Wordle by Wordle Archive: Part 1

The story so far...

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Here, you will find every installment of Wordle by Wordle, a Wordle-of-the-Day serialized novel that updates daily.

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Day 1 (Monday, Jan 1, 2024): Wordle #926 - MURAL

Chapter 1.

“Your boyfriend’s not cheating on you,” I say.

I can’t tell if my client is grimacing back at me or if Zoom has frozen her lips into a Picasso-esque sneer.

“What?” the client hisses. Okay, so not Zoom.

“He liked a photo of your friend on Instagram, but that’s it. He’s not sliding into her DMs, he’s not cheating on you, he just clicked a little heart next to a photo. Who knows? Maybe his finger slipped.”

The client looks like she wants to argue. Funny how so many of my clients seem disappointed when their partner’s name is cleared. Like they’d rather be right than, I dunno, be in a healthy relationship.

“Are you sure about that?”

Of course I’m sure. It was an easy case, made all the easier with a dupe Instagram account. I simply copied the friend’s profile picture, added a sneaky underscore to her username, and reposted her most recent photos, including the one in question—the friend in a glittery lamé bikini, leaning coyly against a mural of a beach.

I messaged the boyfriend from the catfish account, but he never took the bait. And that was just the first trick up my sleeve…

“Yes, I’m sure,” I say with a sigh. I don’t like to repeat myself, and I’ve already laid out all the evidence for my client over email.

“Look, Cece—”

“Cecilia,” I cut her off. Everyone who knows me knows I hate that nickname. My ex-husband made the mistake of calling me “Cece” only once, back when we were still in love and forgiveness was easy. Before the prefix. I may not be the best at relationships, either, come to think of it.

“Cecilia,” my client says with an astonishing level of vocal fry. “I know that you’re, like, the queen of online detectiving or whatever.”

Social sleuth, I correct her mentally.

“But don’t you think that—”

My phone springs awake with a reminder for my next appointment. My stomach clenches, and not because of the hot Cheetos I had for lunch.

Day 2 (Tuesday, Jan 2, 2024): Wordle #927 - AGING

“I’m sorry, but we’ve been over this,” I cut her off again. I’m not usually so abrupt with my clients but... “I have a call with another client in five minutes. If you want me to go over my findings again, we’ll have to pick this up some other time. At my usual rate.”

“Never mind. I’ll just Venmo you what I already owe,” she says with a frown, defeated. “Thanks... I guess?”

“You’re welcome,” I say brightly and hang up before she can get in another word.

I don’t usually lie to my clients, either, but I just have. Not about her boyfriend—he really was innocent of any wrongdoing—but I don’t have an appointment with another client in five minutes.

I have a call with Bree. My supposed BFF who has ghosted me for the last two months.

I bring up the Zoom window for our chat and use the webcam to primp myself. There’s really nothing to be done for my hair, so red and frizzy that the webcam makes it look like a giant pixelated loofah perched atop my head. I pinch my cheeks and wonder if I should’ve put on blush, or maybe some concealer to hide the crow’s feet. I quickly switch on a Zoom filter to obliterate any signs of aging that might have otherwise made it past the low bitrate.

Who are you trying to impress? I ask myself. It’s just Bree. And you’re pissed at her, remember?

Day 3 (Wednesday, Jan 3, 2024): Wordle #928 - TWIRL

Five minutes crawl by. Then another five. Another.

This time—I tell myself—this time, I’ll call her out for being late. This time, I won’t accept her flimsy apology for not answering my texts these past weeks.

When Zoom finally chimes at Bree’s arrival, ten more minutes later, I nearly drop a handful of Cheetos into my lap in surprise. I scooch the bag out of frame.

“Cece!” Bree chirps. “Oh my gosh, it’s so good to see you!”

“Hi, Bree.” I wonder if she can see my eye twitch behind my chunky glasses.

“Lola did not want to leave the dog park. You know how she is,” Bree says, and I realize it’s the closest thing to an apology I’ll get.

She goes on for a while about Lola, her Maltipoo furbaby, so I take the opportunity to focus on something more interesting. The small details. The things that people won’t tell me outright but that whisper their secrets to me anyway.

For instance, I can tell that Bree is agitated about something.

She doesn’t twirl her hair around her fingers like that unless she’s distracted. She would never mess up those soft blonde waves on purpose, not after spending hours styling them to perfection. I should know—we were college roommates for a year.

But besides her absentminded fidgeting, Bree seems her usual self. Pretty and put-together, outwardly at least, just like the home that surrounds her.

I notice a new bookshelf over her right shoulder, its books aesthetically arranged by color. I wonder if they’re those color-coordinated filler books that Pottery Barn sells by the bundle. It’ll be the first thing I investigate if Bree ever invites me over to her new place in Pacific Heights. Their new place.

Day 4 (Thursday, Jan 4, 2024): Wordle #929 - SCANT

Bree moves on to talk about her job at the bookstore. Complain, more like. She seems to hate everything about working there, from her coworkers to the patrons to the bookshop cat that keeps coughing up hairballs in the Children’s section.

I consider suggesting, yet again, that she quit and do something else. It’s not like she needs this job. God knows her husband makes more than enough to support the both of them… and the entire population of a Micronesian country.

But I don’t say anything about it. Not least because Bree gives me scant few opportunities to get a word in edgewise. I begin to wonder if I’ll get the chance to say anything at all when Waffles jumps up on my desk. He points his furry orange cat butt directly at the webcam.

“Waffles,” I scold and gently push him aside. He starts purring as soon as I scritch him behind the ears.

“Aw, hi, kitty! How are Chicken and Waffles doing?” Bree asks me, a bit perfunctorily. She picks at a piece of lint on her cashmere sweater.

“They’re good,” I say. “Dumb as always.” To prove my point, Waffles hops off the desk and directly onto his brother, Chicken, much to the surprise of them both. They scramble away in a blur of orange.

A beat of silence follows. Bree has already rambled on about her dog, her job, her parents, her therapist, her yoga instructor. Which leaves…

“How’s Roy?” I manage to ask with a smile.

“Actually,” Bree starts, but her voice catches. Even through Zoom, I can see the corners of her eyes turn pink. She’s about to cry. “That’s why I needed to talk to you.”

Day 5 (Friday, Jan 5, 2024): Wordle #930 - LUNGE

Oh, I get it now.

Bree doesn’t actually want to catch up with me, she wants to use me as a marriage counselor. Again.

Just because her husband is my ex-husband doesn’t make me the expert on all things Roy. If anything, I’m a cautionary tale. The prime example of how not to stay in a relationship with Roy. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why Bree always asks for my advice, to do the exact opposite…

“What’s wrong? Didn’t he like that Sharks jersey you got him for his birthday?”

“I—I think Roy left me,” Bree blurts out. She makes a lunge for a Kleenex box and starts yanking out handfuls of tissues, sobbing.

I can’t help but feel a burst of vindication—See? I’m not the one who’s broken, it’s Roy. He can’t make it work—but I tamp down that uncharitable emotion as best I can. A rush of sympathy takes its place.

I noticed that Bree didn’t say that Roy had left her for someone, and I wouldn’t expect him to. Yes, he’d moved on quickly to Bree after our divorce, but he hadn’t been cheating on me. That’s about the only thing I never would’ve forgiven them for.  

“Oh, Bree, I’m so sorry.” I lean a little closer in my chair and consider sending a hug reaction emoji. I reconsider. “What happened?”

I have a million more questions, but it’s a good place to start.

Day 6 (Saturday, Jan 6, 2024): Wordle #931 - CABLE

“I… I don’t know what happened,” Bree says around a sniffle. She wrings a tissue between her balled fists until it rips in half. “He’s just gone!”

“Okay, okay. Let’s back up a little. When was the last time you saw Roy?”

“Well, it must’ve been the night before last.” Bree looks up and into the distance, skimming the memory like it’s a cable rerun playing in the background. “We went to bed at ten, like we always do, and then he had already left for work by the time I woke up the next morning.”

“Is that unusual?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

“Oh, no. You know how he is.”

I do. Always up before sunrise, ready for a jog and a green juice. He might as well have “the early bird catches the worm” tattooed across his forehead.

“What was his mood like that night?” I realize how clinical I sound, but I don’t change tack. My detective cap is too firmly in place to take off now. “Did you guys argue?”

“No,” Bree says sharply. Another sniffle. “Everything was fine. He just seemed a little tired, maybe.”

“Okay, so what happened next, after you woke up yesterday?”

“I went to work, like usual. Texted Roy during my lunch break, asked him what he wanted to do for dinner. And then…” Her voice catches again and she dabs away a mascara-streaked tear. “And then he texted back that he wasn’t coming home that night.”

I nod, encouragingly, I hope.

“Can you tell me exactly what the text said?”

“Just that! ‘I’m not coming home tonight,’” Bree says with a huff. I can’t tell if she’s more exasperated by me or Roy. “That was the last thing I heard from him.”

Day 7 (Sunday, Jan 7, 2024): Wordle #932 - STONY

I take a beat to go over everything Bree has told me. It’s not like Roy to just up and leave, but he can be impulsive sometimes.

“Did you try calling him?”

“Of course, I called him! Like a million times.” Bree has stopped crying but her face is still blotchy with emotion. “All of my calls went straight to voicemail, and he never called me back.”

Okay, that’s definitely not like Roy. Mr. Take-Action can’t stand a ball in his court. He might just be the only person on the planet to have achieved Inbox Zero.

“Is it possible that he had a work trip and he was just reminding you he wouldn’t be home?” I ask this delicately, knowing that Bree might take it as a dig at her notorious absentmindedness. “Maybe he’s traveling and forgot his charger or something.”

Like Roy would ever forget anything. Bree, on the other hand…

“No, he’s not on a work trip. I think I’d remember that,” Bree says with a look so stony it would make Medusa proud.

I recall the time when I organized a girls’ weekend in Vegas for my fortieth birthday—just the two of us. Bree missed the flight, put the wrong dates on her calendar. I drank who knows how many frozen margaritas out of a souvenir cup the size of a human femur and never left the blackjack tables.

Not that I’m still salty about it.

“Bree, I think we should talk this over in person. Maybe tomorrow—"

“Tomorrow?! Can’t you come over today? I’ll go crazy if I have to wait.” Bree puts on her best puppy dog eyes. “Please?”

I don’t have any more client appointments today, and I just wrapped up my only open case, besides. A glance out my apartment window tells me the evening rush hour is off to an early start, but I suppose I could make it across the Bay.

“Yeah, okay. I still need your new address…”

“Oh my gosh, you’re the best, Cece!” Bree effuses. I grimace. “I got some of those coconut macaroons you like, from Tartine.”

And just like that, all is forgiven. Again.

Day 8 (Monday, Jan 8, 2024): Wordle #933 - FINAL

Chapter 2.

The Uber driver whistles—appreciatively? mockingly?—when we pull up outside Bree and Roy’s home in Pacific Heights.

“Your friend’s got a nice place,” he remarks and eyes its façade with a sweeping look.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” I say, aiming for a tone of camaraderie, and hop out of his Camry before he decides to get chatty. He pulls away, and I crane my neck to get a better look myself.

Their home is a slim three-story Victorian standing elbow-to-elbow with its siblings on either side. The sun is already setting, and it washes the home’s peachy pink siding and sugar-white latticework in a honeyed, golden glow, like a pastel gingerbread house in a friggin’ Thomas Kinkade painting.

I sigh, not ready to go in yet, and give myself a final once-over using my phone’s selfie camera. Hair: still frizzy. Glasses: crooked. Lipstick: smudged. At least there’s nothing in my teeth. With another sigh, I take the stairs up to the front porch and ring the doorbell.

Lola barks from somewhere on the second floor. The door swishes open not a moment later, as though Bree was standing there waiting for me.

“Cecilia!” Bree throws her arms around me in a hug. A quick, birdlike hug that pins my arms at my sides. I awkwardly return the embrace as best I can, but it’s over before it starts.

“Bree! It’s nice to see you.” It’s true. We last saw each other over drag brunch two months ago—her idea—but it feels so much longer. Probably because Bree was ignoring me until today, I remind myself.

“Come in, come in! Quick, before Lola gets out,” Bree says and ushers me inside before I can change my mind.

Day 9 (Tuesday, Jan 9, 2024): Wordle #934 - LINER

“Oh, I got you a little something.” I root around in my tote bag for it. “A housewarming gift.”

It’s a small ceramic planter shaped like a hedgehog with an assortment of hens and chicks sprouting from its back. Bree is absolutely mad about ceramic animals, and succulents are too hardy for even her to kill. At any rate, Roy will remember to water it.

“Oh my gosh, thank you! I love it,” Bree says with a squeal and hugs the planter to her chest. I think she actually means it. “Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour.”

Bree loops her arm in mine and leads me around the first floor, chatting nonstop. Lola follows close behind, her trim little nails clicking like typewriter keys on the hardwood.

“So, this is the living room, as you can see. The sofa took for-ev-er to arrive, but I suppose that’s to be expected when you order bespoke—"

Just like the outside of the home, everything inside is neat, colorful, and expensive. The tidiness is Roy’s doing; the explosion of color, Bree’s. If Roy had his way, the interior would be as minimal and beige as a paper bag.

But clearly, Bree’s sense of style is winning out in this war of attrition. I even notice a few boxes filled with eclectic design materials—rolls of floral shelf liner, wallpaper swatches, pink fish scale tiles... Pink! Roy must love that, I think with impish glee.

Bree continues the tour by herding me upstairs, but I nearly stop in my tracks when we reach the second floor.

Day 10 (Wednesday, Jan 10, 2024): Wordle #935 - THREW

I cough and consider fleeing back downstairs. The astringent smell of cleaning products is so overwhelming that it makes my nose tingle.

“Sorry, the cleaning lady went a little overboard. I already had a talk with her,” Bree says uncomfortably. There’s a chip in her perfect hostess veneer, and she’s not happy about it. She steers me further into the room and quickly changes the subject. “Here’s my office! Don’t you love it?”

My eyes are watering like I’m on Hot Ones, but I’m able to recognize the room from our Zoom call. The new bookshelf, the rainbow of books. I dab my eyes on my sleeve, take a step closer, and reach for a volume. Ostensibly to admire it, but really to snoop. Yep, filler books.

Curiosity satisfied, I take in the rest of the room. Most of the wall space is occupied by photos of Bree and Roy, laughing, holding hands, posing in picturesque vacation destinations.

One photograph in particular catches my eye. I remember that evening, when Bree threw a surprise birthday party for Roy. I was there.

In the photo, Bree’s hand is clutching Roy’s shoulder, her other hand raised in a toast. Her slinky dress sparkles like champagne. Roy is smiling at her, gamely, never one for surprises. His dark hair falls over one eye just so and he’s handsomely well-dressed. A man who doesn’t have the word “jeans” in his vocabulary.

I’ve been cropped out of the picture, but I recognize my elbow poking out at the edge of the frame. A little piece of me always on the fringe of their radiant life.

My stomach clenches and I ask myself what the heck I’m doing here.

Day 11 (Thursday, Jan 11, 2024): Wordle #936 - BRIEF

I could’ve had this life. I did have this life—minus the fabulous wealth. Sure, Roy and I had lived comfortably enough renting a modest apartment in the South Bay. We hadn’t needed much besides each other, as corny as that sounds.

It wasn’t until two years ago, shortly after Roy and Bree got married, that Roy’s crypto company launched its ICO and landed him on the cover of Forbes.

But it’s not money I feel the lack of, it’s Roy. I would still be with him, if only I hadn’t…

I realize I’m lingering on the photo for too long, but Bree saves me from needing to explain myself by drawing my attention to her display of knick-knacks.

