Sunday was beautifully gray and lazy. Not too many people came in. Unfortunate, but expected considering Burenville U was in the middle of the summer semester and the campus and dorms were mostly empty. Taste Teas could typically stay afloat with the money coming in from my regulars anyway, so I wasn't sweating it—I just adjusted the inventory and carried on.

       Sundays in the summer were low-key the best Sundays anyway. There were so few people in I could play whatever I wanted on the sound system without resistance from my usual early adulthood customers or my increasingly ungrateful staff. So, like the world's worst DJ, I'd played five Sam Cooke songs in a row, and no one complained because they'd rather hear current Top 40s, gangster rap from the 90s, or trap music—whatever that was.

       And so, that morning I stood badly two-stepping behind the counter while flipping pages through the Burenville Daily as Sam crooned about good times over the sound system.

       I was reading the umpteenth article about local mustachioed billionaire Shaun Khan's latest scam to buy the old shipyard and turn it into a mall or amphitheater or some shit when I heard stomping coming from upstairs.

       "Evie!" Johnny's boots bounced on wood as he ran down the stairs. "I got a commission!"

       "Really? That's fantastic!" I placed my magazine on the counter and clapped my hands in excitement. "What is it?"

       He walked over and slung his backpack into a barstool. "Some lady wants me to paint a picture of her dead dog!"

       My nose scrunched up at the image. "He, uh...he's alive in the picture, right?"

       He sighed and rolled his eyes. "No, she wants a picture of the damn dog lying flat in the road with the tire marks and everything like Wile E. Coyote."

       "Well, that's morbid." I shrugged. "Gig's a gig, I guess."

       "Evie, please. Conan the Pomeranian died of cancer."

       I snickered. "Well, now its extra morbid."

       He ran his hands through his black hair and released both his excitement and his trepidation on a long sigh. "This is the first commission I've taken in five years."

       Johnny used to be a small-time artist in New York city five years ago. He'd quit after his girlfriend tragically passed to grift from town to town doing odd jobs to support himself. Eventually he'd landed on my doorstep and decided for some reason to stay—at least for a while.

       If he was comfortable enough to start painting again, then this was a huge breakthrough.

       "Congrats. Really."

       He looked at me and smiled. "This is all thanks to you, you know."

       "I know." I crossed my arms over my chest all pretentious-like. "That's why I accept nothing less than thirty percent for my art pimp fee—"

       "Agent. And thirty percent is too high."

       "—And no less than three acknowledgments of my greatness a day. Acts of worship is my love language."

       He laughed. "I can give you a sincere thank you and take you out for dinner."

       My silence rippled through the room so completely I'm pretty sure the one other guy in here looked up from his coffee to see how I'd react. I smiled; not too wide though. "I'll take the thanks but pass on dinner."

       He raised a puzzled eyebrow. "You sure? You love eating. Especially if it's free."

       "Yeah! You did all the real work. I don't need to be compensated." I tried my best to let him down easy. We were...friends, true, but Manny wouldn't appreciate me having dinner alone with another man.

       His face distorted into a mask of uncertainty. "This feels weird. Is this weird?"

       Is it me? Am I acting like I'm uncomfortable going to lunch with a friend? Am I weird? Does the guy drinking coffee think I'm weird? Probably. I played five Sam Cooke songs in a row, I know he thinks I'm weird, but like, am I acting weird in front of Johnny?

       As I looked into his eyes—Johnny not random coffee guy—I realized he wasn't talking about me at all. "No. It's just been five years. You're just overthinking it." He's not the only one. "Once you start it'll probably be like riding a bike."

       "Thanks." He stared down at his watch for an oddly long minute. "I've got to catch a bus if I want to get to the library before it closes."

       "What's at the library?"

       "A printer. I need to print the picture of Conan so I can start sketching." He grabbed his backpack and started back-walking to the front door. "By the way, I'll need to rent more days upstairs."

       "Sure. You know if you had a cell phone you could print here? Through the Wi-Fi."

       "Sure, but then the government could track me."

       "What are you—oh, I see. You're joking." I laughed but it felt too self-conscious. "You're in rare form today, sir."

       He winked and my heart almost came to a halt. "Nice of you to notice my form."

      Was he flirting with me?

       ...Naw...Maybe...I don't...

       Maybe I really am weird.

