Chapter Five

”I”m panicking,” Tatiana declared, pacing the floor of our loft. She wore a set of paint-ridden overalls, with matching streaks up her arms.

”I see this. Why are we panicking?” I said in between bites of cereal.

”It”s weird without Reagan. It”s been two weeks.”

”I know, but she”s doing great with her grandma. Is that what you”re panicking about?”

”Not only.” She dropped down to sit beside me. ”The gallery show is in a month. I still need two more pieces.”

”Uh huh…” I listened to her, setting my bowl down so that I could face her. ”What else?”

”Isn”t that enough?” She huffed and frowned at me. Her hand swept her messy hair behind her ear, and I noted the white paint stuck in it as well.

”Yes, but there”s more. I know you.” I wiggled my fingers in her face. ”I see it.”

”Wyatt”s coming over tonight…”

”Yeah, and? He”s been here a million times. You”ve been to his as well.”

”But it”s different…”

”What”s different?”

”We”re cooking and gonna watch a movie,” she said, her eyes widening.

”Okay…” I jabbed my thumb over my shoulder. ”I”ll bail. I”m already planning to chill with Nikita—”

”No, you should stay—”

”On your date?” I scoffed. ”Tati…c”mon. What”s going on?”

”This is going to sound shallow or fucked up, but I don”t want to mess things up, Jags.” Seriousness suddenly wrapped around her.

”Okay…tell me.” My heart sank and I sat up straighter.

She drew in a slow breath, her eyes lingering in her lap for a moment. ”I”ve never been with a trans guy. What if I mess shit up?”

”How can you mess it up?” Once I realized the nature of her worries, calmness settled around me. This I could help with. At least I thought so anyway.

”I just…want to do right by him. I don”t want to make him feel uncomfortable or not give him what he needs…”

”Listen, Tati.” I scooted closer to her. ”Wyatt knows what he needs, and he”ll tell you. You gotta trust that. His body, his mind, and heart—he knows what”s up. Trust him and trust yourself.”

”I don”t want to hurt him or be insensitive, you know?” Distress painted her features and her eyes shimmered with the mist of tears.

”You won”t be.” I smiled while taking both of her nervous hands in mine. ”You care about him, and you have for a long time. If you”re scared or worried, talk to him. He”s a talker and a communicator. Talk to him and don”t feel pressured to do anything. There”s no timeline for life or relationships.”

”Yeah.” She sniffled and wiped her cheek on her shoulder. ”True.”

”Relax. If you want me to stay for a while I will.”

”Where will you go after?”

”Nikita and I are going to Thiago”s. He”s hosting a game night.”

”What about Frankie?”

”She”s going to Jordan”s then Wildrose like usual.”

”Okay.” She sniffled and drew in a deep breath. ”Panic over. Sorry.”

”Don”t apologize for being sensitive. Cool?” I nudged her chin with my knuckle, and she nodded before pulling me into a hug.

”Cool.” She chuckled and squeezed me tight. ”Thanks.”

”Of course.”

We parted ways at that point, and Tatiana returned to her painting. I watched for a while as her brush strokes brought layers to the canvas. The sound, the smell, and the calmness she embodied made my mouth water in a way. I craved the conviction of my work, and the melancholic hiss of the can that brought my emotions to life. I thought about it, and reduced to pacing as I considered returning to Frankie”s to mark up her second wall.

”You could try a canvas, you know,” Tatiana said, seemingly out of nowhere. ”I see that look on your face.”

”Walls are more fun…”

”Get a wall-size canvas. Or take commissions, Jags. C”mon. How many people have made you offers over the years?”

I shrugged then returned to pacing.

Eventually, work thoughts returned to the surface and the cold case that hadn”t moved much since the interview with one of the now-adult victims. The Millers hadn”t contacted me and so I figured they were just as icy as the police.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and a text from Clementine filled the screen. I clicked it to see yet another photo of my old, faded street art, this time at the corner of the farmer”s market.

This is you. I know it.