“Look, it fits perfectly!” Bree says as she places the hedgehog planter in the only empty space among a menagerie of ceramic animals. I nod approvingly before I notice something amiss.

“Where’s Froufrou?”

Froufrou is a large ceramic standard poodle—glossy white fur, pink bow, nose pointed in the air—the crowning jewel of Bree’s collection. She got Froufrou on her sixth birthday and has never parted from it since. She even hauled Froufrou to college and gave that ridiculous ceramic pooch pride of place in our dorm room.

“Oh, my dear sweet Froufrou. She broke… during the move.” Bree casts her eyes around the room, as though Froufrou might come trotting to her like Lola. For a brief moment, she looks about to cry.

“Ah jeez, I’m sorry. Can’t you glue it back together or something?”

“No, I don’t think there’s any fixing this,” Bree says and blinks back her tears. She collects herself, but she’s decidedly less chipper than before. “Anyway, let me show you the rest of the house.”

Bree leads me down the hallway.

“This is the guest room.”

I ooh and aah appropriately.

“And this is the guest bath.”

The door is closed, so I reach for the handle to get a better look inside. Bree stops me suddenly, grabbing the handle before I can.

Day 12 (Friday, Jan 12, 2024): Wordle #937 - ROUTE

“You don’t want to go in there, it’s a complete mess,” Bree says apologetically. “We’re putting in new tile—there’s dust everywhere.”

She seems a little flustered, just like she was by the overzealous cleaning lady’s handiwork. I’m reminded that she didn’t really want to invite me over today—not when her home isn’t picture-perfect. And she wouldn’t have, if not for the situation with Roy.

“Over there is Roy’s office,” Bree says, as if on cue. But instead of showing me his office, Bree hooks her arm in mine and takes me on a route back toward the stairs, like she can’t face even the thought of Roy at the moment. “Let’s chat in the kitchen, okay? I’ve got macaroons!”

She says this lightly, but I can tell she’s upset. Her smile wobbles and she doesn’t meet my eyes as we head downstairs.

The kitchen is gorgeous too, of course. Glossy emerald green cabinets, black and white floors, and rich wood accents. Bree motions for me to take a seat at one of the tall barstools lined up along a butcher block island. As soon as I do, Lola starts jumping at my legs, whining for a treat. I shoo her away with a gentle nudge but a stern no, which she ignores.

Bree makes her way about the kitchen without a word, removing the macaroons from their brown paper bag, arranging them on a serving tray, neatly stacking together two cream-colored linen napkins. She must really be upset to stay so silent for so long.

Then, Bree pulls two wine glasses from a rack above the sink. She pauses and turns to me, her lips pursed in a quizzical “O.”

“Are you still…?”

Day 13 (Saturday, Jan 13, 2024): Wordle #938 - HEARD

“On the wagon?” I bristle.

“Well, I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah, I am. Going on two years.” I still can’t believe I heard what I just heard. Bree should know how this works by now. Considering the spat we had when she ordered a carafe of mimosas at drag brunch, I thought for sure she’d remember this time.

“That’s good… That’s really good!” Bree says and puts back one glass. She gives herself a generous pour of chardonnay. “I’m proud of you—we both are.”

I change the subject faster than changing out of jeans into sweatpants.

“So, you wanted to talk about Roy.” The elephant in the room the size of a woolly mammoth. “Anything you haven’t told me yet, about him leaving?”

Bree takes her time bringing the cookies and her glass of wine to the island, then pulls up a barstool opposite me, her face scrunched in thought.

“No, I don’t think so…” She nibbles on the corner of a macaroon.

“And you still haven’t heard from him since yesterday afternoon?”

“No,” she says quietly and washes down the cookie with a sip of wine. Her lipstick leaves a pink crescent on the rim of the glass.

“Did he pack a bag?” I put one of the little coconut haystacks on my plate, but I’m not feeling particularly hungry.

“I—I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about that.” Bree’s eyes go a bit wide. “Why do you ask? Is that a good thing or a bad thing, if he packed a bag?”

“It’s not good or bad, but it can give us an idea of how long he intends to be away,” I say calmly, hoping to calm Bree down too.

“O-okay. I’ll look around, see if any of his things are missing.”

Before I can tell her that it can wait, Bree hops off her barstool and trots up the stairs. Lola gives me a look that I can only interpret as: See what I have to live with?

Day 14 (Sunday, Jan 14, 2024): Wordle #939 - DOING

I hear rummaging upstairs for a good several minutes. Some banging of drawers, some cursing. When what sounds like a chair falls over, I begin to wonder what exactly Bree is doing up there but decide not to interfere.

I take a bite of a macaroon. It’s chewy and sweeter than I remember.

Another minute passes before Bree hurries back down the stairs and into the kitchen.

“His weekend bag and toiletries are gone. But that man has so many clothes—who knows how much he took with him,” Bree announces, flustered. She plops into her seat and throws back a gulp of wine. “What do you think it means?”

“I think it means he packed for the weekend.”

Bree is quiet for a moment, twisting the stem of her wine glass back and forth.

“Did Roy ever do this to you? Disappear?”

We’ve always had an unspoken agreement not to compare notes on our marriages. No questions about sex life or family planning or finances, though that one’s no secret. But I understand Bree’s breach of contract—she’s worried about him.

“No, never,” I say and can’t help but feel a little self-satisfaction.

Then we both go quiet. Lola’s tail whaps on the floor until Bree gives her a crumb of coconut. A minute crawls by.

“Oh! Did I show you Lola’s new sweater?” Bree squeaks, and it’s clear that we’re done talking about Roy.

Day 15 (Monday, Jan 15, 2024): Wordle #940 - LUNCH

We chat about our pets for a bit, then about TV shows, books, restaurants. It’s the kind of conversation we would’ve had when we first met—What do you like? What don’t you? Can we get along? It’s small stuff, but I don’t mind. Small stuff is easy, safe.

It’s only when Bree insists that “we should totally get lunch sometime” but really means “let’s wrap this up” that I realize how long I’ve stayed. She walks me to the entryway where I pause to put on my cardigan.

“Hey, thanks for having me over,” I say. A bit pointedly, I’ll admit.

“No, thank you, Cece.” She pulls me into another fluttery hug. “You’re such a good listener.”

“Sure. Keep me updated on—”

The words stick in my throat like a price tag on the bottom of a jar.

On the console table behind Bree, sitting in a long wooden key tray, are Roy’s AirPods—an emoji of an alien engraved on the case. Roy was obsessed with The X-Files as a teen and grew up to be a full-on believer, though he’d never admit it. He’d also never admit that it was my Scully-red hair that first attracted him to me, but I have my suspicions. I suddenly have a lot of suspicions…

“Aren’t those Roy’s?” I ask, though I know they are. Bree looks over her shoulder to see what I’m pointing at.

“Yes?” Her expression says, “So what?”

“Roy won’t even take a crap without his AirPods, much less go on a trip.” It’s a bit of an exaggeration, but not really. Roy listens to Planet Money like podcasts are his oxygen. I’ve probably seen him cry more times than I’ve seen him leave the house without headphones.

“Maybe he forgot them?” Bree offers hopefully, but not even she believes it. She worries at her bottom lip, wearing a look that pleads for me to reassure her. But I can’t.

Roy didn’t leave of his own accord—he’s gone missing.

Day 16 (Tuesday, Jan 16, 2024): Wordle #941 - BLOND

Chapter 3.

I wasn’t particularly worried about Roy until now. Yes, he’s been acting out of character and a few details of his departure seem strange. Taken separately, it’s no real concern, but add them up and it’s suddenly a big deal. Like ants in a kitchen.

“Bree, have you contacted the police?” I ask this as delicately as I can, careful not to alarm Bree unnecessarily. “Just in case—”

“Just in case what?” All the color drains from Bree’s face. Even her hair looks less blond* somehow.

“Just… in case.”

“But don’t you have to wait, like, 24 hours before reporting someone missing or something? It’s barely been that long.”

“No, that’s a horrible misconception. Personally, I blame Law & Order for—"

“Well, I called you!” Bree says defensively. “You’re a cop, right?”

I can’t decide whether I’m meant to be flattered or insulted by the comparison.

“I’m a private investigator.”

“And that’s why I asked you to come over! To get your professional opinion.”

“My professional opinion is that you should call the police,” I say and shoulder my bag to leave.

“Wait, Cecilia! I wasn’t sure how to ask you this before but…” Bree bites her bottom lip again. “I was kinda hoping for more than your opinion. I want to hire you, to look into this.”

Her words sideswipe me, leaving me equal parts confused and annoyed. Bree has never shown any real interest in what I do, much less any confidence in my ability as a PI. And here I’d thought she had invited me over to vent—maybe even to patch things up as friends—not to use me.

At least she fed me macaroons.

Day 17 (Wednesday, Jan 17, 2024): Wordle #942 - COURT

“Trust me, Bree, you don’t want me on this case.” I try to convince myself that I don’t want me on this case, but the investigative wheels are already turning. I try again. “I’m too close to it.”

“But that’s why you’re perfect for the job. You know Roy, and I know you’ll be… discreet.”

I bet they have a doorbell camera. I could see exactly when Roy left the house, and whether he was alone. I’ll check his Twitter account for proof of life—he’s always trying to court crypto bros on there. His X account, I mean. Whatever. Or maybe Kevin knows something. Roy doesn’t keep much from his best friend…

“I’d pay you, of course, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Bree jumps in, misreading my silence. “I wouldn’t just ask for a favor.”

I don’t need your charity. I barely manage to keep the thought to myself.

“Thanks, but I can’t accept your money,” I say between gritted teeth. “What kind of a friend would I be?”

“But you will accept the case? You’ll find Roy?” Bree reads something in my face before I register it myself.

God help me, but yes, I am going to take on this damn case. I already have.

Day 18 (Thursday, Jan 18, 2024): Wordle #943 - STOLE

“Okay, I’ll do it,” I concede grudgingly. Bree beams a smile at me that I’m unable to return. “I’ll be in touch.”

I say my goodbyes to Bree but not much else, too preoccupied to make more small talk.

In the Uber, on BART, back to my apartment, my thoughts on Roy’s disappearance keep tumbling around like socks in a dryer. Bunching together, loosening at the seams, getting lost. It’s always like this when I start a new case. I just have to let things settle with a full night’s sleep.

Or a full glass of wine.

The thought comes to me like a reflex. Just a little, to smooth out the edges. I blame Bree and her stupid chardonnay and I don’t bother to pick up my jacket when it slips off the overcrowded coat rack.

Waffles comes trotting up to me in greeting, and the static in my head levels out. A bit. He gives me a muffled mew, proudly carrying a hair tie that he stole from my bathroom vanity, no doubt.

“Waffles…” I scoop him up and plant a kiss on his fluffy orange cheek as punishment. Roy is allergic, so having cats was strictly out of the question when we were together. It’s not among the many reasons why our marriage expired faster than a brown banana, but it didn’t help.

I sigh and wonder if everything in my life will always circle back around to Roy. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken on the case. Or maybe closing it will finally close the loop for me, too.

Day 19 (Friday, Jan 19, 2024): Wordle #944 - THING

It’s late. As I brush my teeth, I push any thoughts of Roy’s case to the back burner, just for tonight. I do my skincare routine. I shed everything but my underwear and a tank top. I take my pills.

When I’m ready to crawl into bed, my laptop is there, pinning down the comforter. I could check Roy’s Twitter. It would only take a moment… Picking up the laptop and sliding it under the bed feels like moving a boulder, but I do it.

An hour goes by. I can’t fall asleep. Details of the case keep bubbling to the surface, boiling away any other thoughts. I sweat and roll around more than a gas station hot dog. So much so that even Chicken and Waffles give up on snuggling with me.

If Roy really did just run off on Bree, I wouldn’t be losing any sleep. I’d track him down—during business hours—show my client the receipts and move on, just like any other case. But if he’s—

No, I won’t allow myself to think it. Not yet.

Roy and I don’t talk much anymore. Not since he married Bree. A birthday text here, a holiday greeting there. We’re amicable to each other when we’re forced into the same room at one of Bree’s parties. Friendly, even, which sometimes feels worse somehow.

But during the time between “us” and “them,” Roy was still like a partner to me in many ways. Dependable, kind, sympathetic. If there’s one thing I know about Roy, it’s that he won’t ignore me when I need him.

I pull out my phone and its light floods the bedroom. I text Roy:

Please tell me you’re alright.

He doesn’t respond.

Day 20 (Saturday, Jan 20, 2024): Wordle #945 - LARGE

Chapter 4.

I’m surprised awake by my alarm. Surprised that I fell asleep at all, my phone clutched in my hand, waiting for that heartbeat vibration of a new message.

Still no word from Roy. My text left unread.

Which means it’s time for the real work to begin. But first, coffee.

Chicken meows at me plaintively from beside his empty bowl like he’s never been fed in his life. Ok first-first, kibble for the cats, and then coffee.

After I’ve gulped down two large cups, I retrieve my laptop and bring it into what passes for an office. Just a small desk and a chair wedged near the living room window and a thriving monstera that, frankly, has grown a little out of control. Roy used to call it “Audrey.”

Right—Roy. I open up my laptop and start typing.

Day 21 (Sunday, Jan 21, 2024): Wordle #946 - NORTH

It’s astounding—and a little disturbing—just how much you can find out about a person online. Actually, what’s really astounding is that most people not only willingly reveal everything about themselves to the whole-ass internet, but they do it so enthusiastically:

Look at my home, and my outfit! Look at what I thought of this book. Look at who I voted for. Look at me! I exist!

That’s why I bill myself as a social sleuth—most of my work gets done from the comfort of my keyboard. Every Millennial’s dream. Sometimes I have to make a phone call, or god forbid, meet someone face-to-face, but not for most cases.

Because people aren’t just promiscuous with their social media habits, they’re careless. Especially when they don’t expect anyone to look too closely.

Not to mention, I already have a leg up when it comes to Roy’s case—I know where he likes to lurk online, including a lot of his usernames. Honestly, it almost feels like cheating to have an ex as my target. Easy mode.

I start at X né Twitter. Nothing on his personal account since October 19. The day before he disappeared. No activity on the Roin account either, because he still refuses to hire a social media manager for his company.

He should’ve hired me back when I offered. When it wasn’t too late to change that stupid name. “Roin” as in “Roy” plus “coin”?! No one gets it. And I still say it sounds like “groin.”

Anyway. I move from X to LinkedIn. Nothing. Then on to Reddit. A few comments under r/movies about why To Catch a Thief is better than North by Northwest, also from October 19. I roll my eyes—still a Hitchcock stan—and check his Letterboxd reviews. Nothing.

Day 22 (Monday, Jan 22, 2024): Wordle #947 - TWEAK

I continue down this path for a while, from Discord to Twitch and everything in between. Even Facebook, though Roy only posts a photo there once every few months to make his grandma happy. Still nothing.

Step two is when things get a little stickier, a little nastier. Teasing out information through deception or social engineering sleight of hand. But I’m always a bit hesitant to cross that line, from self-selected, freely shared public information to… not. Especially now, with Roy.

I decide to tweak my approach and skip step two for the time being. Even step one felt a bit fruitless, but it did confirm what I was already convinced of:

Something happened to Roy after October 19. I don’t know what that something is yet, but it’s kept him off the internet surer than airplane mode.

Day 23 (Tuesday, Jan 23, 2024): Wordle #948 - STILL

Step three is… Actually, I’m not sure. I’ve never had a missing-person case before.

I suppose the next step is to confirm whether Roy went off-grid voluntarily. I suspect not—because AirPods. And everything else.

