“You don’t like staying in one place, do you?”
“You don’t like people,” she shoots back, “and you don’t see me interrogating you about it.”
My mouth opens, ready to defend myself, maybe ask what happened to her that she avoids the word “stay,” but before I get the chance?—
“Morning, Mom,” Mila announces, appearing with a small, stuffed dog tucked under her arm like a furry loaf of bread.“It’s seven-ten.Can I come out of my bedroom now?”
“That’s not seven-thirty,” Mara says, not turning around.
“It’s close.”Mila turns to me.“Hi, Mr.Grump-Next-Door.”
“Morning, Mila.”
She squints at me like she’s trying to determine if I’m real.“Are you here for my next assignment?I need to interview someone important and write an essay.”
“I’m not important,” I tell her.
“What do you do for a living?”she fires back.
“I’m retired,” I say satisfied that this will be done and over with.
Her eyes widen.“Are you like a hundred years old?”
“No,” I say quickly.“I retired early.I live off my royalties.”
Mila gasps.“Are you a royal?”
I laugh despite myself—but it dies instantly when Mara snaps her fingers as recognition hits.“Of course.That’s why you look familiar.You’re Alec Horvath.The drummer from Dead Moth Parade.”
I press my lips together, because I honestly didn’t expect her to recognize me ...or to recognize me so late.I don’t know if I should be relieved or offended.
“You look better with short hair,” she adds, like she’s commenting on a weather forecast.
“You’re a drummer?”Mila demands.“Where are your drums?Do you practice here?Are you loud?Why don’t you drum now?What’s your favorite song to drum?Do you hit them hard?Do you have a band still?Do the drums have names?Do drummers name their drums?”
I blink.
Mara sighs.“Mila, sweetheart, breathe.”
“I am breathing,” she insists, deeply offended.“I just have questions.”
I’m starting to sweat.
Actual sweat.From a child with a stuffed dog under her arm and zero hesitation about interrogating a grown man.I’ve had reporters hound me, but this is the scariest.
“Thank you for the coffee,” I manage, my voice doing something humiliatingly close to cracking.“I ...I have to go.”
Mara bites her lip, trying—and failing—not to laugh.“Run fast before she catches you.”
She says it lightly, amused, but she also watches me with this sharp little glint in her eye—theI see youkind.
Which only makes me more flustered.
“I won’t chase him,” Mila declares, already taking a step closer.“I just need to know how he retired before you, Mom.Are you rich, Mr.Drummer?”
I take a full step back.
Mara presses a hand to her mouth, shoulders shaking.“Okay, Mila—pause.Give the man a five-minute grace period before you grill him about his life savings.”