LOL it is. Very old.

How much?

Hmm. Twenty years, maybe.

Can”t believe it still stands. Onward.

Onward to what?

I reckon a scavenger hunt is on my agenda for this weekend.

What?

I fancy your art. I”m going to find it.

Okay…I looked up from my phone, puzzled by the exchange.

”What”s with the face?” Tati asked, gesturing to me with a paintbrush coated in blue.

”One of my colleagues is looking for my tags,” I said, rather plainly.

”Okay.” Tati stood there, blinking expectantly. ”And?”

”It”s strange.”

”Why is it strange?”

”What does she care about my pieces for?” I frowned at my phone suddenly. ”My old ones on the streets.”

”Some people just like things. Why are you getting all butt-hurt over it?” Tati shoved my shoulder affectionately on the way past.

”I dunno.” I looked back at my phone then flicked through the text with Clem. Most of the messages between us belonged to our work conversations, but the last handful accompanied pictures of my old messes.

”Well, figure it out, girl.” Tati pointed to the shower. ”Gonna clean up.”

””Kay.”

This is incredible. Clem”s statement followed an image of the art I created on the opposing street of the King County Archives in the Central District. I never got to take part in the graffiti battle, so I made my own. Illegally.

The worn and faded image of my Fight the Future mural brought a smile to my face. Fond memories of rolling trash bins and stacking crates to get up there made me chuckle. The cartoon faces of Mulder and Scully from The X-Files loomed over an audience of caricatures touting political signs of the time. More ”My Body My Choice” joined ”Love is Love” and ”Resist.”

I didn”t reply, but Clem continued, How old were you when you made this?

Probably fifteen.

Strong views for someone so young.

I had a lot to fight for then.

You don”t now?

Her question brought me pause, but I replied, Time”s have changed.

They always do.

I left it there for now, pocketing my phone when a knock sounded on the door. I hopped up, knowing it was Wyatt, and we greeted each other with our usual hug.

”Whoa. You don”t stink like weed,” I said, grinning after.

”I mean, I try.” He popped the collar of his shirt then chuckled. ”What”s up?”

”Chillin”. About to head out to meet Nikita and Thiago.” I glanced over my shoulder. ”Tati”s in the shower.”

”Cool.” He paused for a moment. ”Why is this awkward suddenly? Normally, I”d go eat your food while waiting for her.”

”You”ve moved out of the friend zone, bro.” I chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder. ”You can still eat the food.”

”What you got?” He smirked and headed to the kitchen.

”Pizza. Vegan meatballs. Taco stuff.”

”A”ight.” He opened the fridge then pulled out the bowl of cold veggie balls. ”You make these?”

”Nah. Tati. They”re good though.” I handed him a fork then took up one for myself. We dug into the food and ate it without bothering to heat it up.

”Been working on that trick. Still clipping it sometimes,” he said between bites.

”You”ll get it.”

”Sometimes I act like I”m heading to the X Games.” He smirked and set down his fork.

”Listen, we”re a community of artists. We dream when we can dream, you know? We all have side hustles or main hustles so we can side-art.”

He laughed at that and nodded. ”Yeah, man. For real.”

Tatiana returned to us a few minutes later. She, like Wyatt, wore casual clothes but they both appeared tidier in other places. Their hair, the lack of paint or art supplies, and clean nails spoke volumes for all of us. I, however, did not have clean nails. Pretty much ever.

”Hi,” Tati said, greeting him with a giant hug as she fell into his arms.

”Hey.” Wyatt”s grin spread from ear to ear as they rocked back and forth, ending with him lifting Tati from her feet for a moment. ”Missed you.”

”Missed you, too.” Her cheeks reddened, and she smiled. ”Go away now, Jags.”

I laughed and held my hands up as I backed away. ”Wow. Fastest invite rescinding ever.”

Wyatt”s broad smile never faded as they pressed their foreheads together. The two of them, love-struck and adorable, warmed my ever-cooled insides as I made for the door.

