The Communication Tactics of the Universe

I never said I liked children. They’re noisy, industrious little fools bent on having their own way or nothing at all. Like little versions of their parents, or heroes, stuffed into disproportionately miniature bodies. Their voices are too loud, their minds too sharp, and their sense of justice is tricky to dodge. Sometimes, when I’m feeling nostalgic for a world that was never mine, I wonder if I was like that.

Small.

Fragile.

Innocent.

But children are creepy, inevitable, and stuffy—things I am not.

Rolling back my immaculate suit jacket cuffs, I glance over at one of the species. A little roly-poly boy of about eight. Maybe ten depending on genetics. He’s sitting by the back door, outside the group of well-wishers and fellow mourners, pale eyes downcast as he scuffs his new leather shoes.

I huff, returning my gaze to the rest of the throng—an endless sea of gray hair and black satin. Because I didn’t come here for grief or closure. I came because the Burgess fortune is my last chance to crawl out of the hole I’d dug myself into.

Folding my lips into a downward expression of suitable misery, I cross the portrait room to where an old woman stands by a table of elaborate cakes and cold sandwiches.

A string of friends surround her, bringing her tea and refilling her plate of cookies. Her high-collared dress and soft ringlets suggest meticulous care; set chin and defined features mark heritage. Though I’ve never laid eyes on her before, I know she’s an important figure.

She must be the widow.

I offer my hand with a flourish, pressing her wrinkled fingers gently. “I regret not being able to attend the service,” I say, my words dripping with sincerity.

A pair of eyes identical to the boy’s peer up at me suspiciously. “Who are you?”

Ah, a sharp one.

But grief weakens the intellect, or at least clouds it.

I upturn my frown a millimeter. Just enough. “My name is Casper, I worked closely with your husband in the past.”

I wait for the magic to start working.

Slowly, a light of recognition flickers to life behind her eyes. “Were you part of Ralph’s outreach program?”

At last, a name—and an occupation.

Before answering, I give the portrait room another once-over. Priceless paintings. Wall-to-wall windows overlooking the school district. A picture of our Ralph Burgess and the mayor cutting a bright red ribbon. The group is a mottled bunch—cheap suited workmen and tight-waisted businesswomen.

The paintings were most likely purchased at charity auctions. The ribbon-cutting was perhaps for the school across the street.

A philanthropist.

The worst kind to steal from—but also the easiest.

“Yes,” I say heartily at last. “For the school. I was a member of the board.”

“He never mentioned you.”

I give her a twinkling eye. “Oh, but he always made sure to mention you. Though we’ve never met, I knew by description alone that I was introducing myself to Ralph’s fair wife.”

“Yet you don’t know my name.” Her words are firm, but I hear a softness entering her voice. She’s getting misty with me talking about her dear, dear husband.

“Of course I do—you’re Marianne Burgess,” Thank goodness for lazy maids leaving letters on tables. “Ralph always thought you had a beautiful name. I am sorry for your loss, he was a good man. I really wish I could have given my last regards. But I suppose it wasn’t meant to be.”

Marianne pulls out a handkerchief and dabs at her makeup.

My heart does a faint, familiar thump.

It’s working.

As she’s busy fixing herself up, I continue gently, “I just hope that, though he is no longer here, Ralph’s untimely demise will not end my relationship with his family.”

I press her hand again for good measure.

She smiles softly, folding her handkerchief. “Of course not,”

I feel myself begin to smile too. “I am glad of that.”

“I suppose he told you about Kyle, then?”

I blink, but broaden my smile to hide the slip-up and let her go on.

“He did say he was going to contact the school for a counselor or tutor or something. Someone to help get his grades up. He hasn’t been himself lately,” Marianne frowns, then smiles up at me. “But I guess you’re the answer to our prayers, Mr. Casper. ”

Children. Of course.

But instead, I nod. “It’s the least I could do for the Burgesses.”

Now Marianne’s smile is genuine. “Good, he’s over there if you’d like to introduce yourself. Don’t mind his shyness; he’s a very sweet boy. Like his mother.”

Taking my elbow, the old woman points me in the roly-poly’s direction.

I suck in a breath.

Drat.

Giving Marianne another squeeze of the hand, I square my shoulders and stride to the other side of the room. He notices me coming long before I reach him. His scuffing slows. His pale eyes lift. They’re too big for his face and—unfortunately—hold that wary green of a precocious little soul. Wonderful. Pasting on the kind of smile that’s gotten me out of locked rooms and into bank vaults, I face him.

“Hello,” I say because now I’m the kind of man who speaks to children.

He doesn’t answer. Just stares at me like I’m some headless fish at the market.

I clear my throat. “Your grandmother tells me you’re Kyle.”

A beat. Then, softly: “You’re lying.”

My smile freezes.

Children: creepy, inevitable, and—apparently—psychic.

“I beg your pardon?” I manage.