************************************

       Monday morning came entirely too fast. Ain't that just like a Monday? The day was pretty chill, though. I moved between the coffee and espresso machines with the sort of efficiency that comes from doing a job for years on end. Despite the monotony I was content. Both businesses were doing well. The family wasn't annoying me for once. Manny's mom seemed to like me. I'd say personally and professionally, things were going well for me.

       Things were going well for Jackson too.

       He was in a mood. A good one. He had successfully passed his GED and now was looking to get a CDL license so he could start working for the same trucking company our uncle Bobby worked for. It was good pay and benefits and the sort of thing he needed after a stint in prison and clawing his way back from the bottom. I was happy for him. Really.

       But soon, I would have to start the search for a new employee. A daunting, dreadful task. Besides that, I loved having a talented baker on staff that I paid slightly below market price since he didn't have a cooking degree. So that was going to be more money out of my pocket on top of everything. On the positive I could hire someone who had the correct demeaner for customer service.

       No more cursing at customers. No more questioning my authority. No more complaining when I asked him to do anything other than bake. No more blasting gangster rap on the stereo. No more sarcasm or calling me boss-lady. No more eye rolling or teeth sucking...

       I would miss him.

       "Hey!" He was in the kitchen preparing the breakfast sandwiches on the stove like usual. What was unusual was hearing him singing old love songs to himself. "I'm making omelet wraps. You want one?"

       I shook my head. "You're in a good mood."

       "Life is fuckin' beautiful, Evie."

       I clutched at my non-existent pearls and made a show of bristling. "Okay, what pod person has taken over my cousin's body?"

       "Ain't no pod person." He graced me with a big smile. "I'm just happy."

       "And what's brought this on?"

       "Passed the eye exam so I'm one step closer to my license." he sprinkled the cooked egg with ham and cheese then used the tip of the spatula to roll it all together. "And got a date tonight with the girl I'm seeing."

       "Girl? What girl?"

       "Didn't I tell you?"

       "I don't think so..."

       "I didn't tell you about Donna? My bad."

       He then told me everything there was to know about Donna while he finished up breakfast. Including meeting one night at a club and spending every bit of free time they had together.

       "I ain't into all that romantic shit," he said as I helped him carry trays of fresh glazed donuts to the bakery display. "But I think she's the one, Evie."

       Good for him.

       The rest of the morning was business as usual. Pasha, Jackson and I found a groove and served a growing line of customers—Pasha and I handled the beverage orders while Jackson bagged the pastries.

       Around ten I looked up from the espresso machine to see two people—a man and a woman—in business attire bypassing the line and walking straight toward the counter. My mind shuffled through every motive they could have. Irate customers with poor line etiquette. Coffee machine salesmen. Jehovah's Witnesses...But something about the ramrod straight way they ambled toward me with an overly relaxed almost authoritative aura made me think of Manny...

       ...Police.

       Something was very wrong.

       "Evelyn Harper?" The woman said in an imposing tone.

       Definitely police. "Yes?"

       She flashed me her badge. "I'm Detective Ibarra and this is Detective Mcclain. We'd like to discuss a recent client you had. Ashley Pham." She looked around at the crowd. "Is there somewhere we can talk?"

       "Sure."

        I left the unfinished espresso for Pasha then led the detectives straight to my office. Once inside I turned and watched as Detective Mcclain closed my door. I didn't offer them a seat, but they took them anyway. I followed and slumped down into my chair.

       "What's this about?" I asked.

       Detective Mcclain spoke first. "Did you have a meeting with Ashley Pham last Friday at one?"

       "Yes."

       "What did you discuss?"

       "Someone was blackmailing her. She hired me to find out who."

       "And did you?"

       "Yeah," I replied with a nod. "It was her boyfriend."

       "Noah Walker?"

       "Yes."

       Detective Ibarra leaned forward in her chair. "Did she seem distraught when you told her?"

       "Of course."

       "Did she seem angry?" Mcclain asked.

       "Mostly sad." Ashley's face flashed across my memory. The shock, the acceptance, and the pain. "Is she pressing charges?"

       "Mr. Walker is dead."

       I heard myself audibly gasp. "I...I, uh...wow..."

       "Did you encounter Mr. Walker this past week?"

       "Yes." Detective Mcclain whipped out a notepad and began scribbling. Why did he only just start taking notes? Did that mean that they already knew everything I said before? Were they gauging my honesty level? "After work Friday at about four forty-five."