”Later, lovebirds.”

”Later,” they both called, and I locked the door on my way out.

Seeing two of my best friends so happy with each other brought light to the darkness that often followed me. In all our years of friendship, as quirky and as flighty as we all tended to be at times, I”d watched many of them find their partners in life or partners in the moment. Tatiana and I were always the closest, and when she got pregnant with Reagan after a brief relationship with a man, it gave us both a sense of purpose. We”d been friends since we met in juvie, and we got our shit together in the context of our friendship. Reagan solidified that. We needed to give her something we didn”t have… Stability.

”The Lost Kids reunited,” Nikita announced as she tossed her arm around me when I arrived at Thiago”s. ”Minus a few. Where”s Frankie? Fuckin” around?”

”Always. Wyatt and Tati are chillin” at home.” I returned her hug then accepted the beer Thiago shoved in my palm. ”Thanks, dude.”

”Welcome. Pizza and wings good with you?” Thiago smiled, his charming, mustache-ridden smile that welcomed anyone to his space.

”Anything is good, thanks. How are you folks?”

”Doing good. Love the piece at Frankie”s. It looks so good.” Nikita gathered her braids over her shoulder then bundled them up in a wrap. ”Bro, it”s hot in here.”

”Thanks.” I chuckled at her statement as I slipped out of my jacket.

”Listen, you think running this epic game studio keeps a place cool? Wrong.” He stopped beside the futon where he had snacks and beer on the coffee table, then pointed to the entrance to the room on our right. ”It”s cooler in the game room.”

”Only you would pay for a two bedroom in Seattle just to have one a nerd studio,” teased Nikita.

”And we all benefit from my sacrifices.” He let out a dramatic sigh. ”Okay, so I figured we could do a little couch co-op, a little Call of Duty, a bit of Mortal Kombat. What do you say?”

”I”m here for it all,” I said then took a sip of beer.

”Same.” Nikita snagged one from the sofa as well as a bowl of chips with the salsa. ”Let”s get it on.”

”Kinky. I like it,” Thiago said and we both smacked him when he walked between us. ”Hey!”

Nikita tossed him a glare that could kill. ”Don”t be typical.”

”A”right! Sheesh.” He shook his head then picked up the rest of the snacks. ”There are wet wipes for our hands after we eat. Don”t fuck my controllers.”

”He said with conviction in his voice,” I muttered, and he scowled.

Nikita laughed at us as we finally settled into Thiago”s pride and joy. I loved Thiago”s gaming room. Four sleek leather reclining chairs sat in the center of the room where three huge flat screens hung on the walls around us. They appeared weightless in their design and with updated tech, seemed to be floating. The chairs swiveled in all directions allowing the player to face whichever monitor they preferred. Consoles of every kind filled protective glass cases under each television, and the wires were kept in neat control. Behind us, a desktop computer with a gaming chair and sick rig held its space between the two windows that faced the fire escape. One window held a large air conditioner that ran quietly to cool down the room.

I took up space in one of the chairs, while my friends fell into the others. Thiago showed us how the tray rose from the side arm of the chair and held our drinks and snacks.

”You broke the bank in this room, T. Seriously. My god.” I set my drink down and reclined in the chair. ”It was good last time I was here, but this is beyond.”

”Yeah, well. I”ve been slinging for an M.C. so that helps. Twenty guys, some ladies so far. All good,” he said while walking around to turn on all the consoles.

”What”s an M.C.?” I asked.

”Motorcycle Club. They wanted my blackwork for their logo and they”re all getting it inked. Nice bunch of folks. Most of them are kinda older,” he told us before returning to his seat.

”Be careful doing that, T. What if they”re hooked up with some bad stuff? Also, why are they going to you? Don”t those folks usually have their own artist?”

”They did, but their guy died. Part of them getting the ink is paying homage to him. He had cancer,” he said. ”Frankie hooked me up. She knew one of the lady riders.”

”Of course she did,” muttered Nikita. ”She knows everyone.”

