“You heard me.”
“Holy shit, this is huge. Huuuuge. Artina, Artina!” he yells. “Get back on site. I have a guy on the phone saying Declan Crossbow is buried under the rubble.” I hear a scratching noise, and then: “Give it back!”
“Sir?” A woman comes on the line.
“I’m still here.” I check my watch.
“Sir, you said Declan Crossbow is under the rubble, and they’re getting him out?”
“That’s correct.”
“I just got back from the news conference held by the chief of police who said only one woman was under there and they rescued her. The search stopped.”
“Mmhm.”
“You’re saying Declan Crossbow was left under there. How do you know this?”
“Because he’s my brother.”
There’s a long pause. I look at the screen before I prompt her. “Hello?”
“Hi, yes, I’m still here. Sorry. Am I speaking with Connor Crossbow?”
“Mmhm.” A jolt of excitement pings me, and I recognize the dopamine hit I got from pretending to be my brother for a change. I can see why Connor likes the twin swap. “Okay, I’ll tell you the details. Grab a pen.”
“I’ve got my pen, Connor.”
The way she says Connor, in a low, inviting bedroom voice, makes me think the real Connor would’ve purred at her. But I’m not interested, so I don’t reciprocate the vibes. “The chief of police is working with Ivan Holloway to take over the Crossbow empire. They caused the explosion that almost killed an innocent woman, Dina Ferrar, and my brother, Declan. The chief and Ivan want to draw me out so they can kill me. If you give me an eye in the sky when they pull my brother out, I’ll give you an exclusive.” Connor loves interviews. He’ll say all the crazy shit going through his mind and scare everyone from ever looking at us wrong again.
“Connor,” she says, and I imagine she might come inside her panties from the promise of the interview. This could skyrockether journalistic career. “Every chopper we have, and all our staff will be on the site. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes, there is. I need to send a message to the Tavalans who live outside Selnoa.”
“What do you want to tell them?”
“This is the moment you’ve been waiting for.”
“That’s it?”
I hang up. That took longer than I anticipated. I check my watch, then look around for a place with a TV. I spot a bakery and park in front of it. Inside, an older couple sit at a table with a gray tablecloth and a single blue daisy in a white vase.
The choppers fly over us: Artina sending her troops.
The bell above the door chimes as I walk inside. The smell of fresh-baked bread and cinnamon hits my belly, but instead of salivating, the smell brings up more bile.
The older man, tall and wearing a plain white T-shirt, rises and walks behind the counter. He puts on an apron. “You must be working the ruckus over there.”
“Just about to start my shift,” I say. “I’ll take a sandwich. Ham and cheese.”
“Mustard?”
My uncle Endo drowns his sandwiches in mustard. “Plain is fine.”
While the man makes me a sandwich, the woman flips through the channels on the wall-mounted TV. She lands on Channel Seven.
Artina rushed back onto the scene. She appears to be in her late twenties, with long brown hair and brown eyes. She wears a red suit and a blue scarf, and her lips are painted red. A pretty woman who captures attention on the screen.
Good. People will pause to listen.