       "Did you talk?" He looked up; his eyes as cool as water. "And what about?"

       "He was angry that I ratted his blackmail scheme out to Ashley. He threatened me."

       "Did he hurt you?" Ibarra's tone softened just a smidge.

       "No. He was all talk."

       "This blackmailing scheme," Mcclain scribbled something then looked up from his notes with interest. "What was his angle?"

       "He seemed like he wanted to punish her for some nudes she'd taken before they met." I tucked a lock of my hair behind my ear to keep from fidgeting. "I advised her to dump him and press charges." Apparently, she chose not to. Apparently, murder was the superior choice. Can't say I blamed her...

       "Do you have records of this case?"

       "Yes."

       He flipped his notepad closed and tucked it back into his pocket. "May we see them?"

       "Do you have a subpoena?"

       Ibarra strummed her fingers on the armrest of her chair. "No."

       "Then, no."

       Mcclain cleared his throat. "You understand, Ms. Harper, that handing over those files could aid in our investigation?"

       "Yes, and I'd love to help," And I nodded my head like that was true. "But I'm sure you understand that my clients have a legal and ethical right to confidentiality. As per company policy I can't hand over personal documents without court order."

       There was nothing in the files they probably didn't already know or at least didn't already surmise, but the principle of it was important. I couldn't just hand over sensitive information no matter who asked without risking the reputation of my business.

       "Hmm." Mcclain looked at Ibarra like they were telepathically communicating about how to respond. They stood abruptly after another second of silence. "We'll be in touch."

       "I'm sure." I stood too and moved to escort them out even though they knew where the door was.

       "Oh, one more question, Ms. Harper," Mcclain turned around and stared holes through me. "When Ashley came here, did she have a laptop or a laptop bag?"

       I thought back to the last time I saw her. "No. Just a purse. Only big enough to carry a phone; maybe a tablet."

       He nodded. "Thanks."

       When they were gone, I sat back down in my chair; my mind abuzz with the news. Noah's dead? Ashley was surely a prime suspect. What the hell went down that night? He was alive Friday afternoon since he was assailing me in the parking lot. According to him he and Ashley had reconciled. Was I a suspect? No, the line of questioning didn't add up.

       I grabbed the receiver from the landline and dialed Ashley's number.

       She answered on the last ring. "Hello..."

       "Ms. Pham, its Evie Harper—"

       She suddenly came to life. "Oh my God! Ms. Harper, Noah's dead!"

       "I know. The police just left."

       "They think I did it!"

       "...Did you?"

       "No!" She sounded offended. Was that an offensive thing to ask? I mean, if he did that to me I would at the very least think about it.

       "Okay, sorry. Just...I wouldn't blame you."

       She was appalled. "I could never!"

       Better switch gears. "Okay. What happened?"

       "I don't know. Friday night I went to bed. Woke up early Saturday morning and found Noah...on the back porch." I could hear tears bubbling beneath her words. "You've got to help me."

       "Help you? The best thing you can do is let the police do their job." Who did she think I was? Sherlock Holmes? Fuckin'...Batman? "And, you know, maybe get a lawyer."

       "I'm a law student. I know how it works." Her tone was highly aggravated. I understood why but still, she could chill on getting snappy with me. I didn't kill her man. "Anyway, I can't afford one. What I can afford is a private investigator."

       "What do you want me to do?"

       "Just look around. Gather evidence. So, when they come for me, I'm ready."

       I sighed and pressed my fingers into my temple. "Look, I'm going to have to insist you find yourself a lawyer."

       "Ms. Harper—"

       "There's nothing more I can do for you." I sped through my next words before she could put up a fight. "I'm sorry. Goodbye."

       "Pleas—"

       After I hung up, I felt a twinge of guilt over the whole thing. Not sure why, none of it was my fault. Besides that, it's not my responsibility to save everybody. I'm one person! One person with a very important day job.

       I quit my dallying and went back out front because the mid-morning rush was still going, and Jackson and Pasha were getting swamped by the crowd. Later still I had to drop off some money at the bank and swing by a client to pick up the check they owed me for the three-week surveillance work I'd put in.

       So yeah, I was way too busy to investigate a murder. Especially the murder of some douche who had it coming anyway. Besides, if the police suspected her they probably knew about the fifty-leven other victims of his schemes so she had nothing to worry about.

        Yeah, I was sure of it. She'd be fine.