I spent time listening to their shop talk while we warmed up with a silly couch co-op game about moving packages together. Of everyone at the shop, only Wyatt and I didn”t actually tattoo people. Wyatt, however, practiced scarification with his art so even he had a hand in working with people”s skin. I, however, did not. Sometimes I felt like the odd one out and tack on being a cop to boot, that didn”t help.

I settled into gaming, not saying much in that time, while my thoughts ran a little wild. For some reason, the intrusions chose to focus on tormenting me about my lack of belonging. I wasn”t a cop-enough-cop, an artist-enough-artist, or anything in particular. I”d had nearly twenty years to sort out my identity, and still yet it didn”t seem quite solid to me. Maybe I wasn”t meant for that sort of thing. The sort of belonging or connection that bore smooth edges like Tati”s paintings or the curved lines of tight ink that took hours, days, weeks to complete. Maybe I was meant for jagged edges and pieces finished on the fly.

***

The conference room filled again with my colleagues vested in solving the cold case. The Millers, one stoic, the other pacing, worked in tandem while they presented their piece. We listened to Ainsley, the medical examiner, as she presented her findings and the information she gathered after I shared everything that Clementine gave me as well.

”There was evidence on all of the victims of sexual trauma which in all cases appeared to occur before the time of death,” presented Ainsley. Outside of her homelife or Jordan life, she appeared professional, but mostly in brief periods before she would break role. ”The C.O.D. for all victims was a captive bolt pistol shot to the forehead before exsanguination. From the positioning and angle of the bolt, plus the injury status, I suspect all of the victims were on their knees with their arms behind their back at the time. Execution style.”

”Fucking christ, this bastard is a fucking…bastard,” exclaimed Sali.

”It appears Sali has run out of adjectives.” Ainsley turned toward Sali, her hands tucked into the pockets of her trousers. ”Which is quite horrifying.”

”Can it, Monsley,” blurted Sali with a scowl to follow.

”Monson,” muttered Maggie before elbowing her. ”Calm your face, Sal.”

”You calm your tits.” Sali flailed her arms, then dropped down to sit beside her wife.

”Listen, you took on this case of your own volition.” Agent Donovan pointed at Sali. ”Calm your tits, indeed.”

Sali flipped off Donovan and I tried to hide a smirk. Zay stared wide-eyed, seemingly torn between being appalled and amused.

”How can it be a female perp with all of this? Have you known a female serial to behave this way?” asked the gentle, seemingly unmoved tone of Bryant who presented her map data prior to Ainsley.

”Yeah,” answered Sali. ”But the motives and means are different than men.”

”How so?” I asked, when calmness seemed to wrap around Sali as she shared the information. She suddenly embodied the spirit of a teacher or a lecturer, and her off-the-wall nature appeared to tame itself.

”Males tend to kill for sexual pleasure and control. It”s rare for women to feel the same compulsion. Females tend to be more money-focused. Most common motives are financial gain, revenge, or sometimes hedonistic pursuits such as thrills or sex. Very few kill out of lust or sexual deviance. Women tend to target people who are close to them. Spouses, children.” She counted off on her fingers while she spoke. ”Poisoning is a common means like asphyxiation or something quieter. Rarely are they sexually deviant or this level of violence.”

”But this kind of fits in though. If the perp is female, it might not be sexual deviance per say, but the motives could be revenge or thrill-seeking. Or something more. Even Eileen Wuornos, who shot her victims point-blank, had a motive underscored by trauma,” I said, leaning forward in my chair when the conversation grew more intriguing. ”What if that”s similar here?”

”A basis in trauma…” Sali repeated, thoughtfully. ”We don”t yet know why we have such a binary division between male and female perps, but one day we might.”

”There was an old book that divided female serials into supposed seven archetypes.” Maggie joined Sali”s lecture, and together they commanded the attention of the room. ”The first and most known is the Black Widow, who kills people close to her, and the Angel of Death that often kills hospital or nursing home victims. The Sexual Predator is the rarest of all for females.”

