“—but I have some questions,” Goldie pressed on, fluttering her eyelashes with just enough theatricality to be charming. “And I have a feeling you’re the only one in this entire building who will give me a straight answer.”
Mr. Caracas gave a low chuckle, a sound so rare that a teenager playing a game on her phone in the corner looked up in shock.
“All right, Sparkles,” the old cryptid grunted, a genuine smile cracking his formidable facade. “Lay it on me.”
“Do you remember a Greymarket resident named Marlow Truckenham? From about thirty years ago?”
Caracas snorted, a dry, rustling sound. “How could I forget that pain in the ass? I try not to remember the short-timers,but he was memorable. Always poking. Always asking questions. Always digging too deep.”
He shifted, and the armchair let out a wheeze . “He wasn’t content to respect the way things were. He tried to shape them to fithim. The land, the building, the rules… he thought they were all just suggestions.”
Caracas shook his massive head. “Finally, the building had enough of it and shat him out. Trust me, no one was sad to see him go.”
Splice leaned forward. “What do you mean, itshat him out?”
Before Mr. Caracas could answer, Jessica Fletcher was back on screen, now looking thoughtfully at a lemon tart. The old cryptid’s attention snapped back to the television. “Off with you now,” he said, waving a dismissive claw.
Goldie rose, her smile undimmed. She leaned down and planted a quick, affectionate kiss on his leathery cheek. “Thank you, Mr. Caracas. I’ll bring you a new shell-shine charm tomorrow.”
“Bah!” he muttered, but his mouth twitched again. He gave her a gentle, half-hearted shove toward the door. “Don’t make me regret it.”
As the community room door clicked shut behind them, Splice let out a frustrated sigh. "That was entirely pointless."
"Are you kidding?" Goldie countered, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "That was a goldmine! Mr. Caracas remembers Truckenham. He said healways digging too deepand that the buildingshat him out.Those are clues, Splice! Big, weird, wonderfully cryptic clues!"
Splice’s analytical nature kicked in despite his frustration. “It was thirty years ago,” he mused, brow furrowing. “If Truckenham’s eviction aligned with another incident, we might be able to trace it—find out what changed. We should confirm the date.”
“Exactly!” Goldie’s grin was triumphant as she linked her arm through his and tugged him down the hallway. “You and I are going to figure this out.”
Splice glanced down at her, curiosity edging into genuine confusion. “You enjoy this? Chasing patterns through chaos?”
“Enjoy it?” She shot him a look of pure, unadulterated joy. “I live for it. It’s the best part! Finding the loose thread and pulling, just to see what unravels. It’s like a different kind of magic.”
She was so caught up in her enthusiasm that she almost walked past her own apartment door. He stopped, and she turned, fumbling for her keys with a triumphant jingle.
“Right. Home.”
She unlocked the door and gestured him inside with a grand, theatrical sweep of her arm.
His thoughts were interrupted by a demanding chirp. Oberon trotted into sight with an air of great importance. He wound himself once around Goldie’s ankles before making a beeline directly for Splice.
Splice instinctively stiffened, but then, against his better judgment, awkwardly crouched down. He reached out a hesitant hand and gave the cat a stiff, uncertain pat on the head. Oberon, in response, let out a rumbling purr and gave his hand a long, wet lick.
Splice shuddered, a full-body tremor of someone who had just touched something both delightful and deeply alien.
He looked up to find Goldie watching him, an expression of amusement lighting up her face. In her arms, Maeve was curled into a perfect crescent of fluffy orange judgment.
Flushing, Splice shot to his feet, wiping his damp hand on his trouser leg with a jerky, self-conscious motion. “It seemed only polite,” he offered.
A bright, lovely laugh escaped Goldie, a sound that filled the small apartment with warmth. Splice felt that now-familiar achein his heartwood and thought, with a startling clarity, that he would let the little furry terror lick his hand raw if it meant she would laugh like that again.
The thought was so foreign, so deeplyhisand not Mycor's, that the vines at his neck twitched. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure.
Maeve, having clearly had enough of this sentimental nonsense, let out a long, drawn-out meow of pure theatricality. She blinked slowly, then butted her head affectionately against Goldie’s chin, as if to say,yes, well, that’s quite enough of that. Pay attention to me now.
Goldie chuckled, scratching the cat under her chin. “Okay, okay, you’ve made your point.” She set the purring cat down and turned back to Splice. "Now, where were we?"
Chapter