I should get in touch with Kevin. He deemed me “cool” enough to be with his “best bro” moments after Roy introduced us and I “got” his John Darnielle t-shirt.

We’ve been close ever since, and despite the divorce, Kevin and I still keep in touch. Mostly just sharing funny cat TikToks with each other, but that’s more than I can say for me and Bree lately.

Day 24 (Wednesday, Jan 24, 2024): Wordle #949 - RELIC

If Roy planned to disappear, Kevin would know.

Hey, Kev. Call me when you have a sec, I text him.

Apparently he has a second—right now—because my phone starts ringing moments after I hit send. Leave it to Kevin to FaceTime me before I’ve showered. I sigh and answer anyway. What I won’t do for a case.

“Keviiin!”

“Ceciliaaa!” Kevin must be calling me from the Roin office—a huge neon Roin logo glows from behind his head like a halo. Either that, or he’s taken his role as CFO a bit far. He gets straight to the point, as usual. “Is this about Roy?”

“It is, actually. How’d you know?” Who’s the detective here?

“He’s not answering any of my texts, and he hasn’t logged on to Slack at all.” Kevin’s eyes dart behind his glasses, looking around the room to make sure he’s alone. He lowers his voice anyway. “I was starting to get worried. I even thought about calling you!”

“Not Bree?” I smirk. Kevin ignores that and barrels ahead.

“Roy totally ghosted me yesterday, man. He was supposed to come over and see my new Air Force Ones.”

“You need help,” I tease but kinda mean it. Kevin worships every sneaker he owns like a holy relic, and he converted Roy to the church of sneakerheads not long before our wedding. I still feel a pang when I remember how much Roy spent on shoes for his groomsmen.

Day 25 (Thursday, Jan 25, 2024): Wordle #950 - BLOCK

“No, I need Roy to get his ass back into the office. We’ve got a meeting with some big investors today,” Kevin says, his already high voice ratchets up a little higher.

“Roy wouldn’t leave you—”

“With my dick in my hand?”

“Ew, no. Don’t make me block you. But… yeah, he wouldn’t do that.”

“I know. That’s why I’m starting to get worried, like I said,” Kevin grumbles.

Day 26 (Friday, Jan 26, 2024): Wordle #951 - ALOOF

I’m way beyond “starting” to get worried. The start is so far in my rearview that I can’t even see it anymore.

“You’re worried about him too?” Kevin asks, reading my expression. He seems a little surprised, and I’m a little insulted. How did he expect me to feel about Roy mysteriously disappearing? Aloof? Happy? “I didn’t think you’d care.”

Well, that answers that.

“Of course I care,” I snap. “You do remember that I was married to the guy, right?”

“Sure, sure. But like, how did you know something was up? He’s only been incommunicado for a couple of days. Are you two…?” Kevin’s eyebrows shoot up like he’s shocked by his own insinuation.

“Bree called me,” I clarify quickly. “Roy’s ghosting her too.”

Day 27 (Saturday, Jan 27, 2024): Wordle #952 - SNAKE

“Oooh, trouble in paradise?” This time Kevin’s eyebrows climb so high they disappear behind his fringe.

“I don’t know—you tell me.” I get up from my desk to slip a coffee pod into the machine. I need more caffeine for this. “Did Roy mention anything to you about Bree lately? Any arguments they’ve had?”

“He wasn’t too happy with some of her, uh, design choices for their new place. But, you know, nothing serious. Just venting.”

“And he would tell you if something more serious was going on, right?”

“Yeah, man, of course. Oh hey, just a sec,” Kevin says, both to me and to someone off-screen.

His camera whirls before going black and I take the opportunity to help myself to the coffee. My third cup in two hours. It’s almost too hot to drink, thick coils of steam rise up out of the mug like a snake in a basket, but I enjoy the bitter heat on my tongue.

Kevin pops back into view, now in a different room, and I pick up where we dropped off.

“So, does Roy have a beef with anyone else? Some pissed-off crypto bro who lost all his money or something?”

“Shit, there’s always someone who’s pissed off at Roy,” Kevin laughs. “Come on, he’s a celebrity now! Random people think they know him, and they don’t like him.”                    

This shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. I hadn’t really thought about him that way. Roy is just… Roy.

“Has someone made a credible threat, then?” I slosh a little coffee on my sleeve as I quickly put down the mug to take notes. “Any weirdos showing up at the office?”

“Just Arjun, but he works here.” Kevin chuckles at his own inside joke. “Nah, Roy gets like a hundred death threats a day on Twitter, but who doesn’t?”

Day 28 (Sunday, Jan 28, 2024): Wordle #953 - EMBER

If Kevin meant to reassure me, he failed.

“Hmmm.” I’m not sure what else to say, so I delay with a sip of coffee. Any ember of hope I had for finding Roy well and in one piece is quickly fading away, but I try to fan my dwindling optimism back to life. Kevin and I both fall quiet for a moment.

“So, Bree called you and…?” All trace of humor is gone from Kevin’s voice now.

“She wanted to hire me. I said I’d look into it, as a friend.”

“Damn, like a real case?” Kevin squawks, finally realizing the full implications of some unreturned texts and a missed sneaker sesh. His face blanches behind his glasses. “You really think something happened to Roy, don’t you?”

“I don’t know what happened, exactly, but something’s fishy.” Fishier than Pier 39.

“Well, uh, definitely keep me posted.” Kevin’s suddenly too preoccupied to look at the screen anymore. His eyes roam around the room like he might spot Roy hiding behind the office arcade machine.

“I will. Call me if you think of anything else, even if it seems insignificant,” I try to sound encouraging, but I feel about as cheerful as a TSA agent. “Oh, and let me know if you hear from Roy, obviously.”

“Yeah, sure…” Kevin mumbles. “Sorry, but I gotta reschedule that investor meeting. Catch you later, Cecilia.”

Kevin hangs up before I can even say goodbye.

Day 29 (Monday, Jan 29, 2024): Wordle #954 - LEGGY

Part of me had been hoping that Kevin would reveal that Roy and Bree’s relationship is on the rocks. Only because it would be a less sinister explanation for why Roy had left their home and gone radio silent. Not because I would want them to break up, of course.

Now I’m dreading going back to Bree with bad news and no leads. So I don’t.

I water the monstera and notice it’s gotten a little leggy. I move it closer to the window, though I don’t know if that will help. I check my email. I put in an Instacart order.

After an hour has passed, I decide I’ve put off chatting with Bree long enough. She’s probably expecting a video call, but I have a terrible poker face—there’s no way I’d be able to hide that the investigation’s not going well. Not the best trait for a private detective, I know.

So I shoot off a few texts to Bree instead, trying to keep the tone conversational.

Did Roy take their car? No. Has he used his credit card since the last time she saw him? No, she checked the account. Is his phone’s location shared with her? She doesn’t know.

Bree would insist she’s tech-savvy, but she doesn’t know an Apple from a Blackberry. I put a pin in that for the moment and make a mental note to walk her through her “Find My” services the next time I see her.

Day 30 (Tuesday, Jan 30, 2024): Wordle #955 - EXPEL

I send Bree another text, this time asking whether they have a doorbell camera and if she has reviewed it.

She’s typing out a reply. Three little dots march across the text bubble at the bottom of the screen, and then stop. No message appears.

Well, it’s not uncommon for Bree to get distracted, even mid-text. I make sure my notification volume is turned up and then put my phone aside. It looks like I have a moment for a shower, finally.

By the time I’m done and toweling off my hair, Bree hasn’t replied yet. Huh…

A couple more hours go by with still no response, and I begin to wonder whether everyone I know is slowly being Raptured.

I’m in the middle of watching a YouTube video about abandoned theme parks when my phone finally rings. It’s Bree. I take a second to pause the video and smooth down my hair, not wanting her to think I was anxiously waiting by my phone for her call. Which I was. I move the camera to what I hope is a flattering angle and answer.

“Cecilia!” Bree’s face is too close to her phone, which shakes wildly in her grasp. Her eyes are red and puffy from crying, mascara smudged across her blotchy cheeks. She tries to say more but is only able to expel a hiccupy sob.

“Oh my god, Bree! Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“It’s—it’s Roy,” Bree wails. “Roy’s dead.”

Day 31 (Wednesday, Jan 31, 2024): Wordle #956 - BULKY

Chapter 5.

Bree’s words hit me like a self-driving Tesla. I’m almost too stunned to speak, but I manage to croak out, “What?”

Not a great response, I’ll admit, but it’s better than what I really want to ask: Are you sure? Because I can’t believe it.

“The police came here and—” Bree stops to blow her nose into an already wadded-up tissue. “Th-they found Roy’s body in Golden Gate Park earlier today. They think he might have been m-murdered—”

“Murdered” crescendos into another wail and Bree’s phone slips from her hand completely.

A chill submerges me like sinking into a lake, so primal and bone-deep that my bulky knit sweater doesn’t stand a chance of fending it off. I go cold, numb.

This can’t be happening.

Bree’s voice swims to me through the fathoms and I realize she’s been calling my name for a while.

Day 32 (Thursday, Feb 1, 2024): Wordle #957 - ALIVE

“Cecilia? Cece, please answer me—I need you!” Bree’s holding her phone again, this time braced by both hands, and she shakes it like she’s shaking my shoulders.

“I… I’m so sorry.”

I’m sorry for not answering. I’m sorry this is happening. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry I couldn’t find Roy. I’m sorry I lost Roy. I’m sorry—

No, I refuse to believe that Roy is dead. It’s not possible. Roy is alive and well and—

“What am I supposed to do now…?” Bree asks around a wet sniffle.

Good question. Pull yourself together, Cecilia.

“Tell me what I can do for you. Do you need to be alone right now, or do you want company? I can be at your place in—”

“No, I’ll come to you, if that’s alright?” Bree collects herself enough to no longer punctuate every word with a sob. More like every other word. She dabs at her eyes with the sodden tissue. “I-I can’t stand to be here right now. Everything reminds me of Roy…”

“Right, of course.” I almost apologize again. “You sure you’re okay to drive?”

“I can manage.” Bree attempts a self-deprecating smile, but it slips off like an ill-fitting bra strap. “I’ll see you in about an hour?”

“Yeah, see you.”

Neither of us is sure how to sign off, so Bree simply ends the call. I stare at my reflection in the black screen in silence.

Day 33 (Friday, Feb 2, 2024): Wordle #958 - CLEFT

Okay… now what?

My brain has apparently decided that compartmentalizing is the best course of action. And right now, it wants to focus on sprucing up my tiny apartment for Bree’s visit. Like Bree would notice or care that my unopened mail is taking up the kitchen table.

Still, I clear away the mail. I collect Chicken and Waffles’ strewn toys and put them back in their basket. I make my bed. For some reason.

I don’t know how much time has passed, but I suddenly wake up from some sort of fugue state, sitting, sunk into the cleft between the couch cushions. I’m petting Chicken, my hand stroking his soft orange fur on autopilot. My mind buzzes with low, endless static like an old television set with no signal, no picture at all.

Roy can’t be dead if I don’t think about him being dead.

More time must have gone by than I thought, because there’s a fluttery knock on my door that can only be Bree.

Again, I’m suddenly someplace else. At the door, my hand turning the doorknob, though I don’t remember my body taking me there.

Sure enough, it’s Bree.

Day 34 (Saturday, Feb 3, 2024): Wordle #959 - MICRO

Bree doesn’t say anything before she throws her arms around me in a crushing hug. She presses her face into my shoulder, even though she’s taller than me, and begins to cry again.

I make small consoling noises and return her hug, patting her back. Bree doesn’t seem to have any intention of letting go anytime soon, so I gently turn us both to guide her away from the open door and into my apartment, looking like the most pathetic dance partners ever.

Without breaking the hug, I close the door with my foot and shuffle us out of the entryway. Only when Bree’s huge purse slips off her shoulder and lands on the floor with a heavy thunk does she lessen her grip. Bree pulls back, startled by the noise, but her hands still cling to my arms.

Then she faces me, her eyes hollow and dull, and slowly composes herself. My heart constricts a little.

“Thanks for having me over.” Bree wrings out her voice with a feeble smile.

“Of course. Thanks for coming,” I say reflexively.

God, I could kick myself, talking like I’ve just invited her over for tea. Actually, that’s not the worst idea…

I steer Bree toward the couch, my arm still around her shoulders, and offer her a cup of chamomile. She accepts after a pause, mumbling something to herself about microplastics.

In the kitchen, I take my time filling up the electric kettle and getting out the tea bags, unsure what to say next. It’s probably best to let Bree do the talking—as usual.

Day 35 (Sunday, Feb 4, 2024): Wordle #960 - VERGE

“I just can’t believe he’s really dead,” Bree says softly, finally breaking the silence.

“I’m so sorry, Bree. I—"

“And that someone would murder my poor Roy…”

This activates Detective Mode like a code word waking up a sleeper agent. The grief that was threatening to spill over is quickly bullied back by my need to investigate. Here’s something I can do—something I can solve.

“What did the police tell you?” I ask like I’m encouraging her to unburden herself, not coaxing out answers for my own curiosity.

Bree looks on the verge of crying again, so I set down a box of tissues alongside her tea before taking a seat opposite her.

“They found his body—” Bree pauses to take a bracing sip of tea. When she speaks again, she’s measured and robotic, like she’s reading from a piece of paper. “They found his body hidden in some bushes in Golden Gate Park. A jogger spotted it this morning, I guess. The police said that cause of death was likely, um, blunt something…”

I’m a little surprised to see Bree searching for the word, considering she consumes true crime shows like Pringles. Then again, she’s probably in shock.

“Blunt force trauma?” I supply.

“Yeah. A head injury.”

“And the police believe that he was attacked? That he didn’t just trip and hit his head?” Obviously, because the body had been concealed. But I want Bree to tell me as much as possible.

Day 36 (Monday, Feb 5, 2024): Wordle #961 - REPEL

“They think it might have been a mugging gone wrong,” Bree says and sets her cup of tea aside. “Roy’s wallet and phone were missing. Oh, and his Apple Watch.”

“You said earlier today that there hadn’t been any recent charges to his bank account, right?” Strange, if he had been mugged and his credit cards stolen. Unless the culprit thought there’d be too much heat on a dead man’s cards, took the cash, and ditched the rest.

“That’s right,” Bree says. Her eyebrows stitch together and she frowns, like she realizes there’s more to what I’m asking but can’t quite put it together. She looks like she hasn’t slept for days. “I guess I should cancel his cards?”

“Maybe. The police might want you to keep them open, to look for suspicious activity. You’d better ask them.” I honestly don’t know. I’m a private investigator, not a homicide cop.

Bree falls quiet and I take a drink of my own tea, though it’s gone tepid. With my lips still against the edge of the mug, I ask, “Did Roy go to Golden Gate Park often?”

“Did.” Past tense. No more…

“He would go jogging there, in the mornings, sometimes.” Bree’s voice is clipped. She seems to be getting annoyed by my questions, and she squints at me like I suddenly repel her. Or maybe her contact lenses are just dried out from all the crying.

A good friend wouldn’t press her further. A good friend would refill her tea and give her a reassuring hug and offer to walk Lola or something. I’m not sure what I am.

“So, had he been jogging at the park, this morning, when he was—”

“No, he wasn’t wearing his workout clothes,” Bree cuts me off. “And the police said that, when they found his body, he’d already been dead for at least twenty-four hours. Maybe even forty-eight.”

This is the answer I’d anticipated. Roy had gone missing two days ago, after all, so the time of death checks out. But for every question that’s answered, even more sprout up, like a goddamn hydra.

