Page 130 of Burning Daylight
Mystery Street Artist Strikes Again: The Calloway Puppet Master
A shadowy figure looms on the side of City Hall, puppets dancing off strings from his fingers. On one hand, the puppets are figures labeled: “Mayor,” “City Council,” “Judge,” and on the other hand, the puppets are buildings.
“Fortune’s Fool,” which we all know is the local theater. “The Round Table,” which is the tavern on Amesbury Road. “Old Main,” which is Verona University’s main building on campus.
But who is the shadowed figure? The title of the mural would have us believe it’s none other than Craig Calloway.
Is our anonymous painter insinuating that the Calloways have everyone under their thumb in Rosebrook Falls?
Time for our reporters to dig up any secrets.
#RosebrookRag #GraffitiGate #CallowayPuppetMaster #CityHallMural #CallowayWatch #SecretStreetArtist
32
ROMAN
There’s a picture I’m staring at of Tyler Bault shaking hands with someone I’ve never seen. The paper attached to the photo says his name is Brutus Myrddin, and they’re passing something between them, although it isn’t clear what. I Googled the name, but the only thing that comes up is Brutus’s ties to some ragtag group of criminals called the Badon Hill Gang in Boston.
I want to ask my father, but that would involve me having to face him, and I’m still in the avoidance part of our relationship.
Someone knocks on my front door.
Who the hell is here?
Throwing it open, my arms crossed, I come face to face with Frederick.
“Can I help you?” I cross my arms.
“That depends on several factors, son.” He presses his lips together and glances behind him before facing me again. “Can I come in? This is a delicate situation.”
“Sure.” I move to the side, and he gives me a grim smile, brushing by me and heading to the living room to sit down on the couch.
“Make yourself at home,” I bite out.
He crosses his ankle at his opposite knee, blue and yellow argyle socks peeking from underneath his black pants.
There’s an odd energy about him, one that feels tense and angry.
I don’t sit.
Instead, I lean against the arched doorway, shoulder pressed to the edge. “What’s up?”
He doesn’t look at me. “Do you know how much influence and money it takes to kill a news story these days?”
“Can’t say that I do, no,” I reply.
He hums, nodding, and then he levels me with a look. “What are your intentions with Juliette Calloway?”
I stiffen immediately, my pulse shooting off like a speeding bullet.
“My intentions?” I arch a brow, keeping my tone light even though my body goes rigid. “Not sure I know what you mean.”
“Bullshitter. Just like your father.”
Now he’s just pissing me off.
“Excuse me?” My hands curl into fists.