“You’re not a counselor,” he says, voice wobbly but determined. He’s got a funny little accent. A foreign one, but all-too familiar. “Counselors don’t wear shoes that shiny.”

I glance down. They are shiny. Imitation Italian leather tends to be. But how does he know that?

I crouch down to his level, lowering my voice confidingly. “You’re observant. That’s good. But I assure you, I’m here to help. I’m Casper.”

Kyle pulls his feet away from me like I’ll snatch his shoes, hugging his knees to his chest. “Grandpa says it’s good to help people,” he admits slowly.

“Well,” I say lightly, “Your grandfather was a very wise man. You’re just like him, you know. Wise, action-taking.”

His lip trembles. “No I’m not.”

“But you can be.”

“Like you?”

My breath catches.

Not because of sentimentality—please, I’m not that far gone—but because for once I wasn’t prepared for a question. I feel a faint, unwelcome tug deep inside my chest. The one that whispers you’re in deeper than you planned. The one that reminds me I came here to salvage my reputation, not adopt a child.

But fate, like children, is inevitable.

And I’ve always been terrible at walking away from a locked door.

I force a gentle voice. “Yes, just like me. Would you like that, Kyle?”

He hesitates. Then, with the solemnity of a judge, he nods his head. “I guess.”

I stand up, brushing out my suit. “Then let’s begin our first lesson.”

“What?”

I look back at Marianne. And the clock. My time’s running out—I have to secure my next visit before the wake ends. I showed up more fashionably late than intended; I only have twenty or so minutes left. Then I look back at my unwanted ward. Perhaps I could get him to talk to his grandmother. Maybe put in a good word. Or just have an excuse to leave this isolated corner to where all of the money purses. . . excuse me. . . mourners are.

“How to talk to people.” I say at last, pivoting back to the crowd.

Kyle’s pale green eyes widen like ponds in the rainy season. His mouth flies open, but no sound emits. Then, slumping back into his chair, he shakes his head dejectedly. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Mustn’t.”

“Now you’re lying.”

“Can’t.”

“There’s the truth—but why?”

But he buttons up his lips, apparently fascinated by the swirls of the marble floor beneath us. I roll my eyes to the heavens. But I know better than to hope—or have my prayers answered.

“Alright then, Kyle Burgess.” I say, patting his shoulder.

“I’m Kyle Dashaw.”

My heart stops beating inside my ribcage. The blood pools at my gloved fingertips. Without turning around, I ask, “Shouldn’t you have your father’s name?”

“Mom insisted after Dad died.”

Of course she did.

“Was she Amy Dashaw, by any chance?” I know I’m giving myself away by asking, but I can’t help it.

“Yeah, but she’s dead now too. Grandma calls it a tragedy.”

I choke—a tightly wound knot rising in my throat. I put a hand to my mouth, turning the betrayal into a cough. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I whisper, voice bordering on authenticity.

Amy Dashaw.

Foil.

Regret.

Saw through me like a prophetess—and I hated her for it. Before I fell in love with her for it. That was before I became. . . whatever exactly this is.

I never thought she’d marry after us.

But she did—and had a kid to boot.

“Well,” I say, forcing a breezy air, “I’ll see you later, Kyle Dashaw.”

“You’ll come tomorrow?” the boy asks, hopefulness sparkling in his eyes.

I swallow hard, already stepping away. “Tomorrow has a way of changing her mind about me. We’ll see.”

“Okay.”

In a heartbeat I’ve left the boy’s corner, making my way back to Marianne and the others. I’m almost too late. She looks tired, sad, and not as open as before. Giving her my number on a card I printed at the library, I assure her of my budding friendship with her grandson.

“I hope to return here often to this charming home,” I say, slipping into my overcoat at the door.

The other guest file past, weeping and wailing alike. I feel eyes on me, but not the kind that belong to mourners. I look, but don’t see anyone out of the ordinary. Beside me, of course.

I press Marianne’s hand once more—three is my lucky number—before ducking out into the luxury condo’s hallway. I take the stairs over the packed elevators, partly to work off the teacakes, and partly to clear my suddenly full head.

This isn’t going the way I planned.

Not.

At.

All.

The star I was born under must’ve been cracked from the start.

Outside in the ice-tinged autumn evening, I unbutton my suit jacket and sling it over my shoulder. The cold burns, but I welcome it. I need something to help me remember what skin feels like again.

Real skin.

Like Amy’s. . .

“Stop that,” I mutter under my breath, crossing over to the wrong side of town.

Then, footsteps.

Of course.

The universe never misses a chance to kick a man when he’s already down.

A rough hand grabs hold of my collar. I stop.

“Tell me, are you a big one or the skinny, gray-haired kind?” I ask, forcing lightness.

The hand digs into my neck. “Guess.”

I give an exaggerated sigh—but my stomach twists at the man’s voice.

It’s a big one.

Needless to say, I’m hauled off to a dark and dingy hotel room with one light bulb and too many cobwebs. A bald man stands opposite from The Big One and me, looking smug. Bad sign. Not that I’ve met any good signs so far.

