“Seriously, we’re not stalkers, and we’re not strangers. I spoke to Jonathan’s assistant myself. I just need to know why he didn’t show up at the event. Can you go get your parent?”
“No, I cannot go get my parent,” she says in a mocking tone. “Now get lost!”
But someone has appeared beside her, someone much taller, with long hair that’s blowing in the breeze. Unless Jonathan has made some big changes since he took his super serious author photo, it’s not him. Before I can further examine the figure, they both step away from the balcony and disappear.
“Bummer,” says Dane.
“No,” says Miguel firmly. “Nota bummer. Though that obviously wasn’t Jonathan, we have confirmation that he lives here. And whoever that was knows where he is—I can tell. Now we just need to convince her to get that adult to come out and speak with us.”
“We could throw rocks at the glass,” Dane volunteers. “That’s gonna get annoying real fast.”
“The number of suggestions you make that could result in jail time is astonishing.”
“Dude, I’m not the one trying to talk some kid into giving me info about her dad.”
“I was not trying to talk her into anything. Besides, I think we’d know if he had a child.”
“Not if it was asecret love child,” says Dane, his eyes wide.
They’re so busy bickering that they haven’t noticed the woman walking down the path that cuts through the pebbled lawn. I start circling Miguel to try to get him to lookup.
“One second, Harold,” he tellsme.
If he’s proof of evolution, I’m not sure the experiment worked.
“Hi there,” says the woman through the gate, and Miguel startles.
He whips around to face her. Then he stares…and stares. I’d say the cat’s got his tongue, but for the life of me, I don’t know what a cat would be doing in a human’s mouth. “Uh, hello,” he finally manages.
“Hello. May I ask who you are?” The woman’s voice sounds like a babbling brook. She’s—well, to be honest, she looks like a lot of the women who come into the bookstore, if taller than average. Loads of hair, mostly dark with lighter threads that catch the light. She’s wearing a long dress that’s the color of daffodils. Her glasses make her eyes big, like a lemur’s.
And I know, the way a dog just does, that she is a good person.
Miguel clears his throat. “I’m Miguel Rivera, the co-owner—er, the owner—of Lakeside Books, where JMB—Imean Jonathan—was supposed to do an event for us earlier this week.”
The woman sighs. “Oh, dear. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry he didn’t show?” asks Dane from behind Miguel. “Because so are our customers. And we’re here to demand a do-over. Oh, I work with Miguel. Obviously.”
“Do you know where he is?” Miguel asks her. “Like my colleague Dane just said, I only want to speak with him and explain what his absence has cost us, with the hopes that he’ll make things right. I haven’t been able to get ahold of him, which is why we’re here.” He cringes as he hears himself say this. “I swear, we’re really not stalkers.”
“Believe it or not, I didn’t get the impression you were,” says the woman pleasantly.
“Well, good,” he says, and this is the longest he’s made eye contact with someone other than me in eons. “I know it was Jonathan’s idea to come to the store in the first place, and I almost thought it was a prank, but hesaidhe would be there, and it was supposed to be the biggest event in Lakeside’s history. We were really counting on it for the income and to help people learn about our store and decide to buy their books there instead of online. And—” Miguel catches himself and looks at the woman. “I’m so sorry, I’m rambling. I didn’t even ask you your name.”
The woman, who has been calmly listening to him, flashes him a smile that Amelia would’ve described as dazzling. “I’m Fiona Foster,” she informs him, sticking her hand through the gate. He’s still staring, but he takes it and shakes it wordlessly as she adds, “Jonathan Middleton-Biggs’s sister.”
Eleven
Miguel drops her hand like it’s just burned his palm. “You’re—Jonathan’s sister?” he sputters.
The woman I now know to be Fiona is grinning like she swallowed something delicious. “You don’t recognize my voice?”
He shakes his head, bewildered.
“We spoke several times. I called you to set up the event, and then you called me the other day to see if I knew where he was.”
“Right. But I thought you were his…assistant?”