”The Revenge Seekers, the Profit or Crime Killers, the Team Killers, and the Questionable Sanity Killers are the rest. There”s also the division of works alone vs. works with others,” added Sali.

Maggie continued as they worked in tandem, ”Act alone are theBlack Widows, Angels of Death, Sexual Predators, Revenge Seekers, and Profit or Crime Killers. Act with others are obviously the Team Killers and the Question of Sanity Killers. A lot of history”s unsolved murders tend to belong to females, too, but it”s hard to prove.”

”Wuornos was the only known sexual predator studied in our times,” Sali ended the lecture by stating.

”You said that”s rare for a sexual deviant or sexual predator type serial to surface…” I began, glancing around the faces in the room as they watched me. ”What if that”s why this case was profiled wrong? Not only did they miss the female angle but the rare type, too?”

”Sexual predator or deviance rooted in trauma. Is that your assertion, Roth?” Sali”s narrowed gaze bore into me as if daring me to disagree.

”Um…yeah.” I glanced from her to Maggie whose mouth twitched with a threatened smile.

Sali clapped her hands once. ”Cool. Let”s play it like that. Bryant, do me a solid and rerun your parameters for victims of sex crimes or violent crimes of this nature. Just the victims. Go back maybe forty years if you can, assuming our perp would be somewhere in her mid-twenties to mid-forties at this point. Search for victims. Let”s play the trauma angle. Living and dead.”

Rosie saluted Sali then looked to Walsh.

”Don”t look at me. I”ve lost all control of this situation,” he said through a grumble. ”Go for it.”

Rosie”s sweet face turned skeptical, but she stood anyway and picked up her tablet. ”On it.”

”Car,” Sali called and turned to Donovan. ”Can you get Bryant access to Interpol and CODIS?”

”We gave Wright and Monson access to CODIS. Interpol I can work on,” she said, her stone-cold face never changing. ”Let”s get Wright to look at those genealogical connections a little closer. Same angle, broader scale victims this time. We can cross reference Bryant”s work and hers from the different angle.”

Sali and Maggie both looked at me and I started.

”You want me to do that?” I tripped over my words and they both nodded.

”Yup,” they said.

”Okay.”

”Guerra,” summoned Sali, making Zay jump. ”You”re with us.”

”Where we going?” He rose with them when Sali waved for him to follow.

”To see a lady about some dogs.”

”Dogs?” He followed her at a hurried pace as the group of us disbanded for tasks.

I lingered behind, leaving only the shared space with Donovan.

”You look shocked,” she said, swaying side to side in her chair.

”Slightly. Things feel like they go from stagnant to warp speed.”

”Welcome to active crimes. Going from Patrol to Cold Case is like going from unpredictable pace to mediocre pace. When cold cases go homicide, it picks up speed.”

”Patrol was always a mix. Slow days, chaos days, riot days, sleepy days. It was everything on and off. A variety,” I said, flicking at the tab of my energy drink can. ”Cold cases slowed down hard core.”

”It does. You pace it at your own go. Do you like that?”

I nodded, glancing up at her then. ”It gives me time to think and plan. Took some adjustments though, at first.”

”Of course. Sali comes in like a wrecking ball and Maggie applies the brakes. But it can be a lot if you don”t know them.”

”Did Sali always work like that?”

”Always.” Donovan nodded as she stood. ”And while she”s brilliant, she”ll always give new detectives the same piece of advice.” She stopped at the door, her hand at rest on the jamb.

”What”s that?”

”Don”t be like her.” Donovan nodded then disappeared around the corner.

Her ominous warning hung heavily in the air as I turned toward the window where rain pummeled the glass.

”Every time,” I muttered as I stood. ”Every single time.”

When I finally made it to Clementine”s lab a while later, I wore a jacket with a hood so that I didn”t show up looking like a damp ragdoll. The security waved me in, providing me with yet another visitor badge, but with each visit, the transition grew smoother.

