Page 105 of Make Them Bleed
“Exactly,” the clerk says, charmed. “Rejects room noise. More forgiving if your space isn’t treated.”
“Forgiving,” I echo, because the word hits somewhere dumb and tender.
While cardigan guy waxes poetic about shock mounts and pop filters, Mom drifts to the headphones wall and tries on three pairs like sunglasses. I let Bob stand beside me and pretend to weigh vibration dampeners while I build my script.
“So,” I say, lightly, “Mom says you two met with Paul near the conservatory.”
“Mm,” Bob says. “Donor breakfast. Lots of people. Boring, unless you enjoy bagels shaped like money.”
“Who else was there?” I keep my tone airy. I am nothing if not a breeze.
“Oh, you know,” he says, which is Bob forirrelevant peasants.“I talked to a utilities commissioner and a man with a mustache who runs everything.”
“Everything’s a lot,” I say.
He smiles. “Some men like the word.”
I lift a mic, testing the weight. “Did Arby ever talk about a guy named Nico?” There it is: casual, a pebble I toss to see how big the ripple is.
Bob scratches his jaw, fake-thinking. He does it when he’s buying time at work, when he’s pretending he remembers the name of a temp at the copier. “Nico… rings a bell. Influencer crowd is a blur. She kept names out of family dinner, mostly. Your mother’s no fun if she doesn’t like someone.”
Mom, who has returned with headphones that cost rent, inserts herself. “I don’tdislike—I have standards.” She squeezes my arm. “I told Arby if a man can’t set a table, he can’t sit at one.”
I laugh. Bob laughs. My stomach does a slow churn.
“What about now?” I ask, setting the mic down with care. “Any idea who she might’ve been seeing near the end? Blonde hair Arby. The last weeks.”
There’s a flicker—small, nothing, gone. Mom fills the silence, because that’s her job. “She mentioned a Nico once,” she says, surprised at her own memory. “But, sweetheart, you know your sister. She would say she loved a man and then switch hair colors and forget his last name.”
“Right,” I say, smiling like the cut didn’t land. “Classic Arby.”
Bob clears his throat. “Juno, your sister made friends everywhere. I don’t want you chasing ghosts.”
I don’t want you making time at Club Greed, I think, and the words taste like pennies. I keep my voice sweet. “Speaking of chasing—what did you two do last night?”
The clerk’s eyes light up. “We were open late,” he volunteers, oblivious. “If you ever need?—”
“Thank you,” I say, and aim my question more directly. “Mom?”
She tilts her head, considers. “Last night? I was in bed early. My skincare says sleep is the most important serum.”
I look at Bob. He sips his water from the store’s little paper cup like he’s auditioning for an ad. “I had a meeting that ran late,” he says without blinking. “Committee thing. At Stonehouse.”
There it is, the clean lie laid on a linen napkin. He doesn’t flinch. I don’t either.
“Fun?” I ask, because I’m a menace.
“Nothing about Stonehouse is fun,” he says, and I almost bark a laugh, because that’s exactly how a man would describe a very fun night he wants to call a meeting.
Cardigan returns with a boom arm demo and bless him, he is earnest. I let him show me how it doesn’t squeak, and I nod solemnly as if I care this much about shock absorption because right now I do. Mom oohs at the little felt pads. Bob taps the edge of the counter obviously bored.
“Let us get it,” Mom says when the clerk totals the pile (arm, mount, pop filter, braided cable that costs like a brunch). “Please. I know we only said one boom arm, but let us get you all of it. I know you hate when we do, but let us.”
I should say no. I should refuse. I should hold out for some medium of ethics that makes me feel less like I’m laundering guilt money through retail therapy. Instead I let her hand over Bob’s card because it makes her happy to be a mother who buys protection against plosives, and because I’m tired of paying for everything with my own blood.
Outside, the day is brighter than it has any right to be. We load the bag into Bob’s trunk. Mom tucks my hair behind my ear like I’m seven. “Dinner Sunday?” she asks. “Roast chicken? Or tofu. We can be modern.”
“Sunday,” I agree, because I want to see her again, and because I want to see if Bob mentions Stonehouse or any other house by name.
