to me, and backed off into the room behind her.
As if entranced, I followed.
