Page 4 of Again with Feeling

Cornhusker Dad asked—with misguided enthusiasm—“Is it Kiefer?”

“Dash?” Fox asked.

Keme sat up and glanced around, as though the threat he sensed might be physical.

“It’s Vivienne,” I said. “She’s calling collect.” And then, perhaps unnecessarily, I added, “From prison.”

“Don’t answer!” Millie shouted and then clapped a hand over her mouth.

Indira and Fox traded a look.

In my ear, the message was repeating itself now. I was distantly aware of a rushing sound in my head. Sweat had broken out across my back and under my arms. It took me a moment to recognize the bubble in my chest as panic, making it impossible for me to draw a full breath.

“I’m not sure it would be wise—” Indira began.

Definitely not wise, I thought. I’d moved to Hastings Rock to take a job with Vivienne; she’d been one of the best-selling mystery writers in the world, and on top of that, she’d solved a number of real-life murders. All of that, though, had been before she faked her own death and then tried to kill me.

So, why was she calling me now?

I wanted to know. And competing with the panic in my chest was an ember of anger, growing brighter and hotter as my shockfaded. Before I could second-guess myself, I pressed one, and the call clicked as it connected.

I was proud of myself, by the way. My voice came out rock steady. “Hello?”

There was the slightest pause. The connection, maybe. Or perhaps Vivienne had been surprised I’d accepted the call. “Good afternoon, Dashiell.”

“Just Dash,” I said. “What do you want?”

She laughed. “What a way to talk, Dashiell. No longer playing the part of the wide-eyed naïf, are we?”

“What do you want, Vivienne?”

“How are you liking Hemlock House?”

“It’s wonderful. It’s big and beautiful and full of complicated people and fraught relationships. It’s just like home. What do you want?”

“I want you to solve a murder.”

I burst out laughing. Fox’s eyes widened. Indira frowned. Keme looked at Millie, and Millie still had one hand over her mouth.

Until a moment later when she stage-whispered, “What does she want?”

Nebraska Mom, who was now busily wiping the baby’s face and hands, said, “Yeah, the rest of us can’t hear her.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said into the phone. “I don’t know what kind of trick you’re trying to pull, but I’m not interested. Goodbye—”

“No, please!”

The words were sharp, and they had a breathy, punched-out quality, as though they’d been wrenched from her against her will.

I told myself to disconnect.

Instead, I said, “Hold on.”

With a quick wave for the Last Picks, I made my way out of Fishermen’s Market. The pier was busy with families and buskers and vendors—Hastings Rock was at the height of its tourist season. Mrs. Palakiko, in her enormous sunglasses, was doing steady business at her shave ice stand, and it looked like Mr. Li had set up his vendor tent on the pier today instead of the boardwalk. A pair of blond ladies with matching headbands were holding up one of his bestselling tees—ROCK ON – HASTINGS ROCK—and seemed to be considering purchasing multiples in various colors. The breeze was steady, and farther down the pier, Mr. Tate was helping a little Black girl get her kite up.

I headed in their direction—not because I wanted to help with the kite, but because the crowd was thinner at the end of the pier, and the press of people was making my anxiety tick into the red. As I walked, I said, “Okay, what’s the punch line?”

“It’s not a joke, Dashiell—Dash. I’m quite serious. I’ve been wrongly accused, and I believe you’re the perfect person to prove I’m innocent.”

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