Got Hope

by Michael Darling

Genres: Humorous Fantasy; Contemporary Fantasy

Synopsis

“Michael Darling makes urban fantasy his own in his hilarious Behindbeyond series.”
—Paul Genesse, bestselling author of the Iron Dragon Series

“Michael Darling is quickly securing a place among the rising stars of urban fantasy. Got Hope is an unequivocally gripping sequel.”
—Kevin L. Nielsen, bestselling author of the Sharani Series

Sequel to the #1 Bestseller in Supernatural Mystery, Got Luck.

Private investigator Goethe “Got” Luck saved humankind once already. With one dangerous enemy dead and another in exile for one hundred years, both the mortal realm and the realm of the Fae—the Behindbeyond—seem to be safe. Now Got can go back to nice, normal detective work. Until a beautiful cheerleader lands in front of his house, strapped to a bomb.

Got is more than ready to protect the cheerleader, Hope, but it turns out she’s not just a victim; she’s bait. The realm of the Fae hasn’t forgotten Got, and an ancient secret society from the Behindbeyond wants to use him to seize control of the Fae realm. As their enemies multiply, Got realizes events are set to spiral out of control, and if he can’t stop them, it will mean nothing less than civil war among the Fae.

Accompanied by allies old and new, Got will do anything to end the threat. But the secret society has promised to make Got serve them, either in life or in death, and it looks like no clever strategy, no insulting joke, no magic spell will be enough to stop them.

This time, even with all the Hope in the world, Got may run out of Luck.

Release date: March 17, 2016

Publisher: Future House Publishing

Print pages: 378

Sample

Few excuses would get me out of piano practice. A girl about to explode into a million bloody bits was one of them.

Max stepped into the great room and cleared his throat. Notes from Chopin’s Nocturne No. 2, in E Flat Major hung in the air after I paused. It wasn’t a difficult piece but I liked it for warming up. Timing was everything in getting the melody right and timing was everything with Max. Sandretta, my housemaid who was also my piano enforcer, did not complain. We looked at Max expectantly. If Max was interrupting, he had a good reason.

“There’s a young lady in front of the driveway. She appears to be in some distress.”

Max had a gift for understatement.

“You might want to hurry, Prince Luck.”

Yeah. I’m a prince.

The woman at the end of the driveway was bawling. She had a pillowcase over her head but I could hear huge, earth-racking sobs that made it hard for her to stay standing. I hurried to her side, in part to keep her from falling over. She turned her head as she felt my hand on her arm.

“Hey. I’m going to take this pillowcase off, okay?”

She nodded and managed, “Okay.”

The pillowcase had been tied in a knot to keep it tight under her chin. Undoing the knot, I lifted the cloth over her head. Her blond hair was disheveled. Her mascara had run so badly her eyes looked like sapphires swimming in crude oil. She wasn’t Stained, which meant she hadn’t been touched by magic. I was the only person in Creation who would have noticed.

She squinted against the morning light. “Are you—” she interrupted herself with horrible sobs every other word, “—are you Sen-Senator Lima?”

“No. My name’s Goethe. Call me Got.”

She rolled her eyes. “They sa-said Senator Lima live-lives here.”

“He’s a couple of streets over.”

She had a briefcase handcuffed to her wrist. The cuff had left deep, ugly wounds, as if it had been there for a long time or she’d struggled or both. “You’re hurt,” I said.

She looked at me, seeing me for the first time. “I’m going to die. And I’m not—not even in front of the right house.”

My mouth took a vacation in the Sahara as I realized what was going on. A chain had been looped through the other side of the handcuffs and through the handle of the briefcase. The chain was held shut with a padlock. There was also a wire threaded through everything. Red.

“Do you know what’s in the briefcase?” I asked.

She nodded. “Explosives. They said it was enough to kill—kill me and flatten the neighborhood.”

The briefcase was large. I tried to swallow. Didn’t work.

“Who’s ‘they?’”