“If he was killed in the park days ago, then surely someone would’ve noticed the body before this morning, right? But if the body was moved—"

“Cecilia, you are not helping!” Bree erupts, launching herself up from the couch with a dramatic slap of the cushions. “I know you’re a PI or whatever, but I don’t have the answers you’re looking for, okay?! I don’t have any answers! I have no idea what’s going on, my husband’s dead and I just—”

She sobs. “I just need a friend right now, okay?”

Day 37 (Tuesday, Feb 6, 2024): Wordle #962 - WHICH

“Ah jeez, Bree, I’m sorry,” I say quickly, and I mean it. I shouldn’t have grilled her so hard so soon. I jump to my feet to give her a comforting hug, and maybe to stop her from leaving. “You’re right, of course. I promise I won’t do that anymore. I’ll just listen.”

He was my husband, too, I want to say. I have a right to know these things, I think…

Bree only half-heartedly returns my hug and pulls away after a brief moment.

“I-it’s okay. I just need a minute to myself.” Without another word, Bree collects her hulking purse from where she’d left it on the couch and practically drags it down the hall. I hear the bathroom door not quite slam but not close gently either.

I sigh and sit back down, left alone with my thoughts. Which might actually be worse than trying to console Bree.

While I wait for her to reemerge, I go over what I know about the case:

Roy disappeared two days ago and probably died that same day. Either he was killed in Golden Gate Park, out in the open where anyone could see, and his body wasn’t discovered until forty-eight hours later—unlikely—or he was killed somewhere else and then his body was dumped in the park. If the latter, then his death wasn’t a botched mugging but straight-up murder. With motive, no doubt.

Day 38 (Wednesday, Feb 7, 2024): Wordle #963 - AFTER

Motive, I can work with. Motive leaves clues. Clues that I can track down, follow, use to find the murderer…

After what feels like a Scorsese goes by but couldn’t really have been more than a few minutes, Bree comes back into the living room.

She looks a bit better than before. She’s cleaned up the mascara that was cascading down her cheeks and reapplied her rosy lipstick. She even smiles a little, apologetically, and settles back onto the couch.

“Sorry I blew up like that. It’s just… a lot to take in.”

“No, no, don’t be sorry! Your feelings are valid,” I find myself saying. That’s a thing, right? Something a therapist might have on their wall?

Bree looks slightly heartened, but she doesn’t say any more. Waffles, spying an open lap and intuiting that it belongs to someone who doesn’t like cats, jumps straight from the floor onto Bree’s thighs. She flinches but then gamely pats his head.

“Hi, Chicken,” Bree coos. She can never tell them apart. “He’s like Lola—pets always know when you need cheering up.”

“At least he’s doing a better job of it than I am,” I say wryly. Bree doesn’t argue.

“This really sucks,” she says after a moment and takes in a shuddering, sighing breath.

“Yeah. Yeah, it does.”

Day 39 (Thursday, Feb 8, 2024): Wordle #964 - PLACE

We both seem to be in silent agreement that I’m not very good at the whole consoling thing. So, I sidle onto the couch alongside Bree, put my arm across her shoulders, and just listen while she unloads.

She cries some more—I hand her tissues. She confesses that she never really understood how the death clause in their prenup is supposed to work—I send her the contact card for an attorney I know. She insists that she should start organizing the memorial service right away—I offer to help but I know she’d sooner die herself than hand over event planning to someone else.

When Waffles realizes that Bree is being derelict in her petting duties, he leaps out of her lap. Bree apparently takes this as her sign to leave, too.

“I guess I should head home. I’m exhausted,” Bree says as she stands up. She yawns and stretches performatively, like I wouldn’t believe her otherwise? “Thanks for letting me, like, trauma dump on you, Cece.”

“It’s the least I can do,” I say, and not in the empty platitude way. There has to be something more I can do for Bree. “I’ll come by your place tomorrow with some meals you can heat up, okay?”

Bree can’t cook to save her life. I’m no Ina Garten, but I can boil an egg, at least.

“Um, sure, that’d be nice,” Bree says, gathering up her purse. She heads for the door like she’s suddenly late for something. Maybe she just can’t stand to be around me anymore and, look, I get it.

Day 40 (Friday, Feb 9, 2024): Wordle #965 - STIFF

“Just let me know when’s a good time for me to stop by.” I pause before I say more, weighing how to phrase my next question without setting Bree off again. “And if you’re feeling up to it tomorrow, maybe you could tell me more about what the police went over with you?”

“Why?” Bree blinks, confused. “What for?”

“The case. I’d like to keep investigating.”

“Oh, no, Cecilia!” Bree protests. She’s surprised, a little off-balance. “I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that. Besides, I thought—well, I mean, the police are on the case now and they’re real...”

Bree doesn’t finish the thought, but she doesn’t need to. I know what she was going to say: They’re real investigators, not like you.

Bree glances down at her feet guiltily, but she’s right, in a way. The police have more resources and tech than I do, that’s for sure. But what they don’t have is the same determination to find Roy’s murderer.

“Look, Roy is just a case number to those guys, and you know they’re short-staffed. It couldn’t hurt to have another set of eyes—"

“No, Cece. Just leave it to the professionals. You’ve already done enough—”

“Bree! I want to do this. I need to do this… for Roy.” For myself.

She can’t argue with that, but it looks like she wants to. She bites back whatever she was about to say, her jaw clenched stiff.

“Okay, okay, I get it. I won’t try to stop you,” Bree eventually concedes, then softens a little. “I’d be happy for your help. Really.”

She looks decidedly not happy, but who can blame her?

Day 41 (Saturday, Feb 10, 2024): Wordle #966 - FRIED

Bree takes another step toward the door. “Well, I’d better…”

“Right, sorry,” I say sheepishly, embarrassed that I’ve put my needs before Bree’s for even a second. “Are you sure you’ll be okay by yourself? I could stay over for the night.”

“No, that’s alright. I think I need some time alone,” Bree says. Her eyes are pinched with exhaustion. “Bye, Cece. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay, call me if you need me.”

Bree leaves quickly, showing herself out and closing the door behind her before I can reach it. Not even a goodbye hug.

Which, honestly, is fine by me. I feel completely hugged out. And cried out, somehow, even though I haven’t shed a single tear—even though the urge to cry is always there, clutching at the back of my eyes.

But most of all, I’m checked out. My brain is more deeply fried than an Oreo at the state fair.

I need sleep. Especially after a night spent tossing and turning. And for what? Roy was already dead…

I sigh and pull my sweater off over my head as I shuffle into the bedroom. Splotches of Bree’s smeared mascara make a Rorschach of the cable knit. That’s me—a literal shoulder to cry on.

I couldn’t help but notice that Bree never asked me how I was doing, whether I was okay. She of all people should know that, even though we’re divorced, I still care about Roy.

Were divorced. Cared about him. Past.

As badly as I want to ignore it, I know I have to face what happened. Because I’m going to catch the person who murdered Roy.

Day 42 (Sunday, Feb 11, 2024): Wordle #967 - NEVER

Chapter 6.

Note to self: Never bring tuna noodle casserole on public transportation.

I’d baked up a huge dish to give to Bree, and I swear I had tightly covered it. Plastic wrap and everything. But, well, from the side-eye I got on BART, you would’ve thought I had gutted an albacore right there at my seat.

I ring Bree’s doorbell and reshoulder the heavy tote bag containing the casserole. I give it a covert sniff. Smells fine to me.

A muffled “Just a second!” comes from inside, but a good half-minute passes before Bree flings open the door, cradling Lola in her arm.

“Hi, Cece. Come on in.” Bree tries to wave me in and juggle a squirming Lola at the same time. She flashes what looks like an actual smile, her hair neatly coifed and makeup more flawless than Facetune.

“You look a lot better!” I can’t stop myself from saying, surprised, and yeah, maybe a tad judgy. Stop it, Cecilia, grief looks different for everyone, I admonish myself as I step inside. “How are you feeling today?”

“I’m okay, at the moment. The Xanax helps a little,” Bree says. Then, to Lola, “And so do you! Yes, you do.” She plants a few kisses in the curly white fur atop Lola’s head. Lola endures.

“That’s good. Um, where should I—?” I heave the tote bag off my shoulder and open its handles, revealing a hodgepodge of Tupperware and tinfoil-wrapped dishes worthy of any church potluck.

“Oh, let’s go in the kitchen.” Bree leads the way.

Day 43 (Monday, Feb 12, 2024): Wordle #968 - PASTA

You wouldn’t know by walking through their house that someone had just died. Roy’s jacket still hangs on the coat rack, ready to be picked up and worn. Lola wags her tail, nestled in Bree’s arms. There’s even sun shining merrily through the bay windows, no sign of Karl.

The normalcy of it all weirds me out. Everything should be flipped upside down and turned inside out, shouldn’t it? That’s how I feel, anyway.

When we reach the kitchen, Bree pats the countertop and I gratefully plop down the straining tote bag.

“It’s nothing fancy, but I tried my best. Here’s some pasta salad, three-bean chili…”

I keep pulling out dishes like Mary Poppins, so many that I surprise even myself. I guess I’d lost track of the menu when juggling every burner, broiler, and baking dish I own. Not to mention every last pot—from Crock to Instant. Maybe I am a good friend, sometimes. Or maybe I went a little overboard.

“…tuna noodle casserole, rice pilaf, aaand some kind of no-bake cookie thing.” I let out a relieved whew, dusting off my hands.

“Wow, Cece! That’s… a lot.” Bree finally sets down Lola to open the fridge and start piling the dishes inside. “Thanks for doing all that.”

I can’t help but notice that her refrigerator is already well stocked: Labeled plastic clamshells filled with bright greens and veggies, cheeses, a tub of what looks like hummus.

I also can’t help but notice how Bree scrunches up her nose at the tuna casserole—blink and you’d miss it—and slides the dish into the bottom freezer. She kicks it closed with her foot.

Okay, yeah, so I definitely went overboard. Maybe she’ll eat the cookies at least.

Day 44 (Tuesday, Feb 13, 2024): Wordle #969 - SCRAM

After all, Bree doesn’t just have a sweet tooth, she has several. Big, wisdom-tooth-sized sweet teeth. That’s right, I convince myself, the cookies won’t go to waste.

As if on cue, Bree pops open the Tupperware containing the treats. I mentally pat myself on the back—See? I do have some deduction skills.

“These look good,” Bree remarks, almost suspiciously, like she can’t believe I actually made them. She examines a large nugget of chocolatey cookie pinioned between her thumb and forefinger.

“Yeah, I saw the recipe all over Instagram,” I say, but I’m distracted. Lola keeps jumping at my legs like there are dog treats hidden somewhere in the folds of my skirt. Her nail catches on a thread and I wish—not for the first time—that I could tell someone else’s pet to scram.

I settle for nudging her away with my foot instead. She trots over to Bree to resume her jumping routine. A particularly incessant lunge catches Bree off guard, and she drops the cookie to the floor.

“No! Lola, don’t!” Bree scolds, but it’s too late. Lola snatches up the cookie and gallops out of the kitchen faster than a greyhound.

Bree scrambles to catch Lola but only manages to trip over her own feet and fall onto the kitchen floor. Hard. But when I make to help her up, she waves me away frantically. “No, stop Lola! She can’t have chocolate!”

And I can’t have my best friend’s husband and dog die on her in the same week. Especially not if I’m the one responsible for the killer cookie.

I sprint after Lola only to see her furry white rump disappearing up the stairs.

Day 45 (Wednesday, Feb 14, 2024): Wordle #970 - TALON

“Lola, drop it!” I yell as I pursue her, taking the steps two at a time.

When I reach the second floor, I see that Lola has, in fact, dropped it. She’s in the middle of Bree’s office, bowed forward with her nose to the cookie, tail wagging in the air and ready to play. I grab the toxic treat before she can run off with it again.

“Is she alright?!” Bree screeches from the stairs, not far behind me.

“Yes, she’s fine,” I say, relieved, but I glare at Lola. That manic Maltipoo looks rather proud of herself, her pink tongue lolling from her mouth like she’s laughing at me. “She didn’t eat any of it.”

“Oh, thank god!”

Bree snatches the offending cookie out of my hand as soon as she reaches me, squeezing it in her talons like she intends to crush it. Like this is somehow the cookie’s fault.

With a huff, she shoulders past me, stomps on the foot pedal of the trash can beside her desk, and pitches the cookie like she’s Randy Johnson. Bree then scoops up Lola with one arm and hooks the other in mine, turning us toward the stairs.

I’m about to go with her, but something catches my eye. Something along the floor at the edge of Bree’s open office.

“What’s that?” I wonder aloud.

“What’s what?” Bree sees where I’m looking. “Oh! It’s nothing. Come on, let’s—"

I slip from her grasp and take a step closer.

The flooring’s been removed, all the way down the hall toward the guest bath.

Day 46 (Thursday, Feb 15, 2024): Wordle #971 - ASCOT

“Your floor’s ripped up,” I say. Yes, brilliant observation, Holmes.

“Oh, yes. We’re—I’m remodeling.” Bree shifts Lola to her other hip, still trying to edge her way downstairs. “I told you, remember?”

“You said you were redoing the tile in the guest bathroom.”

“Yes, and the floors,” Bree insists. She plucks at the pink ascot scarf tied tightly around her neck and swallows hard.

She’s nervous. There’s something more to her reaction than wanting to play the perfect hostess who presents the perfect home. Like when she had gotten her panties in a bunch over the cleaning product odor that had assaulted my nose… right here.

“So, you took out the floor sometime after I left the night before last and…” I do some quick calculus in my head. “Before yesterday morning, when Roy’s body was found?”

“Well, I was just so anxious about Roy being missing, I couldn’t sleep. I had to do something to keep myself busy, you know?” Her words spill out faster than ketchup smacked out of an overturned bottle. “So I decided, why not start on the floors?”

The thought of Bree tackling such a huge, messy, manicure-ruining DIY project is laughable, but I’m not laughing.

Day 47 (Friday, Feb 16, 2024): Wordle #972 - STASH

Bree is hiding something, obviously.

A ruckus suddenly breaks out in my head—an alarm bell, a starter pistol, the chatter of my inner voice arguing over the possibilities:

Bree tried to clean up something—blood? No, she couldn’t, could she?—but then she decided to remove the floors entirely. Just to be sure. Did I notice anything odd about the floor the last time I was here? No, I don’t think so, but… maybe she had put down a rug? I don’t remember. One thing’s for sure: she didn’t want me to see this.

Bree stares at me intently, like she’s trying to read my mind.

I stash away my questions about the floor for later and ready another volley for Bree, no longer really caring whether I upset her.

“Have you looked at your doorbell camera yet? Did the police?”

“Oh, um…” Bree blinks, taken aback by the change of subject. “It looks like the app doesn’t store any videos? You have to pay a monthly subscription fee for that or something? Roy was in charge of all the tech stuff—I guess he didn’t pay for that.”

Roy managing their tech, I can believe, but the rest? Roy wasn’t a paranoid man, but he had smartly stepped up their security once he’d gained a bit of notoriety, and got doxxed. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had moved to Pacific Heights not just for the upgrade but for the new address.

And the idea that Roy—Forbes cover boy—wouldn’t spare a few bucks a month for video storage? Please.

Day 48 (Saturday, Feb 17, 2024): Wordle #973 - PSALM

“Huh. That’s too bad,” I say blandly. I don’t want to spook Bree. And if I’ve learned anything as a private investigator, it’s this: the less I say, the more she’ll talk.

“The police took a look at the app, too. They couldn’t find any videos either…” Bree goes on hurriedly, sure enough. She turns away from me as she speaks and starts making her way down the stairs, forcing me to follow her.

