Icy wind. Unreal eyes. A dollar bill.
I wish I could be the next Anna Matthews protagonist.
Your wish is my gift.
Did you hear she’s finally writing a new book?
No.
No.Right? Of course not.
Fedora Guy is a guy who wears fedoras and pretends to grant wishes and that’s all. And even if he and his weirdo swirling eyes had some impossible power, I was only joking. It doesn’t count. It couldn’t.
“Tell you what,” says Jack. He reaches for the phone still clutched in my hand, and in my daze I let him take it. “I’m going to put my number in here. Sleep on it and let me know if you want to meet back here tomorrow night. Eight o’clock good?”
I can’t speak or move. Not while he taps through my phone, the dim glow of the screen playing against his face. Not when he hands it back, holding it in the air between us for a good five seconds. And not when he laughs at my unresponsiveness, takes my hand in his, and physically folds my fingers back around the phone.
Is waking sleep paralysis a thing? If so, I have it.
He raises his eyebrows at me, waiting for a response.
“Okay,” I say, aiming for chill and noncommittal and sounding instead like I’ve just swallowed several butterflies.
His hand is still on mine, closed around my phone. My pulse must be bruising his palm.
“Either way,” he says, his eyes fixed on mine, “it was really nice meeting you.”
Really nice.The way he says it makes it sound like it’s not just an overused platitude. Like he’s the first person to ever say it.
“Uh-huh,” I say, unable to firmly focus on anything but the sure grip of his fingers around mine.
He lingers there just long enough for me to almost get comfortable and then pulls away, leaving my hand cold and suspended stupidly in midair.
“Good night, Roxie,” he says, grinning as he backs away and turns to go back to wherever he came from. I think I wish him a good night in return, but it’s just as possible I only think it while staring at his retreating figure with cartoon spiral eyes.
When I come to and turn toward the T station, a singular purpose surges through me.
Tomorrow, I’m finding that goddamn Fedora Guy.
CHAPTER THREE
Walking through Boston on any given day, you’re likely to run into a number of vibrant street personalities—performers, panhandlers, educators, or any combination of the three. There’s the guy who improvises little songs about the passersby who tip him. The redcoat reenactor who patrols the Freedom Trail with a scowl and a terrible British accent. Or Geoff Potts and the Nobody Else, an exuberant one-man band who plays about sixty instruments at once.
Finding one of these notable figures on purpose, though, is a challenge. Especially when I only have a thirty-minute lunch break and an eerie, hazy memory to go on. There’s no one by the doorway where I met Fedora Guy and no sign of him on the street. Not a single person nearby has more than one hat.
I make my way to the Public Garden, a hot spot for tourists and buskers alike. No luck. The normally bustling pathways are quiet today, not an entertainer in sight. Just a chic older woman with a blond updo and a bored expression, sitting by the footbridge atop a vintage-looking suitcase. I’m about to pass her when I catch sight of the gleaming cowbell she holds in one perfectly manicured hand and a crystal dish filled with coins beside her. Another street performer, it would seem.
I don’t know if there’s some kind of professional network for these people or if they’re bitter rivals who dare not speak each other’s names, but I’m about to find out.
“Excuse me,” I say, approaching the fancy woman. She doesn’t acknowledge me. “This is a long shot, but I’m looking for someone who grants wishes—”
“Aren’t we all,” she says in a monotone Slavic accent.
“No, someone specific,” I clarify. “I ran into him down the street the other day. Fedora, long beard, weird eyes. By any chance have you seen him?”
She sighs. “Them.”
“Sorry?”