Another round of sobs overcame her. She shook her head.

I tried to think of a reason somebody would want to blow up a young woman in front of Senator Lima’s house. Lima led the Federal Subcommittee on Immigration and Border Security. His views weren’t without controversy.

“Can you set the briefcase down?” She was exhausted.

“N-No. If I set it d-down. It will go off. They t-told me to stand and hold-hold it.”

Disarming bombs wasn’t in my skill set. I’d encountered explosives before, in Afghanistan, but I’d left the handling to the guys with more brains, or fewer brains, depending on how you look at it. “I’m going to help you however I can.”

She looked at the ground. Shook her head. A fresh bout of crying came over her. I wanted to put my arms around her. The sound of her sobbing spoke of misery and resignation. The kind of desperate need that begged for comfort.

“You-you need to leave. The bom-bomb is going to go off. At ten o’clock.”

Four minutes, according to my watch. That information might have been useful earlier. We could have evacuated people from the surrounding homes. Called the bomb squad.

I grabbed her hand. “Come with me.”

She didn’t have strength to resist but she protested. “You need to get away!”

We staggered up the driveway. “What’s your name?”

She laughed. And cried. “Hope.”

Any other day, due credit would go to the gods of irony. Today, there wasn’t time. The red wire had me worried. I could get the cuffs off her and cut the chain. I had everything in the garage. But the red wire ran around her wrist several times. I had a feeling that the wire was a circuit to the bomb and if I cut the wire, the bomb would go off.

In three minutes, it wouldn’t matter.

Max and Sandretta wore grim expressions.

“It’s a bomb. If it goes off here, at least it will be contained to the house,” I said.

They nodded. Hope wouldn’t know there were other forces at work.

My house belonged to my father, the Alder King. He ruled over the Behindbeyond and all her peoples. Max and Sandretta maintained a magical ward around the house that protected it and kept outsiders from seeing anything but a normal home. If the bomb went off in here, it wouldn’t be visible to the outside world and it wouldn’t spread beyond the ward. Of course, the house would be destroyed. And I’d be dead. Minor details.

“Get yourselves to safety,” I said.

Sandretta pressed her lips together, but Max was more practical. He led the way to the front door.

Hope let herself get towed behind me. Someone, sometime, had written, “The way out is through.” I could only think of one thing to do. And it was desperate.

The Mortal realm and the Behindbeyond intersect and there was a room with a secret portal between them. If my plan worked, I’d get rid of the bomb and save both Hope and myself. And the house.

If it worked.

I prayed that the bomb makers were accurate on time. Two minutes.

“I’m going to put the pillowcase back over your head, okay? To protect your eyes.”

Hope accepted my lie. She appeared willing to cooperate, her expression dull. She knew time was running out. I slipped the cloth over her head.

In the portal room, there was a circle of silver embedded in the floor and several silver patterns against the wall. Each pattern represented a different location in the Behindbeyond. One of my favorite places was a barren peak, high in a range of mountains, far away from people. It was beautiful there, and isolated.

Dropping the pattern into the circle and kneeling beside it, I released a glowing blue drop of power from my hand and touched the ring. I said, “Oscailte.”

The circle flashed blue and the pattern faded. A rush of cold air flooded the room with the scent of spruce trees and freshly-fallen snow.

“Hope. I need you to lie on the floor. I’m going to hold the briefcase but I’m not going to put it down. I’ll keep you as safe as I can.”

“What’re you doing?” It was a fair question.

“I’ll explain later. I promise.”

Hope let me take the briefcase, the handle slick with sweat. I gripped it hard. One slip and we’d be goners. She sat on the floor and laid back. She had to feel the cold air and wonder about the light seeping through the fabric of the pillowcase.

I didn’t think anymore. Couldn’t. I let my body take over.

I threw the briefcase into the gate.

I broke the spell.

I dropped on top of Hope.