I keep an ear open as Bree continues to protest too much about the doorbell camera, but I’m on the lookout for anything else I might have missed.

There’s a framed black-and-white poster in the stairwell that I hadn’t noticed before. It enthuses, “You can do hard things.” All caps. Displayed with the same reverence given to a psalm. Attention-grabbing, sure, but not at all relevant to Roy’s murder. Unless their interior design disagreements had really escalated…

Anyway, I keep looking.

A small gray splotch on the banister jumps out at me, a stark blemish against the pearly white paint. I pause for a closer inspection. Fingerprint powder.

What I wouldn’t give for a peek at the case file, to see everything the police found here—or didn’t find. What did they make of Bree ripping up the floor?

Bree, now talking about some viral doorbell cam video, doesn’t notice my brief hesitation and I catch up to her easily.

“So anyway, the ‘alien’ was just a spider. Wild, right?” Bree concludes as we reach the main floor. She looks to me expectantly for my reaction. I manage a humoring smile.

Day 49 (Sunday, Feb 18, 2024): Wordle #974 - RIDGE

“Listen, Bree, I know you don’t want to talk about everything that… happened,” I say carefully. “But I was hoping you could do something for me.”

She’s already agitated by my questions, and she’s really not going to like what I ask next, but if I make her feel like she’s in control, like she’s doing me a favor...

“Um, I guess so,” Bree says, wary. “What can I do?”

“I’d like to see that text Roy sent to you, the day he didn’t come home.”

“What? Why?” Bree frowns, scrunching up her face so dramatically that a ridge forms between her eyebrows like two tectonic plates smushing together.

“Well, it’s the last thing he said to you, right? They’re kinda like his last words, in a way.” I duck my eyes—like I said, terrible poker face. “And look, I know that he and I split up a while ago, but it would mean a lot to me if…”

I can’t go on. Not because I’m overcome with emotion, but because I’m disgusted with myself. I don’t want to manipulate Bree like this—especially not by evoking my relationship with Roy—but I couldn’t think of any other way to convince her to show me that text.

And I definitely can’t tell her the real reason I want to see it.

Day 50 (Monday, Feb 19, 2024): Wordle #975 - PRICE

Bree thinks it over, distractedly petting Lola a tad too hard, pulling back the poor dog’s scalp with each stroke like she’s giving her a facelift. Several seconds tick by, and I begin to worry that my ploy hasn’t worked.

Well, if I need to beg to get a look at the text, I guess that’s the price I have to pay.

Luckily, right before I truly embarrass myself, Bree decides she can’t deny my request.

“Okay, you can see it,” Bree grumbles. She sets Lola down on the floor and fishes her phone out of her back pocket.

She takes her sweet time pulling up the text—unlocking the phone, tapping out a quick message, swiping away some notifications, doing who knows what else.

Jeez, is she clearing her browser history or something?

When Bree finally deems her phone ready for my eyes, she doesn’t hand me the device but turns its screen ever so slightly toward me. I grab onto one corner for a better angle, ignoring the indignant noise Bree makes.

Roy’s text to Bree reads:

Im not coming home tonight

Just that. No apostrophe, no punctuation at all. A missing period hasn’t jolted me this much since that drunken one-night stand in college.

I know for sure now: Roy didn’t write this text.

Day 51 (Tuesday, Feb 20, 2024): Wordle #976 - MATCH

Roy would sooner, well, die than send a message without proper punctuation. Even a text.

The murderer must have wanted it to look like Roy had still been alive at—I glance back at the screen—11:53 am on October 20th.

I suppose it’s possible that he hadn’t been killed yet—that could match with the police’s estimated time of death, anywhere from twenty-four to forty-eight hours before his body was discovered.

But considering that he had virtually dropped off the planet-slash-internet much earlier, I don’t buy it. Especially considering the sloppiness of the text, and everything else…

Bree starts to tug on the phone a little, but I don’t let go. As nonchalantly as possible, I swipe to the bottom of the conversation—I can say my finger slipped.

Bree only texted Roy back once:

why not? call me

The phone dings with a new message notification, but Bree pulls it out of my hand before I can see any details.

“Uh, thanks, Bree,” I say, my voice tight.

“Sure.” Bree crosses her arms and levels a chilly look at me. I get the feeling I’ve overstayed my welcome. “Look, Cece—”

“You didn’t text him again?” I cut in.

Maybe if I catch her flat-footed, she’ll let something slip before she kicks me out.

Day 52 (Wednesday, Feb 21, 2024): Wordle #977 - BUILD

“What?” Bree blinks.

“You only texted Roy once, the whole time he was missing?”

“I called him, like, a lot. I told you that, remember?” Bree says with a forced smile, like she’s explaining to her grandma how to use Spotify for the umpteenth time.

She was smart not to hand over her phone to me. I’d be checking her call history right now, and I’d bet dollars to donuts there were none to Roy.

“Oh, you said you needed help with ‘Find My Phone,’ right?” I say as if I’m just now remembering. “I could show you how to locate Roy’s phone.”

I hold out my hand, but Bree clutches her phone to her chest protectively, like I might try to snatch it away from her.

“What does it matter now? We found Roy, he’s dead.” Bree says viciously.

“But his phone is still missing. If we can find where it is—"

“Stop! Just stop it, Cece! I tried to tell you yesterday that I don’t need your ‘help’ with this anymore,” Bree explodes. I watch as her temper and impatience build upon each other like angry little LEGOs. “I tried to be nice about it but—but you’re not being very nice at all!”

Bree quite literally marches me toward the front door, her fingers digging into the flesh above my elbow. Lola scurries out of the way of Bree’s be-Ugged feet just in time.

“Ow! Bree, wait a second—” I manage to grab my purse off the console table before Bree harries me out onto the porch.

“You’re not respecting my boundaries, Cecilia,” Bree says, her face flushed with emotion—maybe even a touch of excitement. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

As if that weren’t already obvious. Before I can even think of how to respond, Bree closes the door in my face.

Day 53 (Thursday, Feb 22, 2024): Wordle #978 - HEAVY

My commute home on BART is spent going over all the things I could have done differently, or better.

Not just today, not just when Roy went missing, but as far back as when Roy and Bree started dating.

Because, now, I’m convinced: Bree is responsible for Roy’s death.

Maybe I could’ve caught Bree in a lie, or spotted a drop of blood on the floor, or warned Roy away from dating Bree in the first place, or even flouted that “forever hold your peace” nonsense at their wedding.

Over and over again, these hypothetical scenes replay in my head, like a looping gif that’s impossible to scroll past.

But I don’t just feel regretful. No—I’m angry. At Bree, of course, but also with myself. Especially with myself.

Why didn’t I see it before? Am I literally the worst private investigator to ever exist?

No, I was just being a good friend, giving Bree the benefit of the doubt.

Yes, that’s it—I was inured to Bree’s strange behavior after decades of an equally strange friendship. As blind as a cavefish to the inconceivability of my best friend being a cold-blooded murderer…

Bree’s ears must be itching, because my phone chimes with a new message from her. I let out a heavy sigh, not keen to hear any more of her excuses, but I pull up the text anyway. The screen sways in my hand as the train rounds a corner.

Im sorry 😢 call me tomorrow k?

I’m sorry too, I text back.

She’s only sorry that I’m onto her.

Well, I’m not sorry either. I’m going to prove that Bree murdered Roy.

Day 54 (Friday, Feb 23, 2024): Wordle #979 - APART

Chapter 7.

This is why I should stick to online investigations, I think as I adjust the blonde wig that’s straining to keep my mop of Raggedy Ann hair contained. I really suck at disguises.

The wig is tight, and itchy, and does absolutely nothing for my complexion. At least, I don’t think it does. I could hardly see myself in the bathroom mirror at the coffee shop down the street where I’d changed into my disguise, swapping out my glasses for a pair of ancient contact lenses.

Satisfied that my wig probably won’t pop off like a champagne cork, I walk into Cover to Cover—the bookstore where Bree works.

A bell dings merrily on the door, and rows upon rows of cramped but neatly organized bookshelves blur into one big cheerful rainbow. That musty-yet-mouthwatering book smell fills the tight space, battling for dominance over the gift shop’s perfumed candles and incense.

Apart from myself, there are only two other people in the store. And the resident cat, Bree’s archnemesis, who licks himself without reservation in the middle of the children’s reading corner.

“Welcome in!” A woman wearing a Cover to Cover t-shirt calls out to me. “Can I help you find something?”

“Oh, um, hello.” I’m suddenly nervous. It’s been a while since I’ve posed as someone else in person, and never as someone I actually know. “I’m Bree’s sister.”

Day 55 (Saturday, Feb 24, 2024): Wordle #980 - PIPER

“Oh! So, you must be… Piper? No, Olivia?”

“Olive.”

“Olive! That’s right. I’m Karen,” she says with a smile and shakes my hand. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

Between the emphasis Karen puts on “finally” and the way she’s looking me up and down like I’m a celebrity, I can’t help but wonder what Bree has said about her younger sister.

The wig itches, inching its way up the back of my neck.

I figured this would be risky, but Karen can’t know that much about Olive, right?

Olive is nearly eight years younger than Bree, and they’ve been distant in more than just age for as long as I can remember. If grudge-holding were an art form, Bree would have an EGOT—she holds every little thing against Olive tighter than Spanx.

Now, Olive lives in Brooklyn, and though I wouldn’t say they’re estranged, the sisters rarely talk, much less see each other. And when they do, I never hear the end of it from Bree.

Even months after her wedding, Bree would complain to me about how Olive’s bridesmaid dress had been the wrong shade of heliotrope…

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Karen says, snapping me back to attention. “Poor Bree must be devastated.”

Even if Bree hadn’t called out of work—which I’m sure she did—Karen would’ve heard about Roy’s death by now. Everyone has, it’s all over social media.

Multimillionaire Crypto Magnate Murdered!

Day 56 (Sunday, Feb 25, 2024): Wordle #981 - SMITH

“Thank you. Yeah, Bree’s taking it pretty hard.” I frown, thinking about how Bree’s really been acting, but it probably comes off as concern for my “sister.”

“Well, you tell Bree to take all the time she needs. Her job will be here for her, when she’s ready,” Karen says in a cheerful, motherly sort of way. I get the impression that Karen is in no hurry to have Bree back, or maybe I’m reading too much into her chirpy demeanor. “And if there’s anything I can do?”

“Actually, maybe you can help me. Bree thinks she might have left her portable charger here, she asked me to look for it,” I say, deception coming more easily when I’m on the job.

“Fraud!” A man with a scraggly white beard shouts from behind a nearby bookshelf. He points a paperback clutched between his bony fingers at me and Karen.

I gulp. Is my cover blown? Did that guy make me somehow? He lopes over to us and I get ready to flee.

“The Fraud by Zadie Smith! That’s the book I was trying to remember, the one I was telling you about,” the man says animatedly to Karen. “Do you have a copy?”

“I will check for you in a moment, Eugene,” Karen says patiently to the bearded man—clearly a regular. “But I’m going to help Olive here first. She’s Bree’s sister.”

Eugene gives me a quick once-over.

“Huh. You don’t look much like Bree,” he says bluntly.

Yeah, well, I don’t look thirty-five either.

“I get that a lot,” I say and force out a self-deprecating chuckle. The wig slips a little. Go away, Eugene.

Day 57 (Monday, Feb 26, 2024): Wordle #982 - OFTEN

“What was it you said you dropped by for, dear?” Karen rescues me from Eugene’s scrutiny, steering me away by the shoulders toward the far end of the bookstore.

“Bree’s portable charger,” I lie again. I needed some excuse for Olive to come to the bookshop, and it seemed as good a reason as any.

“That’s right. Let’s take a look in the break room.”

We spend only a minute going through Bree’s cubby—there’s not much in there except for some lipstick and a few pieces of sugar-free gum. But even in that short time, I clock Karen stealing more glances at me than Rickey Henderson stole bases.

My first reaction is to worry. She’s spotted the edge of my wig, or she suddenly remembered a picture of the real Olive from Bree’s Instagram, or maybe she finally noticed just how much I’m sweating.

But after a second, I realize she’s not bothered by me at all. She’s excited. I’ve seen that eager look in my clients’ eyes often enough to recognize it—she wants me to spill the tea.

I manage to hold back a self-satisfied smile. This is exactly what I’d hoped to find when coming here, after all. The irresistible urge to gossip about one’s coworkers behind their backs.

“I guess she must’ve left her charger somewhere else,” I say perfunctorily. Karen gives an apologetic but half-hearted shrug, as ready to move on as I am. “Were you here with Bree on the twentieth? The day Roy went missing?”

I know that she was. Bree had whined about Karen giving feedback on her staff pick that same day, and it’s no accident that I showed up when Karen was working.

Okay, yeah, maybe I’m not the worst private investigator to ever exist.

Day 58 (Tuesday, Feb 27, 2024): Wordle #983 - SENSE

Karen thinks about it as she leads me back into the bookstore proper.

“Let’s see, the twentieth was… four days ago. Yes, I was here! That’s when Roy went missing, you say?” Karen perks up even more, seemingly thrilled by the prospect that she might have a minor role to play in the whole affair. It’s not often that your coworker’s famous husband gets murdered, after all.

“Yeah, Bree said she got a text from Roy when she was on her lunch break, but then she never heard from him again.”

Sometimes you don’t even have to ask a question to get an answer from someone—you just have to open the door and they’ll walk right in like the neighbor’s cat.

“Of course, I remember! Bree was really upset. She kept going on and on about that text Roy had sent her. She even showed it to me, asked me what I thought it meant.”

“Yeah, she was a wreck!” Eugene pipes up from the corner, eavesdropping. Thanks, Eugene.

“I told Bree she could go home early, but she insisted on staying. She even closed the store with me, and we got drinks afterward. I don’t think we’ve ever done that before…” Karen loses a bit of steam, seeming to realize just now how unusual it all was. “I guess she didn’t want to be alone?”

I almost have to applaud Bree. She’s given herself an alibi, witnesses who can corroborate her whereabouts during the window when Roy supposedly disappeared. If you believe Bree, which I don’t, obviously.

She must have been taking notes on all those true crime podcasts she listens to.

“I knew something had happened to Roy that day. I just knew it,” Karen whispers to me conspiratorially. “I have a sixth sense for this kind of thing, you know.”

Sure, and I’m Bruce Willis.

Day 59 (Wednesday, Feb 28, 2024): Wordle #984 - DEVIL

“Is there anything else you can tell me about that day? Was Bree acting strangely? Besides the whole thing with the text, of course.”

Not exactly the kind of question the sister of a grieving widow asks when on a mission to retrieve a forgotten charger. But I’ve managed to string Karen along with the sister schtick so far…

“Well, Bree did come in pretty late for her shift—”

No surprise there.

“Even later than usual, I’d say. But no, nothing else strange.”

“What about that man she was arguing with?” Eugene interjects, no longer even pretending to mind his own business.

“What man?” Karen and I say together like we’ve rehearsed it. I turn my head so sharply toward Eugene that the wig’s middle part shifts into a side part. Like a true Millennial.

“I saw Bree meet a man outside the shop. She didn’t seem too happy about him being here, they were yelling at each other,” Eugene says with a devilish gleam in his eye, unabashedly enjoying the attention.

“I didn’t see that!” Karen says, somewhere between disappointed and apologetic, as though she’s somehow let me down. “I must have been in the back.”

“Was it Roy?” I ask Eugene impatiently.

“I dunno.” Eugene shrugs. “Never met the guy.”