Clementine didn”t expect me this time so when I made it to her lab, I found her hunched over a microscope while Celtic music played quietly in the background. Robotic machines whirred around her. Mechanical arms swung smoothly, with an agility that scared the crap out of me because of the space-age tech. I watched, in awe, as they circled her head, lifting tiny objects and placing them in their rightful spots. One after the other, as if she cast spells to make them do her bidding. It seemed otherworldly, and for a moment I felt like I tumbled into an alternative universe where superheroes soared over our heads to land on the Space Needle in romantic gestures.

The first thing I noticed about Clementine that day was the way her freshly cut hair lay smooth down her back; in a long, honey-hued V that tumbled partly over her shoulders at the first layers, then touched the belt of her lab coat at the very bottom. I caught myself smirking then started when her voice broke my reverie.

”He likes you,” she said, her voice a thick croon.

”Huh?” I glanced around me then moved closer to her out of concern. ”Who?”

”Artie.” She leaned away from the microscope, but never looked at me. She moved about her workstation, lifting a slide, replacing it, then continuing to work.

”Who”s Artie?” My brow furrowed as we stood in the empty room.

”Artemis,” she said, without an ounce of explanation.

”Artemis,” I repeated blandly.

”Yes.”

Crickets chirped.

No elaboration followed and she didn”t speak again. She didn”t address me, welcome me, or even acknowledge my presence for what seemed like several minutes.

A gentle tap on my shoulder urged me to turn to my right. When the creepy robot arm appeared an inch from my nose, a gasp left my lips. I stepped back when its eyeball-shaped camera lens swirled around as if analyzing me. Across the metallic bar, the word ARTEMIS etched in black letters answered the question of before.

”Rude,” I said with a huff.

A tiny snicker escaped Clem, and her gaze flickered in my direction. ”Give him a pat. Don”t offend him.”

”I”m not petting a robot.”

A tickle met the top of my head, and I slowly tilted my back to catch the motion of the freakish arm stroking my hair.

”Clem!” I ducked away from it, bolting to the side, and running my fingers through my hair.

She turned in her seat now, her eyes twinkling with mischief despite her only mild smile. Her shoulders remained relaxed as she folded her arms across her middle. As someone who rarely made eye contact, when she did, her gaze seemed to tear me to bits.

”I thought you were much tougher than that. I mean…you have a gun and all.”

”Shooting a robot doesn”t do anything to it.” I brushed my fingers through my hair again. ”Way to freak me out.”

She said nothing, but the corner of her mouth twitched with a threatened smile. ”You”re welcome.”

I narrowed my eyes at her, and for a fleeting moment, her teeth nipped her bottom lip before she turned around to face her workstation again.

”To what do I owe this surprise visit?”

”Um…new parameters for your genealogical research.”

”You have my attention,” she said, now looking up from her work to turn to me. Other than her moment of teasing, she didn”t pay me much mind.

”We”re working the female angle of the perp, but we need to go back in time a bit. Can you search further back for victims of trauma that might”ve come in contact, or shared that genetic link?” I asked, not quite knowing how to ask for what I needed to ask.

She paused, her lips pursing for a few strange seconds before she said, ”Search victim pools for the link.”

”Victim pools, but coded for trauma. If possible.”

”Maybe. Possibly.”

”You”ve been given access to CODIS. Interpol is coming up. The FBI arranged it,” I added, which seemed to unlock her.

”What kind of trauma?” She flew out of her seat and nearly slid over to the desk where the keyboard that connected the computer system sat.

”Um…all?”

She tossed a glare over her shoulder. ”Well, that won”t work. Narrow down the parameters.”

”Sheesh. Okay. Uh…” I moved over to join her at the desk while her fingers flew across the keyboard.

”Use your instincts, Jagger. Come on.”

Her sudden imperiousness shocked me, and I found myself somewhat floored. ”Uh…”

Clem gazed up at me with a stern expression, narrowed brows, and lips pressed firmly together. The expectant nature made me worry that I would let her down.

