Page 77 of The Game Is Afoot

“Should I even bother asking how you know that?” Another uncalled-for snort. But maybe he has a cold? Maybe he’s gulping down Robitussin and that’s why he’s not moving with a sense of urgency. “Please send me a screenshot of whatever it is, and we’ll look into it.”

“A screenshot? Don’t you want to go through my phone or something? And get the…data?”

“Sure. Feel free to bring it in and leave it for me at the front desk.”

His tone is flat again, just like it was when he answered, and I can tell he’s placating me. My time is up. “In the meantime, I’m going to ask you again, Ms. Miller, to please allow us to do our jobs here. Any interference is only going to make this harder for us. I’m going to look past all of your…excitement, but I can’t promise that I’ll be able to do the same in the future. Detective Berry definitely won’t.”

Basically,Let the people in charge handle things. We know best. And you should be grateful we’ve let you do the work you have.As he hangs up, I feel the same misery and building fury that I did with Project Window, with Principal Smith.What am I doing?

I drop down to my knees and let out a guttural sound, hoping it’ll release my tight chest and steady my speeding heart, but all the feelings remain.

I’ve been putting so much of my energy into this—instead of looking for a job, instead of paying attention to my boyfriend. Instead of self-caring! And what is it all for? Detective De La Rosa clearly thinks I’m, at best, a joke, and at worst, a liability. Why am I wasting my time? Why am I wasting my timeagain? Why do I keep doing this when literally no one is asking me to?

“It’s hit me, man. More than I thought it would.”

I jump at the sound of a man’s voice, faintly drifting from across the house—a voice that is not my dad’s, the only other person in here. But quickly I realize: those goddamn walkie-talkies…I need to just trash them at this point, for the heart attacks they keep giving me. I’m enough of a mess on my own.

“It’s made me think about my own mortality, what I would leave behind for Jasmine and Langston, what people will say about me.”

But no. I recognize that voice. It’s Leon. And it’s coming from my dad’s room. I think I know what this is.

“And also…I just really miss my friend. Playing golf on Sunday afternoons, grabbing a beer together afterward while he gives me shit about my bogeys. I keep thinking about how I didn’t know it was the last time. And how we’re not gonna get the chance to do it again.”

I arrive at Dad’s door in time to see him click his mouse to make the audio stop and reach his hand up to wipe something from his cheek. It makes me freeze, this display of emotion that I wasn’t expecting—from himorLeon. It makes me hit pause on my own. But then his smile is in place, like nothing’s the matter, when he spins around in his chair.

“Sorry. The sound wasn’t right in my headphones, and I needed to see if it was a problem with them, or the audio itself.”

“You don’t have to say sorry, Dad,” I say, taking a few more tentative steps into his room. “I didn’t—that was…that was different from what I expected. For your podcast. That’s your podcast, right?”

He waves me away. “Oh, let’s not get into that back-and-forth again. I wasn’t trying to scoop you with Leon, and you got the information you needed, now, didn’t you? I saw you talking to that park guy after.”

“Yeah, I did.” I sit down on the small leather couch that’s next to his desk setup. “But I’m not trying to complain about your podcast. Or talk about the case.” After that call with De La Rosa, and the anxiety I can feel waiting in the wings for its next performance, I kind of want to forget the whole thing exists.

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I actually talked to Mrs. Nelson earlier, and shecouldn’t stop singing your praises. She said you made her feel very understood, and, like, helped her figure out her next steps? She said your podcast was really insightful, and sensitive.”

“Well, of course it is!”

Now it’s my turn to arch my eyebrow at him.

“Okay, okay,” he mutters, palms up in defense. “Maybe I got slightly off track with this second case, but can you blame me? Having the whole thing go down right in front of me? But that’s the goal. I want to give people space to process, offer any help I can. The crime is second to the people.”

“Why, though? Why are you doing this when you could be watching TV or taking a nap or…literally anything else?” It comes out harsher than I intend, but that’s probably because I’m talking to myself, too—maybe even more than him.

Dad stands and walks over to his bed, picking up a gold-framed picture from the nightstand. I can see the picture vividly, even before he hands it to me, because I’ve stared at it for years, memorizing every little detail of my mom. She has deep brown skin like mine, tight curls shaped into a teeny-weeny afro, and well-worn lines around her eyes and mouth, earned from her easy smiles and laughs. I can hear that laugh now, saved in my memory from videos my dad would play, and it makes me want to cry but also laugh along, too. She’s holding me in her arms, wrapped in a yellow-striped blanket, and my dad has her in his arms, beaming proudly behind us.

“We used to dream about our second acts,” he says, beaming at her picture now. “We promised each other that we wouldn’t get all old and boring once we had a chance to wake up every morning and do exactly what we wanted to. Don’t get me wrong, she loved being a social worker, and I’m proud of my years in court—but that was also what we had to do, for a paycheck. We wanted to make the years that were just for ourselves count, anddo whatever made us feel most alive and happy. She was always joking that she didn’t care if we were doing it in diapers and dentures—we were gonna do what we wanted!” He laughs and then clears his throat. “Even when we knew she wasn’t going to make it, your mom still talked about her dreams for the future. She was an artist, I’ve shown you her sketchbooks, and she talked about learning how to sew up all the designs she had in there. She talked about making clothes and selling them, maybe creating a whole wardrobe for her grandbabies one day.”

A tear spills out, trickling down over his lips, which are still smiling at her. And my eyes water, too, at the idea of Pearl sporting Nana-made fashion. I always wish she was here for Pearl and for me, but I don’t think about it enough, how much it probably pains my dad every day, the loss of her. They had years together to dream up their lives, their futures, and I wonder if every milestone, every phase, without her feels like another loss.

“I wish you both got to live this second act, Dad.”

He sniffs. “Me too, Maves. Me too.”

“So Mom wanted to design clothes, and your thing was…you wanted to make podcasts?” It sounds so stilted it could be read as sarcastic, but luckily he just chuckles softly and pats my shoulder.

“No, I thought I might get back to my baseball roots, find a rec league, maybe do some coaching. But, you know, my knees.” He sits back down in his chair, and they pop, emphasizing his point. “It’s been fun, though, and surprisingly fulfilling, working on this podcast with Bert. I get to talk to people who have experienced some of their worst moments, but also be there for them as they’re figuring out how they’re going to live after that. It’s interesting. And it makes me feel connected to others…which is harder now that I’m not working anymore.”

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