Day 60 (Thursday, Feb 29, 2024): Wordle #985 - IMAGE

I nearly fumble my phone onto the floor as I hurry to remove it from my tote bag.

I pull up a photo of Roy—my favorite photo of him. Taken on a trip to Kauai for our first anniversary. He’s laughing. A crab had just scuttled across his foot, startling him, and I snapped the picture. I can still smell the briny air, still feel the breath-warm breeze that had lifted Roy’s dark hair away from his eyes. He looks so vital, so alive…

A lump catches in my throat like a stale Ritz cracker.

I almost don’t want to show Eugene the image anymore. It feels too intimate, too exposed, to share this with a stranger. Like throwing open my diary for anyone to see.

But I can feel Eugene’s and Karen’s eyes on me, waiting. Resigned, I turn my phone toward Eugene.

“Is this the man Bree was arguing with?”

Eugene leans in close for a better look, his nose mere inches away from the screen. He shakes his head.

“No, it was a white guy, blond hair. Looked like one of those gym rats, you know?”

Days 61 & 62 (Friday, March 1 & Saturday, March 2, 2024): Wordle #986 – FORTY & Wordle #987 – URBAN

My heart beats a little faster, sensing a lead.

“How old would you say this guy was? Thirty, forty?”

“Uh, late thirties, probably. But trying to look younger.” Eugene strokes his long white beard with a sage chuckle. “If you told me he was a model for Urban Outfitters, I’d believe it.”

“Did you hear what they were arguing about?” Karen butts in, literally putting herself between me and Eugene to be even closer to the hot goss.

Hey, I’ll handle the questions here, Karen, thank you very much. But also, good question.

“No, I didn’t,” Eugene concedes with a sigh. Not for a lack of trying, I’m sure.

Day 63 (Sunday, March 3, 2024): Wordle #988 - STATE

“Does this guy ring any bells for you, Karen? Have you seen him before?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Karen frowns in thought.

I get the feeling that I’ve wrung all the useful information I can out of these two gossip sponges. Best to leave before they start asking questions about why I’m asking questions.

“Well, thanks for helping me out, with the charger and everything,” I say, already inching my way toward the door. “But I’d better get back to Bree now.”

“Of course, don’t let us keep you! And please give my condolences to Bree, okay?” Karen says.

Before I can escape, she squeezes me into a bear hug, knocking my wig even further askew. I hurriedly yank it back toward my hairline. By touch alone, I can tell that the wig is in a bit of a state, more tangled up than the cords behind my computer desk, so I try to slip away before it blows my cover.

Not that my disguise will fool them forever. Once Bree comes back to work—if she comes back to work—I’m sure Karen will mention that “Olive” stopped by, and they’ll eventually figure out I wasn’t who I said I was.

But that’s a problem for Future Cecilia. Just like that bag of old broccoli in the crisper.

Actually, it might not be a problem at all. No matter how this all shakes out, I doubt that Bree and I will still be friends by the end of it. So she can be as mad at me as she pleases for nosing around her bookshop.

Besides, I got what I came here for.

I say goodbye as I walk out the door of Cover to Cover and back on the trail.

Day 64 (Monday, March 4, 2024): Wordle #989 - FLAME

Chapter 8.

I’m back at the coffee shop down the street, back on Instagram, back in my element.

I’d ditched the wig as soon as I was out of view of Cover to Cover, but my head still itches with phantom sensation. I scratch at my scalp with one hand and bring a mug of coffee to my lips with the other.

Bree’s Instagram page fills my laptop screen. A sprawling patchwork of food and fashion and travel photos. Not to mention dozens of thirst traps that have lured in the reply guys like moths to a sexy flame.

I sigh and take another gulp of coffee, unsure where to start, dreading having to pore over photo after photo of Bree’s stupid smiling face. But I can’t come up with a better way to find her mystery man.

So I start scrolling, keeping my eyes peeled for a blond, muscular guy in his thirties.

I’m not harboring any illusions that Bree would blatantly post a photo of herself with this man, but he could be in the background somewhere—dancing at a party, serving a drink to her table of girlfriends, doing who knows what else.

Who is this guy anyway?

I have to assume they’re lovers, because what else would they be? And because, yeah, I’m not willing to give Bree the benefit of the doubt right now.

Day 65 (Tuesday, March 5, 2024): Wordle #990 - HUNCH

Over an hour goes by with nothing to show for it.

My eyeballs feel like they’re about to fall out of my skull, exhausted from squinting at a near-infinite scroll of infinitely tiresome photos.

Even when I lean back and close my eyes, I see nothing but Bree. Bree pouting at the camera to show off her glossy pink lipstick. Bree with Lola in her lap at a dog-friendly café. Bree on the beach reading Bad Feminist. Bree, Bree, Bree. And no blond guy in sight.

Still, I decide to keep at it for a while, not yet ready to give up on my hunch, but the next photo stops me short.

It’s me and Roy. We’re sitting together on an ochre loveseat, in their old home, at one of Bree’s Christmas parties, I think. Roy is looking out of frame somewhere, but I’m staring straight at him. My mouth is open, mid-sentence, and cola sloshes from the top of my glass as I gesture animatedly.

Not a flattering photo, but that’s not why I can’t bear to look at it. I can see the longing in my eyes, as plain as the stain that that Coke left on my velvet skirt.

Okay, no more scrolling down memory lane—time for a new plan to find Blondie.

Day 66 (Wednesday, March 6, 2024): Wordle #991 - TEARY

Well, not an entirely new plan. Instagram’s not quite through with me yet.

I navigate back to the top of Bree’s profile and click on the section marked “Tagged.” If anyone else has marked or mentioned Bree in a photo, it will show up here.

While Bree may not be careless enough to share a photo of herself and Blondie, who knows what he might post on his own feed.

Nothing in the tagged photos jumps out at me immediately. More parties where Bree and a whole gaggle of girls have been tagged. A handful of showers of the baby and bridal variety. Brunches that I wasn’t invited to…

I reach for my coffee mug only to find that it’s empty. The thrill of snatching a whiff of a lead has worn off, and I’m caught by a huge yawn that leaves me teary-eyed. I guess one more cup couldn’t hurt—

My need for caffeine disappears faster than a Target-exclusive Stanley when a photo of a handsome, blond man surfaces on the screen.

Day 67 (Thursday, March 7, 2024): Wordle #992 - CLONE

He’s looking slightly away from the camera in an insouciant way, like he doesn’t really care to be in the photo. Never mind that it’s a selfie and he’s clearly flexing what can be seen of his bare arm, though his face takes up most of the frame.

He could almost pass for a clone of Alexander Skarsgård. If that clone had stepped out of the cloning machine and straight into a tanning booth.

Besides his face, shoulder, and bicep, there’s not much else to see except for an out-of-focus water bottle in the background. Definitely no one else. I double-check the tags, and sure enough, Bree’s name pops up. Weird.

I click on the guy’s profile.

Day 68 (Friday, March 8, 2024): Wordle #993 - EARLY

Austin Early. Username: burly_early.

Lives in the Bay Area, loves dogs, and owns a yoga studio, according to his profile.

Ugh, Bree, don’t tell me you’re sleeping with your yoga instructor. I mean, how much more cliché can you get?

A few more clicks confirm that he’s following Bree, but she’s not following him.

Bree has thousands of followers she doesn't know personally—over a hundred thousand, in fact, most of whom found her after Roy hit the cover of Forbes. With Roy’s social media presence being practically non-existent, his fanboys glommed onto Bree for any crumb of information about their new crypto king. And she ate up the attention.

So, Bree and this Austin person could be complete strangers IRL. Or not…

Day 69 (Saturday, March 9, 2024): Wordle #994 - CHEER

I start clicking through Austin’s photos, being sure to check the tags as well.

There are no overt signs of Bree. No pics of the two of them canoodling like lovebirds—not even a glimpse of her in the background.

But then she’s tagged in another photo.

I slide the laptop closer to my face, squinting to inspect the photo pixel by pixel. I really should’ve put my glasses back on for this…

Not only is it not a picture of Bree, it’s not a photo of anyone at all:

Two nearly empty wine glasses stand amid the aftermath of what looked to be a decadent meal. Crumpled cloth napkins, archipelagos of crumbs and smeared sauces across a sea of plates. The lighting’s bad, but I think I spy a smudge of lipstick on one of the glasses. There’s no caption.

Is this a dinner he shared with Bree? This, his sly way of signaling their affair under everyone’s noses?

I can’t decide if I want to barf or cheer—I know it’s a good lead, but following it doesn’t feel very good at all.

Day 70 (Sunday, March 10, 2024): Wordle #995 - GRASP

This may be the first time ever that I don’t want to be right about a hunch. For Roy’s sake. He would have been absolutely devastated if he had known Bree was cheating on him.

Then again, if I am right about the affair, then I have a motive for murder gift wrapped and handed to me on a silver platter. And I obviously want to bring Roy’s murderer to justice, even if it is Bree. Though Bree behind bars would have devastated Roy too…

My head hurts. Maybe I’ve sprained something with all these mental gymnastics. My hand hurts too, I realize, and I see that I’m strangling the handle of the coffee mug like it’s someone’s neck.

I loosen my grasp and force myself to do some box breathing.

Day 71 (Monday, March 11, 2024): Wordle #996 - PESKY

After a minute goes by, I feel calm enough to face Austin’s Instagram once more. Two tagged photos could be an accident, a case of fat-fingered misclicks. But any more than that I would consider proof of… something.

Maybe Austin is a weirdo who’s obsessed with Bree, roleplaying imagined dates with her, trying to manifest a real relationship through staged photos. Maybe Bree was yelling at him outside of Cover to Cover because she was telling off a creepy stalker. Or maybe they’re just fucking. Occam’s razor and all that.

Another ten minutes of digging unearths just as many photos tagged with Bree’s name. All over-filtered tableaux, usually of a meal or a landscape, like Austin fancies himself some kind of Millennial Cézanne.

Well, that’s enough for me to work with. Next step: where to find Austin so we can have a friendly chat.

Aside from sweaty selfies with his shirt off, most of his posts are of him teaching at his yoga studio—Early Morning Yoga. How original.

I’m sure I can find him there, but I track down his phone number and home address too, just in case.

“Can I get you anything else?” A voice barks in my ear, making me jump. I knock over the empty coffee cup as I scramble to see who’s speaking to me.

It’s the barista with the blue hair and grunge t-shirt. She scowls at me like I’m a pesky mosquito that needs swatting. Or like I’m a squatter who has purchased only one cheap drink yet taken up an entire table for the last two-plus hours.

“Uh, no thank you,” I say quickly and snap my laptop shut. “I was just leaving.”

Day 72 (Tuesday, March 12, 2024): Wordle #997 - HEAVE

I pack up my bag and scurry out the door, embarrassed to have been given the old heave-ho.

Well, it’s probably for the best—knowing me, I would’ve procrastinated another half-hour at least, putting off confronting Austin.

I pull up Early Morning Yoga on my phone. It’s in the Mission, about twenty minutes away by bus. That should give me enough time to come up with a good cover story. I hope.

Working off my theory that Bree and Austin are engaged in a secret affair, I have to assume that no one else knows. Not even, or perhaps especially not, the real Olive. No, my “Olive” ploy won’t work with Austin—he must know that Bree wouldn’t confide in her sister. Heck, he might even know what Olive looks like.

I suddenly realize that I have no idea just how close Austin and Bree might be. They’re not in love, are they?

Regardless, if they are having an affair, Austin will tell Bree right away about any odd women stopping by his yoga studio, asking prying questions about them.

Maybe if I disguise myself really well? With something better than the ten-dollar Spirit Halloween wig curled up in the bottom of my tote bag like a dead muskrat.

Or maybe I just have to get all the information I can before Bree figures out I’m snooping around and stonewalls me…

I keep thinking as I make my way toward the nearest Muni stop, but for now, I’m coming up emptier than my bank account.

Day 73 (Wednesday, March 13, 2024): Wordle #998 - LOCAL

Chapter 9.

Even if I weren’t anxious about meeting Austin, I would still be intimidated by the prospect of going inside Early Morning Yoga. It’s so… bougie.

“Early Morning Yoga” has been shortened to “EMY” inlaid in white marble above the entrance to the studio. Through its vast floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see gleaming wood floors, artfully exposed beams, and enough plants to make a greenhouse jealous.

Dozens of Lululemon-clad women mingle inside, rolling up their mats and taking swigs from their Hydro Flasks. Clearly a favorite spot among the local Birkin Mom population.

It looks like class is letting out and I’ve already been lingering outside for too long. Now’s the time to make a move without drawing attention.

Much to my own chagrin, I’ve decided to put the cursed blonde wig back on, though I won’t be posing as Olive. I just need to disguise my poofy red hair—regrettably, my most notable feature—and hope that Bree via Austin won’t be able to suss out who I am.

I smooth down the wig self-consciously as I slip past the exiting women and make my way toward the welcome desk.

“Hello, can I help you?” The young woman behind the desk chirps at me, a neon “om” symbol washing her in warm white light. She eyes my slouchy sweater and laptop bag—clearly unequipped for a yoga class.

“Hi. I’d like to speak with Austin Early, please,” I say more confidently than I feel.

Day 74 (Thursday, March 14, 2024): Wordle #999 - SINCE

“Sure! Just a moment,” the girl says cheerfully and disappears into the back without any further questions. I’m a little disappointed that she didn’t even ask for my name—I’ve come up with a pretty good one.

A minute goes by. The studio has emptied out almost entirely by the time Austin Early rounds the corner and strides toward me with an easy confidence. The two remaining women near the door titter to each other.

“Hi. I’m Austin.” He extends his hand and smiles at me so beatifically that I almost can’t bear to look at him. His beaming face unleashes more godly radiance than the Ark of the Covenant.

Oh. Okay, I get it now, Bree.

“Um, hi,” I say and shake his hand. My fingers have turned to noodles, but his grip is firm and warm and I miss it as soon as he pulls his hand away.

“And who might you be?” Austin prompts me with a grin.

“Oh, um, I’m Hildy. Hildy Collins.” God, I haven’t been this tongue-tied since I first met Roy. “I’m a freelance writer for SFGate.”

I’ve only posed as a journalist a couple of times before, but the ruse has been surprisingly effective. No one asks for confirmation, and everyone is thrilled to talk about themselves.

“I’m writing a piece about yoga culture in the City.”

Day 75 (Friday, March 15, 2024): Wordle #1000 - ERUPT

“Oh?” Austin says, not as interested as I had hoped. He crosses his muscled arms over his chest then props his chin in his hand, considering me.

“Yes, I’d like to interview you about your practice, your clientele, that sort of thing.” Austin raises an eyebrow but doesn’t betray what he thinks of the idea. I go on. “I won’t take up much of your time. It’s just a little puff piece, really.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. I’m sure it’ll be great,” Austin says with another blinding smile. I feel a blush erupt across my cheeks.

Before I can unknot my tongue, the two women approach us.

“Bye, Austin,” one coos as she brushes past, running her hand down Austin’s arm like he’s a jacket that caught her eye.

“I guess we’ll have to chat some other time,” the other says with a pout. She glares at me from under her eyelashes, annoyed that I’ve monopolized Austin’s attention when she had clearly been jockeying to do the same.

“Bye, Sarah. See you next week, Juliet,” Austin says, melting them with the beam of his smile. They wave happily as they walk out the door, pleased that he remembered their names, I’m sure.

As soon as the door closes, Austin looks back to me, fully focused, like the interruption never happened. I clear my throat.

“So, anyway, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Austin says expansively. “Come on, let’s sit down over there.”

