Page 105 of Crown of Lies

“You said my uncle, um… did he talk about me much?”

The question doesn’t technically have anything to do with why we’re here, but I couldn’t come all the way out here without asking. Especially since he was the one who brought it up in the first place.

Ambrose’s face breaks into a grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “All the time, kid. Wouldn’t shut up about you, actually. That’s how I knew it was you the moment I saw you.”

“Really?” I can’t help the warmth that spreads through my chest.

He nods, chuckling. “That, and the family resemblance. But mostly it was the hair.” He gestures to my teal locks. “Casey mentioned you’d started dyeing it a few years back. Said it made you look like some kinda punk mermaid.”

I burst out laughing, the sound echoing in the small room. “Punk mermaid? That’s so… Casey.”

“He was pretty proud of that one,” Ambrose says, his grin widening. “Kept saying how you were gonna take over the world with that hair. Said it was like a beacon, drawing all sorts of interesting folks to you.”

I shake my head, a bittersweet smile tugging at my lips. It’s so easy to picture Uncle Casey saying that, his eyes twinkling with mischief. He always had a way of making me feel special, like I really could conquer the world if I wanted to.

“He also mentioned how you’d use it to your advantage,” Ambrose continues, leaning back in his chair. “Said you’d charm your way out of trouble with that smile and those blue locks. Called you his little chameleon.”

The nickname hits me like a punch to the gut, bringing back a flood of memories. I remember Uncle Casey ruffling my hair, calling me his ‘little chameleon’ whenever I managed to talk my way out of a sticky situation.

“Yeah,” I say softly, my voice thick with emotion. “He used to call me that all the time.”

I lean back on the worn couch, feeling more comfortable than I expected, but also a little uneasy. It’s surreal, sitting here with a man who knew my uncle so well, swapping stories like we’re old friends.

“So, did Casey ever tell you about the time he tried to teach me how to pick locks?” I ask, a grin spreading across my face.

Ambrose chuckles, shaking his head. “Let me guess, you were a natural?”

“God, no,” I laugh. “I was terrible. Kept breaking the picks. Uncle Casey said I had ‘the grace of a drunk elephant.’”

We share a laugh, and for a moment, it’s like Uncle Casey is here with us, his presence filling the room with warmth and mischief.

But as the laughter fades, I feel the weight of why we’re really here settling back on my shoulders. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what comes next.

“Mr. Pearce,” I start, my voice growing serious. “I actually came here because I’m trying to find out more about myself and my family history. There’s a lot I don’t know, and I was hoping you might be able to help.”

Ambrose’s eyebrows furrow, his expression turning cautious. “What kind of help?”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Did my uncle ever tell you anything about me or my dad that struck you as odd? Maybe something about a symbol?”

Ambrose’s face changes for a split second. It’s subtle, but I catch it—a flicker of recognition in his eyes, a slight tightening around his mouth. But just as quickly as it appears, it vanishes. He schools his features into a neutral expression, shaking his head.

“Can’t say I do, kid. Casey never mentioned anything like that to me.” His voice is steady, but I know what I saw, and I know the look of someone who has something to hide.

My heart is racing, but I’m trying to stay calm, to school my own features and tone. “Are you sure? It could’ve been something that seemed insignificant at the time, maybe. Something he might’ve casually mentioned?”

He shifts in his chair, his eyes darting away from mine. “Nah, nothing that comes to mind. Prison stories aren’t exactly filled with symbols and mysteries, you know?”

But I can’t shake the feeling that he’s holding back. I press on, desperation creeping into my voice. “Please, Mr. Pearce. Even the smallest little thing—anything could help.”

I’ve spent weeks now digging into my father’s past, chasing down every lead I could find. Old friends, enemies, bartenders, anyone I could think of who might have been willing to talk. But every time I think I’m getting close to something, the trail goes cold.

“Mr. Pearce, please,” I try again, hating how desperate I sound. I am desperate though, and I’m sure he’s already caught on to that fact. Still, probably best if I leave the topic of the symbol alone and just get back to Casey himself. “Anything you can remember about my uncle might help. Did he ever mention any old friends? Places he used to hang out?”

Ambrose shakes his head, his eyes avoiding mine. “I’m sorry, kid. Casey was pretty tight-lipped about his past. We mostly talked about the present, you know? Surviving day to day in the joint.”

I sigh and shake my head. The frustration is building inside me, threatening to bubble over. We came all this way, and for what? Another dead end?

“Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Pearce. I appreciate you talking with us.”

---