“And who are you?” I ask, annoyed.

The bald man straightens. “Quinn.”

I tilt my head, mouthing the name. “Quinn. I like it. Sleek, simple—a lot like your head, actually. Good to stay on brand.”

Quinn’s face does that thing where it tries to implode. The Big One knees me in the stomach and I double over, hacking pitifully.

“Shut it, weasel.” The Big One hisses.

Quinn steps closer. He puts a boot to my shoulder, pressing me down to my knees. I glower up at him, pulse flickering. I kneel to no one. But right now, getting out of here alive sounds more important than my appearance.

“What do you want?” I snap.

“We’ve been tracking the Burgesses for months. Six months of hard, meticulous work. . .” he twists his boot. Something in my shoulder cracks. I bite back the pain. “And you show up, let yourself inside, and start wooing the grievers in less than two hours.”

I shrug. “So I’ve got talent. Go blame my father.”

Quinn smiles—something I never want to see again. “Exactly. You’re good. We like good. . .” he leans in, lowering his voice. His breath smells like old fish and peanut butter. I try not to hurl. “We pay for good.”

My eyes widen without permission, my thoughts race like greyhounds.

Pay.

Money.

Freedom.

The bald man catches my look. He steps back, motioning for The Big One to release me with a triumphant air. It makes my skin crawl.

“What do you want from them?” I ask, lurching to my feet and brushing off my jacket like it’ll make a difference.

I don’t ask about the pay.

Not yet.

Quinn spreads out his arms with a dry chuckle. “What does everyone want from the oldest family in town?”

“Coin and cheap jewelry?”

“I want papers. Files. Access. Incrimination. Ralph Burgess has a story to tell—a dark one—and I want to root it out. People pay well for dirt on saints.”

I cock my head. “So this is just some vigilante justice thing, then.”

He frowns. The Big One stiffens behind me. “Don’t test my generosity in letting you live, weasel.”

I glare right back. “The name’s Casper March.”

“Like the sisters from that school-girls’ book?”

That shiny-headed, fish-breathed, no-good piece of undercooked spittle—

“No. Like the god of war.”

He laughs right in my face. I don’t back down, jaw ticking. At last, Quinn inhales sharply, and mops at his brow.

“Call yourself what you like. You’re still a weasel. So do you want the money or not?”

“Why should I work for you?” I say, adjusting my posture. “I could just report you to the authorities right now. Abduction, bad intent, and crimes of fashion will surely do for now.”

The Big One growls under his breath.

Quinn steadies him with a gesture. “Because they wouldn’t listen to you.”

I frown. “Why not?”

“Because we both know you’re the farthest thing from an honest citizen. Stress on honest. Besides—” he taps the chest pocket of his black coat. Only then do I realize the lump beneath, a rigid shape similar to a folded letter. I freeze, mind spinning. “I have something of yours. Something you’ve been trying to run away from.”

I lung forward. I can’t help myself. The Big One hauls me back, twisting my hands out of the way with a painful jerk.

“Give that back.” I say, voice so low even I can barely hear it.

Quinn removes his hand from his chest pocket and holds it out to me. “No. Not until you give me what I want.”

I stare at him, breath ragged, heart thrashing against my ribcage.

No one should have ever found that piece of paper.

None of this should be happening.

This wasn’t my plan.

Forcing my hands out of The Big One’s grasp. Stepping only as close as I need to Quinn, I shake his hand. His fingers are cold and as dry as the kind of earth people spread over your grave. It reminds me of Amy. And the paper I should have burned years ago.

“Fine,” I say. “But on one condition.”

His eyes narrow. “What condition?”

I straighten my jacket, ignoring the ache in my ribs. “We do it my way.”

The bald man pauses, considering. Because men like him always think they’re in control. Poor, poor Quinn. He thinks he’s negotiating with a weasel. He has no idea he’s dealing with a fox.

“Deal,” he says.

I can’t stop myself from smiling—big, bright, and full of teeth—because it’s the only thing I have left.

Figures. The star I crawled out under has always been crooked.

“Perfect,” I say. “Because you’re going to start babysitting.”

Quinn stares. The Big One actually tilts his head like a confused ox.

“What are you talking about?”

“You want the Burgesses for their secrets. I want their money. That kid just wants someone to stay,” I say, brushing past them. “We’re all vultures circling the same carcass.”

When I reach the doorway I pause, letting the cold air whip my face.

“The difference is,” I say. “I’m the one who bothered to learn the kid’s name.”

Then I leave them in their cobwebbed little lair, already plotting how to turn this entire disaster into my next opportunity. Because if Quinn wants the Burgesses, he’s going to have to go through me. And I’m not about to let him near the kid.

I still don’t like children. I still don’t want children—never mind volunteering to be a counselor—but I’ve never had much say in what happens under the star I was born beneath.

But for once, that crooked star finally stopped mumbling.

And if the universe wants to trip me again, it’ll have to try harder.