Day 76 (Saturday, March 16, 2024): Wordle #1001 - TOXIN

Austin leads me to a corner of the yoga studio dotted with floor cushions and motions for me to take a seat.

“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back,” he says and moseys away.

I wouldn’t call the contortions I have to bend my knees into “comfortable,” but I do manage to position myself on a mandala-patterned cushion by the time Austin returns. He has a paper cup in each hand and holds one out to me.

“Lemon water,” he explains. “For flushing out toxins.”

I accept the drink, if not the pseudoscience, and take a sip. I needed it—my mouth had gone dry with nervousness.

Austin gulps down his own drink and folds his long legs in front of him like it’s nothing. Show-off.

“Is it alright if I record our conversation? So that I can accurately quote you.”

Or so that I can get your confession of an affair with Bree on tape.

Pretending to be a journalist also has the bonus of giving me a good excuse to ask for someone’s permission to record them—a necessity in California, a “two-party consent” state. If they don’t agree, it’ll be my ass in legal trouble for recording a private conversation.

“No problem. I’m used to it,” Austin says, flashing his toothpaste-commercial smile. “I have a podcast, you know.”

Of course he does.

Day 77 (Sunday, March 17, 2024): Wordle #1002 - SNORT

I pull my phone from my bag, start the recorder app, and place it between us on the wood floor.

“So, Austin, what made you want to open your own yoga studio?”

“It’s a funny story, actually,” Austin says with a snort. “You see, I had been a police officer for a while, like my dad, but then one day…”

I only half-listen as Austin tells his story, interjecting every once in a while with the kinds of questions I assume a journalist would ask. I don’t expect him to divulge anything interesting—yet—I’m just letting him talk freely, lulling him into letting his guard down.

We chat for several minutes, and the more he talks, the more I like him. He’s charming, confident, handsome, of course. But there’s something superficial about him, too, and it’s not just his veneers.

When he relaxes against the wall, his hands loose in his lap, I decide I’ve softened him up enough.

“I can see from Early Morning Yoga’s social media that your clients include many of the Bay Area elite. Ayesha Curry, Nancy Pelosi, Mark Zuckerberg…”

“I prefer to call them students, but yes,” Austin preens. “Our holistic approach tends to attract a discerning, and diverse, sort of people.”

Interesting way to say “our classes are crazy-expensive,” but sure.

Day 78 (Monday, March 18, 2024): Wordle #1003 - SPELT

I take another gulp of lemon water before I make my gambit, my throat tightening.

“And Bree Olsen-Liu?”

Austin’s smile slips faster than a tomato slipping out of a sandwich. He squints at me intently as he leans off the wall and braces his hands on his knees.

“What about her?” Austin asks, wary.

At least he has the decency not to insult me, or himself, by playing dumb, pretending not to know her.

“You two are close.” I don’t make it sound like a question. Make him squirm a little, let him think I know more than I do.

“Mrs. Olsen-Liu has been a student here for some time. So yes, she’s a valued member of our community,” Austin says tightly.

“It’s more than that, though, isn’t it?” I steel my voice and look him straight in the eye. “You’re having an affair.”

His demeanor changes in an instant, now that I’ve spelt out the accusation.

Day 79 (Tuesday, March 19, 2024): Wordle #1004 - ABIDE

Austin’s expression turns to stone, his voice freezes over.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

He doesn’t wait for me to respond, briskly standing up from the cushion and plucking my phone off the floor in one smooth motion. He tries to press the stop button on the recording app, but I scramble to my feet and snatch the phone out of his hands before he’s able.

“If you’re not having an affair with Bree, then explain what you were doing outside Cover to Cover with her. Or at Birdsong,” I prod, recalling one of the restaurants he’d tagged among his cryptic, Bree-adjacent Instagram posts.

This paralyzes Austin for a moment, but he recovers himself quickly, straightening to his full height even though he was already towering over me. A flash of face-melting anger gleams in his eyes, hotter than a pizza roll straight out of the oven. He reaches for me but I flinch away.

“You will leave now,” Austin growls and manages to catch my arm above the elbow, his grip punishing enough to leave bruises. He pulls me toward the exit. “And if I ever see you again, I will call the police.”

I dig in my heels—not one to abide being intimidated or pushed around—and decide to go all in. Besides, I’m already getting thrown out, so what do I have to lose?

“Did you help Bree murder her husband? Or was it your idea? Was it premeditated? A crime of passion?—”

I hear a gasp from the girl at the front desk but Austin says nothing as he manhandles me out the door.

Day 80 (Wednesday, March 20, 2024): Wordle #1005 - LINGO

We both pause for a moment, Austin with his hand on the door, me glaring stubbornly from the sidewalk, neither of us wanting to give ground to the other. Austin breaks first.

“Namaste,” he says with barely concealed rage and slams the door in my face. Funny, I’ve never heard yoga lingo sound so much like “fuck you.”

I stop the recording app and return it to my bag as I walk away down the street. As soon as I round a corner, I snatch off the wig and vow to burn it at Bree’s next Ocean Beach bonfire night… which I probably won’t be attending, regardless of whether or not Austin outs me to Bree.

I couldn’t help but notice that he never denied his involvement with Bree, or with the murder. He didn’t outright confess though, either. Not that I had really expected him to, but I had hoped.

Still, I smile to myself as I make my way toward the bus stop. Austin’s reaction—his surprise and naked anger—is confession enough for me.

And maybe, it’ll be just enough leverage to get Bree to confess.

Day 81 (Thursday, March 21, 2024): Wordle #1006 - SHADE

Chapter 10.

I decide to stay in the City for a while, but I can’t decide whether to confront Bree yet.

Part of me wants to march over to her house, unannounced, and ambush her like I did Austin—my nerves are still firing with the residual thrill. But another part of me thinks I should wait, get more proof. Any concrete proof, really. Something more than my suspicions, strong though they may be.

Well, for starters, Bree had asked me to call her today. I could ring her up, feel out whether it’s the right time to strike.

My nervous excitement gives way to dread when I hit the call button. As Bree’s phone rings, I move to the corner of the coworking space I’d parked myself in, farther away from the two guys hunched over a laptop together.

“Oh, hi, Cece!” Bree says brightly as soon as she picks up. “I’m so glad you called me.”

“Hi, Bree. I’m glad you answered.”

I am glad, in a way. I left Early Morning Yoga almost thirty minutes ago—plenty of time for Austin to debrief Bree on the nosy reporter who’d accused them of murder. Which means they didn’t figure out that said reporter was me. If they had, Bree would be on her way to burn down my apartment, not chatting with me.

Or, Austin hasn’t told Bree yet. She does seem awfully chipper for someone who has just found out she’s suspected of murder. Or maybe Bree has turned the tables and is now trying to deceive me. Or—

“Cece, I just have to apologize again. I am so, so sorry for kicking you out like that yesterday. That was so rude of me, oh my god! I can’t even believe I did that,” Bree rattles off her stream of consciousness in a single breath. “And I didn’t mean to throw shade on your job. I’m sure you’re a great private detective or whatever—"

“No, Bree, I should be the one apologizing.” Sorry not sorry, you homicidal b— “Your husband had just been murdered, I should’ve been more sensitive to your feelings.”

One of the guys whips his head away from the laptop to stare at me.

Day 82 (Friday, March 22, 2024): Wordle #1007 - DECAY

“Well, yeah, you were being weirdly aggro…” Bree trails off, maybe a little surprised that I’d put it so bluntly. “But I forgive you.”

Wow, how very big of her.

“How are you feeling today? Do you want to talk about… it?”

Bree sighs heavily on the other end of the phone, and I can picture the way she pouts when she’s looking for sympathy.

“Today has been… not great. You’ve already done so much for me, Cece, but I could really use a friend right now. Would you mind terribly coming up to see me?” She asks so sweetly it gives me tooth decay.

“Actually, I’m already in the City.”

The guy eavesdropping on me finally loses interest and turns back to his laptop with a disappointed shrug.

“Oh, really? That’s perfect!” Bree says cheerily. “Where are you at?”

“Near the Mission,” I answer before I can think better of it.

Oh, good one, Cecilia—placing yourself in the vicinity of Early Morning Yoga. Perhaps you’d like to admit to poking around Cover to Cover next?

But Bree doesn’t bat an eye.

“How about I come to you? We could meet at Dolores Park? I need to get out of this house, so does Lola.”

Day 83 (Saturday, March 23, 2024): Wordle #1008 - RISEN

I pause. I had been banking on cornering Bree somewhere private, like her home.

I’d even imagined dramatically revealing details of the crime in situ: pointing accusatorily at the torn-up flooring, throwing open the guest bathroom door like a magician unveiling a woman cut in half. You know, really go full Hercule Poirot.

“Cece, are you still there? Hello?”

My eagerness to confront Bree had steadily risen before I’d called her, but now it’s deflating faster than an underfed sourdough starter.

“Yeah, I’m here. Sure, Dolores Park is fine,” I give in, unable to come up with a good reason to refuse.

Day 84 (Sunday, March 24, 2024): Wordle #1009 - TOWEL

“Perfect! I’ll see you there in… half an hour?”

“Yeah,” I grouse. “Perfect.”

---

I arrive at Mission Dolores Park well before Bree, surprising no one.

The temperature is pleasantly warm, even though it’s getting late in the day and even later into October. Dozens of people mingle throughout the park—children playing freeze tag, picnickers, tennis players thwacking balls across the courts—but not so many that I can’t find a secluded patch of lawn well away from anyone else.

I pick a sunny spot near one of the off-leash dog areas, knowing that Bree will want to let Lola frolic. The grass is verdant and well-manicured, and it doesn’t look wet or soiled, but I hesitate to sit down. Because dogs.

I take my laptop out of its tote, lay the bag on the lawn, and carefully arrange myself on top of it, not caring if I squish the blonde wig inside. Hopefully Bree will bring a towel or a blanket or something. I’m sure she will—perfect hostess and all that.

I text Bree my location and wait.

Maybe I can still confront her, here. It would certainly take her by surprise—a murder accusation from her best friend almost literally out of the blue…

“Ah, I caught you!” Bree says from behind me, squeezing my shoulder, and I nearly jump out of my skin.

Day 85 (Monday, March 25, 2024): Wordle #1010 - SALLY

“Bree! You scared me,” I admonish her but still stand up to give her a tepid hug, because she expects one.

“Oh, sorry,” Bree says around a giggle, not sounding very sorry at all. “Thanks for coming out to meet me. I— Lola, stop it!”

Lola is tugging at the end of her leash, whining. She raises up on her hind legs and lunges against her little pink harness, eager to sally forth into the dog park.

With a half-hearted tsk, Bree unclips Lola’s lead, and the pup sprints across the lawn like a fluffy white comet. A golden retriever gives chase, which inspires Lola to run even faster.

Bree watches her go and shakes her head, smiling indulgently.

“You should really think about getting a dog, Cece. They’re the best,” Bree says matter-of-factly, not seeming to care that I already have two cats and a very small apartment. She apparently doesn’t care to hear my response either, skipping between topics like songs on a playlist. “Oh, here, I brought this.”

She pulls a rolled-up wool throw out of her Saint Laurent duffle bag—called it—and hands one end to me. After we spread out the blanket on the grass, Bree settles in with a long sigh. She sighs again when I don’t say anything right away.

“So, you said that today’s been pretty rough for you?” I tee up Bree for what will no doubt be a five-minute rant.

Day 86 (Tuesday, March 26, 2024): Wordle #1011 - MAYOR

“Yeah… I just can’t believe he’s really gone, you know?” Bree says sullenly. She ducks her eyes, which do look a bit misty, and I’m almost convinced of her grief. “I called out to Roy this morning to help me find my car keys. He always knew where they were…”

I nod and try to mold my expression into something approaching sympathy. I have to hand it to her—she is putting on a good performance. I suppose she could be genuinely sad about Roy’s death, even if she is the one who murdered him…

“And I keep getting so many phone calls! Reporters, Roy’s colleagues, distant relatives, old friends I haven’t heard from in ages. It’s too much.” Bree humphs. “Even the mayor called to offer her condolences, can you believe it? Apparently, Roy gave a bunch of charitable donations to the city. Who knew he was such a philanderer?”

“Philanthropist?”

“Yeah, that.” Bree sighs yet again and shakes out her arms like she’s trying to shake off any bad feelings. “Anyway…”

She roots around in her leather duffle bag for several seconds before surfacing with a couple of canned drinks, sweaty with condensation.

“For you.” Bree smiles, proudly extending a can of Mango La Croix to me. My favorite.

“T-thanks,” I say, surprised and a little touched. “You remembered.”

“Well, of course I did!” Bree says with mock offense. She pops open her canned rosé and it fizzles out the top with a sparkling psssh. “We’re best friends, aren’t we?”

She’s probably being rhetorical but I take a gulp of the La Croix anyway to avoid answering.

Day 87 (Wednesday, March 27, 2024): Wordle #1012 - STUNG

For a while, we sit in silence and enjoy the scenery. At least, I assume Bree is enjoying the scenery. I’m stewing, but I still take in the sights as I sip my seltzer water.

The squat palm trees sprinkled across the lawn sway in a gentle but chill breeze. Beyond them, Mission High School watches over the park, the colorful baroque tiles of its towering dome catch the dipping sunlight. And beyond that, the skyline of downtown San Francisco, blue and hazy with atmosphere.

Except for a child wailing to his mother about being stung by a bee, everyone seems happy. Lola looks positively overjoyed, madly wagging her tail as she tackles a chihuahua to the ground. Laughter carries to me on the breeze, but I frown, pensive.

Bree takes a delicate sip of her rosé and then lies back on her elbows with a wistful sigh.

“Roy would have loved this.”

And just like that, something inside me snaps.

He would be alive, here, today, loving this, right now, if not for you.

Any hesitation holding me back from confronting Bree crumbles to pieces more completely than a Nature Valley granola bar.

Days 88 & 89 (Thursday, March 28 & Friday, March 29, 2024): Wordle #1013 – SPEAK & Wordle #1014 – REALM

I turn to Bree, look her in the eyes full on, and say:

“You murdered Roy.”

The accusation looms between us. Bree is struck, her eyes wide, too stunned to speak. She opens and closes her mouth soundlessly, like a beached fish gasping for air.

“What?” She squeaks, finally finding her voice. Then, a reflexive laugh, an unsure smile twitching at the corners of her lips. “Is this some kind of sick joke?”

“No, I’m dead serious. You killed Roy.” I try to recover from the unintentional pun, pitching my voice to sound as sure and authoritative as possible. “Would you like me to explain how you did it?”

“Come on, Cecilia—” Bree swivels her gaze around us to make sure we’re not being overheard. She looks almost embarrassed—for me—her lips still stretched into a rictus grin.

“Late on the night of October nineteenth, or possibly in the early hours of October twentieth, you murdered Roy, in your home, near the second-floor landing.”

Or was it in the conservatory with a candlestick? God, I haven’t the slightest clue how to do this. Dramatic reveals aren’t typically within the realm of my PI work…

“Cece,” Bree tuts. “Have you been drinking again?”

Day 90 (Saturday, March 30, 2024): Wordle #1015 – FORCE

Indignation flares within me. I’m surprised, and maybe a little impressed, that Bree has the chutzpah to counter my accusation by hurtling her own in my face. But I force myself not to respond to her goading, not to give her the satisfaction.

“You killed Roy because he found out about you and Austin Early.”

Bree’s tremulous smile disappears completely and she’s stunned into silence once more.

“Then, you dragged his body into the guest bathroom, cleaned up the crime scene, went to work, and tried to establish an alibi for yourself. Tried to make it look like Roy was still alive and kicking—and texting—while you were busy shelving books.”