As I slammed into her, protecting her, the gate closed itself. The light winked out. She grunted under my weight. The briefcase and most of the chain and wire ceased to exist in the mortal realm. I braced myself in case shrapnel erupted through the gate.

Silence.

I hadn’t needed to shield her after all.

Well now it’s just awkward.

Hope pushed me off and scrabbled to remove the bag. She looked around the room. Held her wrist up and traced the path of chain and wire which now weren’t attached to anything but abruptly terminated instead. Sliced through cleanly as if by a scalpel. A piece of the handcuffs was missing, too.

Her blue eyes were supersized. And growing.

With her free hand, she touched the sliced end of chain and wire, fingertips running over the smooth ends. She looked around the room again. I let her. She got to her knees. Kept looking. I wasn’t sure what kind of explanation I was going to give her.

Hope saw that the bomb was gone. She locked eyes with me.

I pointed vaguely in the direction of the floor. “Oh. Sorry about, um, for the—”

She launched herself at me, knocking me back down. She couldn’t be much more than a hundred pounds and spare change but she landed like a hurricane.

She kissed me. On the cheeks. On the chin. On the mouth.

“You wonderful man!” Her eyes were crying again but her lips were smiling. Joy rolled off her like an ocean wave. I tried to ride out the storm for a few seconds longer. Finally, I caught her by the shoulders. Gently pushed.

“Hope,” I said.

She blinked. All smiles for a heartbeat. Then she realized she had me pinned.

“Oh. I don’t even know you.”

She tried to collect herself as we got up off the floor, brushing non-existent wrinkles out of her pants. I tried to ignore the heat in my face. She looked out the window, hiding a blush. The sky outside was cloudless. The river behind the house sparkled in the sun. 10:01 on a Thursday morning.

She took a deep breath. “If it seems like I’m emotional, it’s because I’m emotional,” she whispered. She looked back at me. Tears stood in her eyes. She put her hands over her mouth as the tears spilled out. “I’m not dead.”

This time, her crying wasn’t punctuated by racking sobs. She moved toward me. Put her cheek against mine. She wasn’t seeking comfort but she needed someone to share her relief. I let myself put my arms around her and she folded into me and wept against my chest.


Hope’s clothes were ruined. She’d sat in dirt and oil at some point and her blouse had gotten torn when one of her kidnappers had yanked her out of the van. Through the streaks of makeup on her face, she asked, “What am I going to do?”

“Sandretta can wash your clothes and patch them up. Then I’ll take you to buy something.”

Hope shook her head. “I can’t be seen in public like this!”

Vanity. Sigh.

“You’ve just been through a traumatic experience. Besides, you don’t look so bad.”

“No, you don’t understand. I can’t be seen like this because of my contract.”

“Contract?”

Hope’s voice pitched higher and her words tumbled hard. “I’m a cheerleader with the Miami Dolphins. I have public image standards. My clothes, my hair, my makeup. If I’m seen anywhere like this, I’ll be fired. I might be quitting, but . . .” She took a deep breath. “It’s complicated.”

“Where’s your purse?”

“I don’t have it,” she sniffed. “When those people grabbed me, they threw my purse out the window. It had my phone, my makeup, everything.”

Wow. She was going to have to call her phone company, her bank, and all her credit cards. I wasn’t about to remind her of that. Not with tears barely held at bay. My instincts as a male urged me to provide a solution, quickly. “Okay,” I sighed. “What do you need?”

Hope rattled off a list of female face supplies, including exact brand, product, color, and in some cases the size of bottle.

“Hold on. I’m never going to remember any of that.”

My private detective gear waited in a closet. At some point, I’d lost my Dick Tracy decoder ring but I still had my gun in its holster and my handcuffs. More importantly, I had handcuff keys. Next to the closet stood a handsome oak secretary desk from an estate sale, which basically existed so I’d have a place to hold stamps for mailing bills. It also had notepads and pencils.

