Page 136 of Mayhem and Minnie

“I used to be fine with it years ago,” she continues. “But I think it’s all this weird stuff they put in it. The GTFO one. It’s not natural.”

“What?”

“I’m quite sensitive to meat in general, but that’s because of my age and training level. Back home, I can only eat one type without feeling the side effects. In the past, I could eat the beef here, but with these GTFO stuff you humans put inside, I get quite ill if I have it too often.”

I still stare at her. My mother, too.

“Do you mean GMO?”

She stills. Then frowns.

“Genetically modified?” I offer.

“Oh, yes. That!” She nods. “I think that’s why I cannot eat the meat here.” She continues eating.

What the hell? I’m racking my brain as I try to make sense of her words when she puts down her fork. Her meal is only half finished.

She tips her chin up and tilts her head to the side, as if listening for something.

“I have to go,” she says as she suddenly stands up.

“Are you all right, dear?” my mother asks, concerned.

“Y-yes. I must go to the bathroom.” She smiles sweetly as she retreats and exits the room.

The door barely closes when my mother starts talking.

“Lovely girl, Marlowe. A bit odd, but I suppose it’s only fair when you’re so odd yourself. But she’s quite the beauty, isn’t she?”

“She is,” I grunt. My mind is still on her abrupt departure. It looked as if she had somewhere to go. But where?

“But her accent…” She frowns. “Where is she from? Her accent sounds rather…”

That gets my attention. I’ve wondered about her accent from the beginning, but I could not quite place it. At first, I thought it might be a Boston accent or thereabouts. Later, when the mystery of her background grew, I simply suspected she was faking a British accent to throw me off her trail—but she hadn’t done the best job mimicking it.

“Rather?”

“Mid-Atlantic,” my mother says. “But no one speaks like that these days.”

“Isn’t that the Old Hollywood accent?”

My mother nods.

“Maybe she liked it and taught herself how to speak it,” I mention with a shrug.

My mother looks at me with a glint in her eyes.

“You don’t know,” she states. “You don’t know where she’s from.”

My lips flatten. This is the last thing I want to discuss with her considering my own frustrations with Minnie’s identity.

“I know enough,” I grunt.

Of course, my mother doesn’t buy that. If anything, she’s probably thinking of ways to find out who Minnie is and why she’s close to me.

“Marlowe, darling. I like the girl, I really do. But don’t you think it’s rather premature to tell her all your secrets if you don’t know hers?”

It’s the mothering tone.

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