I straighten up and walk inside. What’s the worst that could happen?
I immediately run into a shelf, and one of the birds falls off.
I scream. The scritching stops. The lights suddenly switch on, and I'm staring at a wooden painted bird on the ground. I pick it up and look at it. It's intricately carved and beautifully painted.
Huh, maybe I’m still freaked out from yesterday.
Just below the ceiling light sits Mike, our landlord, looking furious. “Did you hurt Colby?”
I look behind me to see if I hurt someone, then notice the bird in my hand. “Oh, Colby! No, Colby is great.” I place it (him?) back on the shelf and walk up to Mike.
“I had some muffins left over that I thought I'd bring to you,” I say with the biggest smile on my face.
His anger drains out of him, and he smiles. His face transforms from a stern old man to a beloved grandpa. “I love muffins!”
I place the plate on his desk. “Perfect.” I pull a chair in front of his desk and sit down. “They’re blueberry,” I tell him, pushing the plate closer.
“That’s my favorite.” He picks one from the plate and takes a bite. He closes his eyes and hums. “It's delicious.”
I know, Mike, I know. But I still smile. “Thank you. So I was looking for the guy who lives in 8D. Any idea where he might be?” I mentally kick myself for my lack of tact.
Mike doesn't seem to mind. He's still chewing the muffin happily. “8D, that's Dalton Smith. Haven’t seen him aroundmuch. Pays rent on time. Weird man.” Ha, whatever you say, Mike I-Sit-in-the-Dark-Carving-Wooden-Birds-and-Give-Them-Last-Names. Beautiful carve job, though.
“You haven’t talked to him a lot?”
“No, I don’t need to know the personalities of the bank accounts that pay the rent.”
I lean back on the chair, thinking. “Do you have his number?” I ask, not even trying to be casual anymore. I immediately regret it.
Mike stops eating and looks at me. “Why do you need it?”
To ask him why he looked almost inhuman yesterday. I think Mike would chase me away with his bird army or lock me in here with them if I said that. “I had to pay him back some money I owed him.”
That's convincing. I pat myself on the back for thinking on my feet. Maybe I was made for this detective shit.
“Hm,” he says. “Well, his loss.” He goes back to eating the muffin.
Okay, maybe I spoke too soon. “So, do you?” I push.
He looks annoyed with the interruption. “Do I what?”
“Have his number?”
He looks guilty for a second before he schools his expression back to furious. “I’m not giving you his number.” He nods like he’s particularly satisfied with his answer. Definitely weird.
Looks like all my goodwill for bringing the muffins has already worn off. Alright then. “What did you say his last name was again?”
“Smith,” he says nicely enough. Maybe I can talk to his neighbors and look him up on social media. Full name plus last known address has to narrow the search down.
“Do you need anything else?” Mike’s rough voice brings me back to the eerie basement.
Clearly, I’ve overstayed my welcome. I take the hint and leave.
Done with my rookie investigating for the day, I get back to my work that pays the bills. I still need to prepare for the next season ofThe Pack.
I spend the rest of the day coming up with new pitches. Despite all the crazy drama, exaggerated plotlines, and mindbending lures, writing for the show is my dream job. I still can’t believe I’ve been doing it for almost a year, and I don't mind working over the weekend in the slightest.
A knock on the door is what finally stops my furious typing. When I look up, my neck complains, sore from my uncomfortable sitting position. Fuck, I need to get a proper desk already. Thinking it’s an all-you-can-eat buffet of complaints, my stomach decides to chime in and remind me I skipped lunch.