Hope waited in the great room, looking at the artwork and my piano, which had four long, deep gouges in the top. Motioning her to the couch, I got her to sit down, putting the notepad and pencil on the coffee table in front of her. She kept eyeing the piano but I felt no inclination to explain the gouges, souvenirs from a giant, invisible liondog.

I unlocked the handcuffs, letting them fall onto the couch to keep from touching them any more than necessary. Hope sighed and gingerly pressed the red welts with her fingertips, moaning as she did. “Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome.” I felt a twinge of guilt. I had the ability to heal her and remove all her pain and there wouldn’t even be a scar. But I couldn’t use my powers in front of her. I was in enough trouble with the disappearing bomb.

Pointing at the notepad and pencil, I said, “Write down what you need and I’ll go get it.”

Hope started writing. Sandretta entered with impeccable timing. “Would you and Max get Hope some breakfast?” I asked. “Lunch? Whatever she wants? She’s had a hard day.”

Sandretta nodded, with a hint of a smile that seemed to be both apologetic and amused. She gave no other clues regarding what had her so entertained.

Makeup list in hand, I climbed into my ‘65 Mustang and tooled off in the direction of the nearest Walgreen’s. The CD player offered up “Ramble On” by Led Zeppelin. I cranked it.

As I drove, I wondered about the wisdom of taking Hope in. I knew nothing about her, a fact I’d need to rectify. She was so sincere, though, and her need felt real. Besides, I was a sucker for a girl in need of rescuing. A character flaw I’d likely never rectify.

At the store, the makeup aisle was a riot of confusing little bottles, jars, and tubes in a million colors. There was appropriate loin girding as I started on Hope’s list. I’d fought a deamhanlord and this task was almost as horrifying. After ten minutes, I had to take a breather. There was makeup at my feet and makeup in my hands and a headache pounded at the back of my head as I squinted at labels. I couldn’t tell the difference between “Peach Bloom” and “Peach Rose” but, apparently, it was vital to get the right one.

The clerk, a pleasantly rotund little woman with dyed magenta hair, came to my rescue.

“Need some help, honey?”

She glanced sideways at the tiny bottles on the floor. She was probably calculating how long it would take to put them all back on the shelves which made her offer to help an act of self-preservation. “Sorry,” I said. “I’m not sure what to get.”

I offered her my handwritten list.

She scanned the list and hit the shelves with impressive efficiency, snatching the right products and handing them to me. It took her all of sixty seconds to find every item.

“I know what your superpower is,” I said.

She smiled but it was also more efficient than heartfelt. “Can I give you some advice?”

“Sure.”

“These are all wrong for your coloring,” she said. “You’re not a Summer.”

“Oh. These aren’t for me.”

“Uh-huh.”

A rack of mirrors hung nearby. The clerk pulled one off and held it inches away from my face. My lips had red smears (Carnelian Coral?) and traces of black (not waterproof) spread under my eyes. There were also patches of Hope’s Peach Bloom or Peach Rose or whatever it was on my cheeks. More streaks of makeup marked my shirt from holding Hope.

“You have to look close to see this,” I argued. “Anyway, there’s this girl . . .”

“You don’t have to explain to me, honey.” The clerk turned. Walked off. Waddled off.

I took my purchases to the counter. The heat in my face helped me to get over feeling bad about the mess I’d left on the floor. As the clerk rang up, I grabbed a handful of beef snacks to re-establish my masculinity.

I should’ve got wet wipes. While snapping into a thin stick of meat byproduct whose formal name was James, I turned into my street, regretting the makeup on my face. It wasn’t that noticeable. A television news van blocked my driveway with the local call letters WSFN on the side. The cameraman and the noon o’clock news girl, who I recognized, were shooting test shots with my house in the background.

What the noober goobers?

Pulling over to a stop so I could watch from a distance, I stewed. Sooner or later, I’d want to call Erin. I had evidence that could use her special handling. Erin had the ability to see the history of an object, like where it had been and who had touched it. It was one of the reasons she was so good at her job as Medical Examiner. And one of the reasons I turned to her for help sometimes. No one else had contributed to as many successful case closures as Erin because no one else had such an efficient way to trace evidence back to the culprit. She was at work right now, though. It’d be better to pester her later, although her voice could make me smile just by the sound.