”Female, all ages, sexual trauma, trafficking, witnessing of a violent crime,” I blurted out.

She said nothing, but turned to begin typing. I”d never seen anyone type that fast in my life.

”Done,” she said, a moment later. ”It should turn out some results, but they might be far-reaching and too much.”

”Oh. Can you make it living victims?”

The glare. Oh, the glare that nearly killed me. Daggers left her eyes, stabbing me in the chest, as she lifted a single finger and pounded one key on the keyboard. The entire system beeped, and she turned around to begin furiously typing again.

”S-sorry,” I tripped over my apology and gulped.

Silence, as before, until the computer began running wild searches that scrolled across the huge flat screen.

”Done…again,” she said, finally.

”Thanks.”

”Do you know Vhils?”

”Huh?”

”Vhils,” she repeated, turning to face me now.

”Can”t say I know anyone by that name. Why?”

”He”s a street artist.” She pulled her phone from her pocket to show me images of a portrait on a sandy street. When she zoomed the photo in, I could see the drill marks in the plaster relief forms of old walls.

”Incredible.” I accepted her phone when she handed it to me and explored the gallery of his work. ”I feel like I”ve seen this before but didn”t really pay attention.”

”He”s a Portuguese street artist. When I was in Lisbon, I saw his work and made an effort to find it in other places when I visit.”

”Does he have work here in Seattle?”

”I”m not sure. He does in Boston and L.A. I think he did a show at the Seattle Art Museum recently,” she burst forth, in a pressured ramble that shared details so quickly I fought to keep up. She broke into a speech about his history, his shows all over the world, where he studied in London, the photo of him in The Times, and his mission to reveal the stories inside walls all over the world. ”His birth name is Alexandre Manual Dias Farto,” she said, with an accent that I thought gave his name the perfect authentic sounds. But what did I know anyway?

The information flooded me, filling up every crevice of my brain space while I looked through the photos until I came across one of her standing beside one of his pieces. The bright sunny nature of the photo, her summery outfit, and the sandy concrete street reminded me of some of Tatiana”s pictures when she took Reagan to see her grandmother last year.

”Is this in Lisbon?” I asked, turning the phone to show her.

”Yes,” she answered, simply.

She didn”t seem to care that I”d stumbled onto photos of Vhils” work with her in them. As before, the first thing I noticed was her hair and the happiness that seemed to accompany her smile. A closer up photo revealed the deep markings in the concrete beside her as she squinted her eyes against the sun. Her hazel shone a bit greener in the light, flecked with deeper brown. With a mildly tanner complexion seemingly after time spent at the beach, the tiniest bit of freckles coated the bridge of her nose.

I swiped the photo when I noticed myself noticing that I was noticing too much, only to reveal a few more photos of similar caliber in different places around Lisbon. I recognized some of the landmarks that Tati pointed out to me ages ago.

The final photo revealed a QR code, and my name under it. I glanced at her, but she wasn”t watching me anymore. Instead, she focused on the scrolling text on the monitor beside us. I lowered her phone, lifted mine, then scanned the code.

On my screen, some sort of form opened up. With a crinkled brow, I watched as an animation began.

This will take two minutes, the screen read. Click okay to continue.

I glanced at Clem, then pocketed my phone before handing hers back. ”Vhils is really talented. My best friend Tatiana”s family is from Lisbon. Her daughter is there now with her grandmother.”

Clem accepted her phone without so much as blinking. ”It”s lovely there. We lived there for a few years while my mother worked.”

”What was that like?”

”Much different than here.”

”Tati says the same thing…” I looked toward the door when our conversation slowed to an uncomfortable lull. ”I better go.”

”I will text you when I have the results. It”s a big search and might take some time.” She turned to me then, her gaze meeting mine briefly. ”Bye.”

”Thanks. Bye.” My hand wiggled in an awkward wave as I backed out of the room, and I groaned on the way out.