Chapter 9

Next on my list is to find out a little bit more about Grant. Just the usual stuff: Why was he mysteriously flying around my building before it collapsed? Where did he get his powers and what implications does that have for our world? Does he want a buffet or pre-ordered individual plates at our wedding? (Providing, I don’t send him to jail for whatever nefarious crimes he may or may not be committing.)

The last one’s a joke. There’s no way I’d have a buffet. Too much can be left to chance with a buffet. No, if I were to ever get married, I would have every single detail tacked down. I would probably lose my sanity, but my wedding would be beautiful.

Now, I consider myself to be somewhat of a shark at tracking people down. A lot of people think that lawyers just get handed a folder with the names and addresses of people who are happy to cooperate with your case. That’s not the case.

Especially with environmental law.

As a non-government, for-profit firm, we have to pick up hints of wrongdoings and build a case out of them—one that leaves both our wallets and the world a better place. Not an easy balance.

Building the witness list and interviewing people is by far the hardest part about my job. I have to find whistleblowers whose existence have been scrubbed out by the company. I have to find workers who seem inclined to turncoat. Barring actual leads, I have to find people who could have been at the right place at the right time or who might have seen something they didn’t realize was important.

I’m not the most naturally talented, but I am the most tenacious. I’ve been described as desperately dogged by my superiors.

I framed that performance review.

However, even I’m striking out on tracking down Grant, i.e. the Garnet Defender, i.e. the Crimson Streak.

I’ve creeped over a hundred Grants in my area on social media and came up with nothing. Well, besides a lot of older gentlemen. While it was dark last night, I don’t think it was dark enough that I could have made that mistake.

I also searched every imaginable post that pertained to the Garnet Defender. The posts only go back about a month, and none of them are any good. Every post seems to be about the same: a blurry picture of him saving someone or something. Honestly, the pictures are all so bad, I can’t even be sure it’s him in the pictures.

It could be anyone doing the saving in those pictures.

It’s a dead end.

Unfortunately, being unable to find him online leaves only one option: the real world. I might be a little socially gauche—I confess I do ask for detailed five-year plans on first dates—even I know that showing up at your one-night stand’s place the next day is all kinds of crazy.

I like Grant. I like him so much, I’d be willing to waive my policy of hearing five-year plans and settle for hearing about what he wants to do up until next Tuesday, but this is bigger. My intuition, coupled with basic deductive skills, tells me that something is going on. The fumigation, the building collapsing, and my timely rescue are all connected. The timing is just too convenient. I have to start tugging at any string I can if I want the mystery to unravel.

I sigh. Maybe in another timeline, I play it cool and Grant walks past me as I’m looking ravishing while being surrounded by a group of people who are laughing at my hilarious jokes, and that’s how we’ll reconnect.

Here and now though, I’m heading to his building.

Goodbye second date. Hello protection order.

Grant’s building is even swankier in the dusky light. It’s the kind of rich where the doorman looks like a secret agent with his fancy uniform and could probably kick your ass like one too. He’s the sort of handsome that could be described as silver fox, except that he’s built more like a Clydesdale.

He assesses me as I approach the building. When I’m still twenty feet away, he folds his arms across his chest. Evidently, he has determined that I don’t belong. Whatever. I do belong—the imprints of my ass on the glass windows of the penthouse prove that I do.

“Good evening,” he says in a voice that emphatically does not wish me a good evening.

“Hi,” I answer back, again regretting that I didn’t dress for the opportunity to work. “I’d like to pop up to the penthouse.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “And I’d like to join Prime Minister Brenner at the opera tonight. It was always my childhood dream to sing.”

He stares at me, his face as wooden as his tree trunk-sized biceps. Again, I know I’m not amazing at all the social bits, but I have no idea if he’s joking or not. I really, really hope he’s not because this burly doorman singing opera is a visual I hope to remember always.

Or maybe I do hope he’s joking.

Missed dreams are sad.

“Right,” I say awkwardly. “I’ll just be—” I gesture behind him to the lobby. Technically, I gesture to the water fountain inside the lobby. My point is still made.

The doorman shifts to block my view. Apparently, I’m not allowed to see the fountain.

“I’m, uh, sort of seeing the guy in the penthouse,” I say because showing up at his home isn’t going to make me seem desperate enough. No, I really want to shoot myself in the foot here. Saying you’re dating someone after a casual hookup is the reddest of all the flags. Dr. Debbie would tear me a new one if she knew I was saying this.

The doorman looks me over. “Is that so? You and him?”

I might be overthinking things, but he seems a bit incredulous. Nice place or not, I am penthouse girlfriend material. Objectively, I’m considered to be attractive—my face is very symmetrical. I have a good job. I’m well-educated. I floss.

“Yes,” I snip at him. “I was here last night.”

He looks me over with a face that was made for playing poker. I’m insanely jealous of it. I have a slight nostril flare that can give me away when I’m stretching the truth. Thank goodness video recording isn’t allowed in court or else opposing counsel would all know my tell.

“There aren’t any visitors logged for visiting the penthouse last night,” he says finally.

Well, shit.

“I, uh, arrived through the balcony.”

“Of the penthouse?”

I nod. Despite my lack of nostril flare, there’s no way he thinks I’m telling the truth. I wouldn’t believe me.

“Just, please, trust me. Can you call up Grant. He’ll tell you. I really, really need to talk to him.”

“I think you should leave now,” he says, crushing my hopes of retaining some of my dignity for when I see Grant.

“No, listen. Please! Just call him. He’ll tell you. He’s actually expecting me!” There’s a desperate waver in my voice that I would zero in on and destroy in a witness.

“Miss, you need to go.” His voice is polite, but firmer than a granite mattress.

“Just listen—” I practically yell. I’m not just showing up at his home, I’m making a scene outside it.

Fucking wonderful.

I really hope he’s up to something bad so I’m not actually blowing any chance I have with a good guy. Not that I ever make it to a second date, but since last night wasn’t really a date, I was hoping to see him again.

“No, you listen,” the doorman hisses, leaning in. “I’ve indulged you long enough. You’re not expected in the penthouse. If the owners were expecting you, then you’d probably know they’re not here. You’d know that they’re an eighty-year-old couple who visit once a year purely to see the cherry blossoms.” He straightens up and regains his composure. “Have a nice evening.”

For the first time in my life, I have nothing to argue.

I believe the doorman, which means I don’t believe Grant.

I got fooled.

As I walk away, each of the clues that I should’ve picked up on clicks into place. We came in through the balcony—because who would need to lock the balcony of the penthouse? There were no personal touches of him anywhere. He had no idea where anything was. He probably didn’t even know where the bedroom was, which is why he wouldn’t take me there. And, he gave me stale diet bars to eat.

It would appear that my natural pessimism is right once again: there’s something villainous about Grant. He’s definitely a part of some plot.

Or is that selling him short?

Maybe the reason he was at the building when it collapsed is much simpler than I thought it was. He said it himself: he can manipulate objects’ center of gravity. The question is—how big of an object can he control?

Maybe he didn’t save me so much as he cleaned up his own mess?

These questions, along with the fiery humiliation from my encounter with the doorman, have me skipping dinner in my quest to find out more, or really anything, about Grant.

If that even is his real name.

Despite my hours of research, I don’t turn up anything.

At least, not until I move on to the next item on my to-do list: look into the Zagreus Hart files.