The news crew weren’t broadcasting because the news reporter—Kathy or Candy or something—wasn’t talking. She had the microphone against her shoulder while she stared into the distance. Every few seconds she shook her head and spoke. Being a private detective and all, I expertly deduced she was having a chat with her producer at the studio.

Someone must have called about Hope and the briefcase previously cuffed to her wrist.

By blocking the drive, they were hoping to get a story from whoever was inside. Max and Sandretta would ignore them if they knocked. The problem was I couldn’t get in either. I could wait them out but I had no idea what they had been told. If they felt the source was reliable, they might hang around for hours. Days even.

Until they got something they could use.

Or . . .

I pulled forward and stuck my head out the window like a cocker spaniel. “Hey! Cool!” I yelled. “Are you guys here for the party?”

The reporter spoke a terse word into her microphone and click-clicked on her heels into the road to meet me. The cameraman followed, moving to get us both in the shot.

She cranked up the “very concerned” portions of her face and said, “Hello. I’m Katie Castellanos, Channel 7 News.”

Katie? Could have sworn she was Kathy.

Katie barely paused for breath. “We received a report of a fugitive in the area.”

Fugitive? Boy was she barking up the wrong birch.

“Are you the owner of this residence?”

“Uh,” I replied. I pulled my head back into the car, turtle-style. The cameraman would have to move again since I was no longer hanging out the window. The little red light that lit up when the camera was recording switched off.

I stuck my head back out the window. The cameraman readjusted his aim. The little red light went back on. He and Katie undoubtedly hoped there would be a normal reply from me. Wrong birch again. I looked at the camera like I’d just noticed he was there. Then I looked back at Katie. “Just a sec,” I said, retreating back into the car. The cameraman kept rolling. The glove compartment was full of papers that I started pulling out. Registration papers. Insurance card. Copies of my private investigator’s license and my gun permit. I shuffled them around, keeping an eye on the cameraman.

After ten seconds, Katie leaned closer tried again “Sir? We need to know if you’re the owner of the house.”

No. You need to get your van away from the end of my driveway.

I stuck my head back out the window. “This fugitive you’re looking for,” I started. Katie pasted an encouraging expression on her face, glad I was saying something she might get to air. “Does she drive a pink Cadillac?”

“Did you see someone in a pink Cadillac, sir?” Katie’s voice intensified. Her eyebrows climbing a rung up the ladder. Juicy details were her stock in trade.

“That’s who you’re looking for, isn’t it?”

“Possibly. We got a report that there was a woman with a briefcase bomb at this location. She may have been looking for the owner of this house. Is that you?”

“Yeah. I’m the owner.”

Katie gave the finally-we’re-getting-somewhere look. The look wouldn’t last long.

“Well, technically, my dad is the owner,” I said. “I’m more like the lease holder. But dad pays the mortgage. He’s got a palace too. That’s where he lives. I don’t even know if he’s ever been here, come to think of it. He sends a guy.”

“Sir?” One of Katie’s eyebrows took another rung up the ladder.

“If he pays the mortgage and lets me live here I guess I’m not even a lease holder. I pay the utilities though. I’m not even a renter. I’m a utilitarian, I think. Is that the right word?”

“Sir.” Katie stood up, tired of leaning at my car window and getting garbage from me.

“Hey. You’re a reporter. Is that the right word? Utilitarian?” I scratched my chin absently. “I think I voted Utilitarian.”

“Okay, sir, look. Forget the owner of the house.” Katie’s ladder-climbing eyebrows dropped to meet in the middle.

“Sorry. I’m just trying to answer honestly.”

