I think I’ve seen this cap before.
I think—Oh, no.
I school my expression fast. Heart thudding, I put my acting to good use, throwing a smile over my shoulder. “Okay, Grandpa, here’s the deal. You sit right there, read the newspaper, and I—magician extraordinaire—will make your hat reappear.”
“I leave here in thirty minutes.”
“That’s all I need.”
I turn smoothly. Calmy. Casually... and snag Trent from his laptop, yanking him into the hallway.
A brief flicker of surprise crosses his face, but he doesn’t fight me, just lets himself be dragged. I toe a pair of his shoes towards him and grab my sneakers.
“We have a problem,” I say.
He raises a brow but doesn’t break stride.
I shove my foot into one shoe. “I sort of know where Grandpa’s hat is.”
“Sort of know?”
“He told me not to put the donation bags there. Made me promise his coats wouldn’t end up in them.” I wince. “His cap must’ve fallen off the hook.”
Trent stills for a second. Just a second. Then snaps on his shoes. “We’ll find it at Moana’s stall?”
“One of her three friends’ stalls.”
From the lounge, Grandpa calls out. “I’m hard of seeing. Not hard of hearing.”
I shove my heel into my second shoe and we bolt for the door, Trent already a step ahead. As I flee, I call back, “Thirty minutes, Grandpa. You agreed!”
Newtown is literally two streets away; Trent and I get into the thick of the festival in under five minutes. Unfortunately, in my haste, I left my phone behind.
Which means I don’t have Moana’s number.
Which means, I have no idea where her bookclubbers’ stalls are.
Trent throws me an exhausted look that’s also just a bit amused as he slips on his ever-present sunglasses. “Greatest hat detective to ever live.”
“Look for second-hand stuff. Anything vintagey.”
I take the lead past stalls of gorgeous hand-crafted stuff—oils, cheeses, nuts, teas. Floral soaps, balms, jewellery.
And then, divine luck.
Racks of vintage dresses, suits, and there!
A table of neatly folded clothes. A denim hat.
I pound towards it and snatch it up in one triumphant swoop.
A thrill zips through me. Got it!
Then, in the same heartbeat, a gut-sinking realisation.
There’s resistance. There’s a shape underneath. The hat is rising.
The hat turns and a glare burns into me. The old man clutches his hat like a most prized possession, voice gravelly with outrage.