Katie turned and checked to see if the cameraman was still shooting. I’d been watching the little red light. It hadn’t gone off. Katie pressed her hand against the waist of her pantsuit. Apparently, that’s where her “Be Calm and Professional” button was located. When she felt composed, she turned back to me. “Can you tell us about the lady in the pink Cadillac? Did she have a briefcase bomb?”

“I’m sure she has a briefcase. I don’t think there’s a bomb. Did you guys see her?”

“No. We’re asking if you saw her.”

“It sounds like you think she’s here already.”

“Right.” Katie sighed. “We got a call. Someone reported seeing a woman with a briefcase and she was overheard talking about a bomb with the owner of this house.”

“You told me to forget about the owner of the house.”

“Yes.” Katie stepped back, the hand with the microphone dropping to her hip. Her other hand went to her forehead. She muttered in Spanish. It sounded like cussing. Or a prayer for strength and patience that wouldn’t get answered, considering her choice of words.

The cameraman’s attention drifted but the lens stayed on me. Light still on. I started wishing he were less competent.

“You checked around the house?” I asked. Mr. Helpful.

Katie nodded.

I looked around the sides of the van. Or tried. “You can walk through the yard if you want. See if she’s hiding in the bushes.”

Katie shook her head.

“Did that already, huh?”

Katie nodded again.

“You can wait. See if she shows up. The lady with the pink Cadillac and the briefcase. Although I’m pretty sure she won’t have a bomb.”

Katie inhaled. Brought the microphone back up to her face.

“Can you tell us who this lady is?”

“That’s a good question!” I ducked back in and got the lipstick out of the bag from Walgreen’s. I showed it to Katie. “The Mary Kay lady!”

“Mary Kay?”

“Yeah. You know. The women who sell makeup to people. In their houses. They bring samples and stuff. In their briefcases.” I pulled the lid off the lipstick and turned the handle so the stick came out, then drew a slash across my upper lip—Carnelian Coral?—then my lower lip.

Katie rolled her eyes toward an unsympathetic heaven. “You’re really talking about the Mary Kay lady?”

I pointed a finger at my own face. Made a circle around the circumference. “You noticed the makeup on my face. Right?”

Katie made a slashing motion across her throat. The cameraman nodded. The little red light went off.

“You noticed I was wearing makeup, right?” I raised my voice. Katie was climbing into the van.

“Wouldn’t be a very good reporter if you missed a detail like that.” I yelled. The cameraman finished loading the equipment into the back of the van. He gave me a sideways glare as he got into the driver’s side.

“Hey! Am I gonna be on TV?”

The van pulled away, leaving my driveway wide open.


Back inside the house, Sandretta hid a smile. Unsuccessfully. She’d known I had makeup on my face before she let me go out the door. I thought about a suitable way to ask why. She took one look at the upset expression on my face and said, “It was time to shake things up, milord.”

Aha. There was the why. She was right. I hadn’t been myself for six months.

Letting Sandretta off the hook, I asked. “Where’s Hope?”

“Ms. Hope is showering in the guest room. I took the liberty of altering a few of your wife’s clothes so she would have something to wear. Is that all right?”

There it was. My wife.

Erin.

The reason I hadn’t been myself for six months.

Sandretta waited for my answer. It took longer than it should have for me to give it. “Of course. Good idea.” I didn’t say sorry or thank you. We don’t say those words around here. Sorrys and thank yous are for humans. Not Eternals. Not Halflings like me.

I gave the bag of makeup to Sandretta. “Make sure Ms. Hope gets this.” She took the bag with a nod. I pointed at my face. Again. “I’m going to wash off this shake up.”

In my bedroom, I called Erin.

She answered on the second ring. “Got?” Her voice was husky yet soulful.

“Yeah. Hi. Do you have time to check some evidence for me? On the sly?”

“Can’t. We got called out to a scene. It’ll probably take a few hours.”

“It’ll wait. I’ll bring it to you. Do you mind if someone borrows some of the clothes you left here?”

She paused. “Someone needs to borrow my clothes?”

Part of my brain—the smart part—screamed at me to choose my next words carefully. “There’s a girl in danger. I can explain when there’s time. Her name’s Hope. She needs to stay here for a while and doesn’t have any clothes.”

Another pause.

“Extra clothes,” I amended. “She has some clothes—”

“Yeah, sure. Gotta go.” Erin hung up. It was always hard to say goodbye but the way she had ended the call had been abrupt. Hadn’t it?

Was I in trouble?

I sighed. At least Hope wearing Erin’s stuff was stamped as approved. I could take the evidence to Erin later and see how much hot water I was in.

Real hot water and soap and shampoo gave me a chance to clean my face and clear my head. While I toweled off, worrisome thoughts scampered through my mind, like yappy dogs off the leash.

Focus.

Someone had called the television station instead of the police. That told me a lot about the people who’d chained the bomb to Hope’s wrist and dumped her in the street. They wanted to make news. If they’d dropped her off in front of Senator Lima’s house, they would have succeeded. They’d gone to a lot of trouble to set Hope up but they hadn’t got the location right. That bothered me. Why had they been so careful with the bomb but so careless with the drop?

I had more immediate problems. The biggest problem stood about five-foot-two with blond hair, eating lunch in my kitchen.

As I came in from the hall, I saw Hope from the back. Her hair had been artfully arranged and she wore one of Erin’s dresses, scaled down for her smaller frame. Hope was six inches shorter than Erin but the dress fit perfectly, thanks to Sandretta’s fast-magic tailoring skills. For all I knew, Sandretta had enchanted scissors and needles with thread that moved by themselves while she sang a song. Possibly all stolen from Disney World.

“This is delicious,” Hope said. She spoke to Max, who moonlighted as a chef in my kitchen when he wasn’t tending to citrus trees and magical wards.

Max nodded with a smile. He’d made grilled steak salad with red peppers and pineapple and a dressing that must have included garlic chili sauce. The aroma found its way from her plate to my nose to my stomach like an olfactory siren’s song.

A serving waited for me. I sat down kitty-corner from Hope at the table. She gave me a sunny smile while her bare feet tapped at the tiles on the floor, enjoying their own dance. When Max wasn’t looking, she put the steak from her salad onto mine and gave me a “Shh” sign.

Like her hair, her face had been artfully arranged. She had lightly-blushed peach cheeks and her big blue eyes begged for attention under her redone makeup. I should get at least half the credit for her transformation. Instead of a hot mess, she was just, well, hot.

I started on the salad, jamming my fork full of spinach leaves and steak while Hope gave me sideways glances. She let me eat for a minute or two.

Finally, she said, “You promised to tell me how you made that bomb disappear.” Her face was intense. Serious.

“I did,” I replied. “I will. When I can. Let’s talk about keeping you safe first.”

Hope tilted her head to the side and I took it for a sign she was willing to change the subject. “Let’s go over this again. You don’t know the people who did this to you?”

“No.”

“You didn’t see their faces?”

“I never did. They kept me for hours in a dark room, handcuffed to a pipe. It felt like a construction site. Whenever they came in, they wore masks.”

“Did you recognize their voices? See any tattoos or scars? Any kind of information to identify who they were?”

Hope’s eyes focused on the table, scanning back and forth as if her memories were written there. “Half the time I was crying and couldn’t see anything. Sometimes they yelled at me but I don’t think I know any of them.”

“And they told you the plan was to put you in front of Senator Lima’s house?”

Hope nodded. Her eyes stayed on the table.

“Did they say why?”

“No. They said there were enough explosives to kill me and flatten the neighborhood. And they wanted it to be Senator Lima’s house.”

Poodles. Not much to go on.

“Let’s pretend this isn’t about Senator Lima. Let’s pretend it’s just about you,” I said. “What can you tell me—”

Hope leaned back. “I don’t know, Got. You’ve already done a lot. I can’t ask you to keep helping me.”

In reply, I put the documents I’d brought from my car onto the table: my private investigator’s license and my gun permit