“Cecilia, please—” Bree’s eyes beg me to stop as much as her words. She grabs onto my forearm with both hands and squeezes, probably imagining her fingers around my neck instead.

But I’m far from finished.

Day 91 (Sunday, March 31, 2024): Wordle #1016 – TABOO

“The next day, you played up your role as the concerned wife. So distraught were you that you hired me, your PI pal, to help you find your missing husband. You even gave me a private performance of your hand-wringing over poor Roy.”

Come to think of it, though, it’s odd that she invited me over when she did, when Roy’s body was still languishing in the bathroom. Did she have so little faith in my ability to sniff out the truth? Was she rubbing it in my face? On some kind of power trip?

This question sits with me about as well as Chipotle at 3 a.m., but I put a pin in it for the moment.

“Sometime after I left that night, you and Austin hauled Roy’s body to Golden Gate Park and dumped it there.”

Bree flinches at my wording. She looks insulted, like I’ve asked her about her sex life in the middle of a garden party, or something equally taboo. But when she opens her mouth to protest, I override her.

“You assumed, correctly, that his body would be discovered soon after, which meant it wouldn’t be long before the police came knocking. So even though you had already cleaned up signs of the murder, you decided to take out the floor entirely, just to be sure. Better to lie about home renovations than to try to explain why luminol revealed blood stains.”

I feel like I should be pacing in front of a corkboard, pointing at bits of evidence connected by red string, but I settle for shaking off Bree’s grip on my arm.

“I didn’t realize you were listening to all those true crime podcasts for research,” I sneer. Sometimes I just can’t help myself.

Day 92 (Monday, April 1, 2024): Wordle #1017 – FROND

“And I didn’t realize you could be such a bitch,” Bree retorts, color rising to her cheeks.

I notice that, like Austin, she hasn’t actually denied anything yet. I’ve already gone over the broad strokes of her crime, but maybe if I fill in the finer details, if I keep pressing…

“You deleted the files on your doorbell cam so that no one would see that Roy hadn’t left your home since October nineteenth, that he’d died there. Obviously, you couldn’t have video evidence of you and Austin dragging out his body, either, so you— What, leaving so soon?”

Bree starts to shove her things back into her duffle bag in a frenzy. She accidentally tips over the can of rosé but ignores the mess burbling out of its open mouth onto the blanket. When a particularly strong breeze rattles through the nearby palm fronds and carries off her extra dog poop bags, she ignores that too, intent on getting away from me.

“I don’t have to sit here and listen to this… this bullshit!” Bree hisses. She zips up her bag with one vicious yank and springs to her feet, looking down her nose at me. “I always knew you were jealous of me and Roy, but I didn’t think you’d stoop to this.”

“Jealous? Why would I be jealous of— Hey!”

Bree tugs at her side of the blanket, so decisively that she actually manages to yank it out from under my seat, like I’m no more than a plate and saucer in that old tablecloth trick. She wads up the blanket under her arm and turns away from me.

“Lola! Lola, come here!”

Day 93 (Tuesday, April 2, 2024): Wordle #1018 – SERUM

Lola cocks her head in Bree’s direction, but instead of coming closer, she sprints away, thinking she’s playing some kind of game. Bree curses under her breath.

“Lola, please.” Her voice wobbles and she inhales wetly, like she’s on the verge of tears.

I quickly gather my own things and catch up to Bree, though she’s doing her best to stomp away from me.

“Why would I be jealous of your sham of a marriage?” I persist, leaning in close so she can’t escape what I have to say. “You cheated on Roy.”

“Cecilia, stop.” She tries to harden her voice, to make her words sound like a warning, but the tears running down her cheek dampen the effect. She whips her head away from me with a sniff. “Lola, come!”

“Why didn’t you just get a divorce like a normal person, huh? Was it because of the money?” I know I’m being cruel, but I can’t let up now that I’ve got Bree on the defensive. If only I’d had some truth serum to slip into her rosé... “You’d only get half in the divorce but you’d make bank with him dead, is that it?”

“No, that’s not—" Bree is sobbing now, desperate, still trying to shuffle away from me, like she can outrun the accusation.

“You never even loved Roy in the first place. You murdered him in cold blood because you—”

“I didn’t murder Roy!” Bree shouts, wheeling on me with fury in her eyes. “It was an accident!”

Day 94 (Wednesday, April 3, 2024): Wordle #1019 – PLAIT

Her admission strikes us both silent, open-mouthed.

I had utterly convinced myself that Bree had killed Roy. I had expected, even hoped for, her to confess. But now that she has, I don’t feel the least bit triumphant, or even vindicated. Definitely not happy. More like a dog that has finally caught its tail—a bit shocked and a lot unsure of what to do next.

“Oh my god…” We both say in unison. Me, still in disbelief. Bree, with a tone of despair.

Lola finally comes trotting over, panting happily, oblivious to her owner’s predicament. As she saunters by me on her way to Bree, I grab her plaited pink harness and scoop her up. To stop her from bolting again. Not to hold her hostage, exactly, but kind of… Bree won’t run from me without her precious pooch, after all.

“Can we talk about this somewhere else?” Bree snuffles. She looks nervously between the people near us, though no one seems to be paying us any mind, and then to Lola in my arms. Her bottom lip quivers, more tears glossing her eyes. “Please.”

“You drove, right? Let’s go to your car,” I say with a gentleness that surprises me. I almost feel sorry that I’ve exposed her like this. Almost.

Bree merely nods, defeated, and trudges down the grassy hillside toward the street.

Day 95 (Thursday, April 4, 2024): Wordle #1020 – CLIMB

Bree doesn’t say anything as we make the climb up Church Street. She sullenly leads the way, shoulders slumped a little, glancing back only once to make sure I’m still following her.

I can’t help but wonder whether it’s all an act. Maybe she’s not devastated—maybe she’s cooking up more lies with every silent step. But when she sidles up to her white Tesla Model S, the look of dark misery shadowing her mascara-smeared face seems impossible to fake.

We both stand beside the car awkwardly, neither of us knowing who should make the next move. Lola squirms but I don’t let her go, yet.

“Look, how about I drive you back to your place? We can… talk on the way,” Bree says listlessly.

I think it over for a moment.

I’d prefer to revisit the crime scene, but I doubt that Bree will be letting me into her home anytime soon. I also don’t love the idea of getting into a car with her. She killed Roy and tried to cover it up—what’s to stop her from driving into the middle of nowhere and offing me?

“I’ll drive us,” I propose, as a sort of compromise. I don’t exactly trust her behind the wheel when she’s this upset, anyway, murderous intentions or no.

Day 96 (Friday, April 5, 2024): Wordle #1021 – WRIST

A memory—many memories, actually—rush back to me, unbidden. Of all the times I would drive us around during our college days. Bree had a car but hated driving. I didn’t and didn’t mind chauffeuring.

We’d go to the mall to buy more candles and body spray than any two people could ever need, to the convenience store for day-old donuts, to free movie night at the campus theater...

I wonder if Bree is remembering the same thing. There’s the faintest rumor of a smile on her lips, but she doesn’t meet my eyes as she holds out the key fob to me, her wrist limp.

I quickly exchange Lola for the fob, shoving the dog into Bree’s arms and then jumping into the driver’s seat before Bree can change her mind. She, on the other hand, takes her time settling Lola into her bed in the backseat, putting her duffle and blanket into the trunk, trying to wrest back control of the situation.

When Bree finally eases into the passenger’s seat, she shoots me a look that seems to say, “I hope you’re happy.”

“Well…” I respond feebly as I search for the push-start button. The touchscreen lays out a buffet of icons before me and I tap a few at random. Maybe I’m in over my head. “How do I—?”

“No, don’t touch that! Just press the brake pedal—"

“The brake pedal?”

“Yes, like that, and then move that lever down. No, down. Here, let me…”

Somehow, we manage to maneuver the car onto the street and slip into a stream of traffic shining golden in the setting sunlight.

Day 97 (Saturday, April 6, 2024): Wordle #1022 – FINCH

I wait for Bree to speak first, to tell her side of the story in her own time. But when we reach the 101 and she still hasn’t said a word, I can’t contain my curiosity any longer.

“So, why don’t you tell me what happened?” I soften my voice, hoping to sound calm and open, but my heart is fluttering with the panicked energy of a finch caught in a net.

A few tense, silent seconds pass. I worry that Bree is going to stonewall me, but then, she takes a deep breath, lets it out shakily, and starts to spill the beans.

“You’re right, about everything… mostly,” Bree says in a monotone. Her voice is creaky from crying. “But I never meant to kill Roy.”

This last part she says more emphatically, and she turns toward me to meet my eyes, to demonstrate her sincerity, I suppose. I flick my attention from the road just long enough to take in her intense expression.

“Okay…” I say as neutrally as possible. I want to believe her—I think?—but I’ll need some more blanks filled in first.

“We were arguing, about Austin,” Bree admits with a sort of huffiness. Whether she’s more indignant about being caught or about me being right, I can’t tell. “Austin and I had been seeing each other for a couple of months, and Roy was getting suspicious.”

Day 98 (Sunday, April 7, 2024): Wordle #1023 – VOILA

“Why did you do it? Cheat on Roy, I mean.” I realize I should’ve phrased that more diplomatically, or not asked at all, but I couldn’t stop the question from tumbling out.

“Why? I don’t know… why does anyone have an affair? It’s not like I woke up one day and decided to sleep around. Maybe I should have, though,” Bree says defensively. “Roy was so busy with work, he never had any time for me, and he didn’t care that he didn’t, either. But Austin made me his whole world… One day, he just pulled me to him, kissed me, and voilà! We couldn’t keep our hands off each other.”

Okay, now I’m really sorry I asked. My stomach swoops like I’m seasick, feeling betrayed on Roy’s behalf. I make a noncommittal noise in the back of my throat, not trusting what I might say if I open my mouth.

“You understand, though, don’t you? Why I couldn’t resist Austin? That was you who harassed him today, wasn’t it?” Bree asks shrewdly.

“Guilty,” I say with a shrug. I really need to get this conversation back on track. “But it sounds like Roy wasn’t so understanding…”

Day 99 (Monday, April 8, 2024): Wordle #1024 – BREED

“Well, no, obviously. Roy was hurt, but like, weirdly calm about it, you know?”

I nod. Roy was that rare breed of person who’s impossibly slow to temper—he had a fuse longer than a goddamn CVS receipt.

“Even when he confronted me about Austin that night, even when we were arguing, he never really got mad-mad. It was like he didn’t actually care enough to fight for me. Which made me mad. Then he said… something, and I was just so angry that I—"

Bree stops short with a little gasp, her eyes wide and unblinking, like she’s witnessing the scene replay before her.

“I… I pushed him. I didn’t mean to hurt him, it just happened. He fell and hit his head and…” A flood of emotion overcomes Bree, but I’m able to decipher the final words she chokes out. “He died.”

For a moment, I can’t say anything. The reality of Roy’s death comes upon me like I’m only now hearing about it for the first time—heavy, suffocating, unbearable. The shush of cars passing by us on the highway weaves into the static filling my head.

“Why didn’t you call 911?” Someone asks, and I realize it’s me. My hands grip the wheel like we’re about to drive over a cliff.

Day 100 (Tuesday, April 9, 2024): Wordle #1025 – MERGE

“It all happened so fast. I tried to wake him up, at first, but by the time I got to my phone to call for help, he was… gone.”

I let that sink in for a moment, saying nothing as I merge into the left lane. The turn signal clicks, then stops. Lola’s tags jingle as she scratches at her collar.

“You were absolutely sure he was dead? That nothing could’ve been done to help him?”

“Of course, I was sure! Believe me, if you saw what I saw…” Bree shudders at the memory, wrapping her arms around herself like she’s cold. “And then I started panicking—”

Started covering her tracks, more like.

“—I should’ve called 911 anyway, I know, but I was too scared to think clearly.”

There’s a hitch in her voice, but I can’t tell if it’s because she’s keeping something from me or because she’s genuinely upset. I wish I could examine her expression for any cracks in the facade instead of piloting this stupid car. The Tesla beeps some sort of complaint at me, like the feeling’s mutual.

Day 101 (Wednesday, April 10, 2024): Wordle #1026 – BROTH

I don’t condone what Bree did, obviously, but I also don’t see a hole in her story. Yet. Maybe it really was an accident…

“Why didn’t you just tell me the truth?”

As much, and as often, as Bree likes to vent, I know that she hasn’t been truly open with me for a long time. Not in the way best friends should be. And as much as I hate to admit it, it stings, like too-hot broth hitting your tongue.

“I wanted to tell you sooner, I really did! That’s why I asked you to come over, the day after…”

“You were going to confess?” I can’t keep the surprise from my voice. She didn’t seem at all burdened by some terrible secret that day, with her chardonnay and her macaroons.

“Yes! I was going to tell you everything,” Bree says haltingly. Her hands dart through the air like she’s literally grasping for the right words. “But then I—I just couldn’t do it. I thought you’d hate me for what I’d done, and I couldn’t bear to lose you as a friend.”

Oh, so she’s trying flattery now.

“In other words, you changed your mind about asking me to help you cover it up?”

“No! No, nothing like that,” Bree sniffs. She hasn’t been this offended since that Christmas party when her cousin wore the same dress. “I was going to come clean, I swear it.”

Day 102 (Thursday, April 11, 2024): Wordle #1027 – LOUSE

“Yeah, well, you didn’t…” I say reproachfully.

“No, I guess I didn’t,” Bree sighs, actually sounding ashamed. I glance over to her. Her face droops with a hangdog expression, looking lower than a louse on a dachshund’s belly, as my grandma used to say. Or, something like that.

To Bree’s credit, she doesn’t try to fill the silence with more excuses, or more lies. She sighs again and reaches into the backseat to pet Lola.

“That was pretty ballsy of you, to invite me over to your place when I could’ve stumbled over Roy’s body,” I say, and I realize I’m reflexively trying to cheer her up, to compliment her. “I almost did.”

“Not really. I’d locked the bathroom door. How stupid do you think I am?” Bree says and rolls her eyes. She hasn’t been this offended since, well, about a minute ago.

Day 103 (Friday, April 12, 2024): Wordle #1028 – WHINY

But I don’t think Bree’s stupid—not at all. Flaky and forgetful, sure, but also clever and charismatic. And more calculating than I’d previously thought possible, if these last few days are any indication.

We lapse into silence again.

It’s almost dark now, and the oncoming cars’ headlights sweep across Bree’s face like spotlights searching for an escaped prisoner. The severe lighting accentuates her already wrung-out appearance, throwing the smudges of mascara on her cheeks into harsh contrast, and I’m inclined to believe she might really be torn up over this whole thing. Maybe…

I take the exit for the 237, no more than ten minutes away from my apartment now, and I can feel us drawing close to some sort of Rubicon. Bree must feel it too, suddenly piping up.

“You won’t turn me in, will you?” Bree says pointedly, like it’s not even a question, like I’d be an absolute idiot if I betrayed her.

“Are you kidding me? I’m not going to sweep this under the rug for you. I can’t just… forget about it.”

“No no no, Cecilia! Please, don’t do this to me—" Her pleading turns petulant to my ears, whiny. Like a spoiled child begging to stay up past her bedtime.

“You did this to yourself, Bree.” I switch lanes a little too aggressively. “Don’t try to pin it on me.”

Day 104 (Saturday, April 13, 2024): Wordle #1029 – STEEL

“Cece, please, I’m begging you.” Bree’s tone changes again, from pouty to absolutely bereft. A fresh tear runs delicately down her cheek to the point of her chin, trembling there as she speaks. “I swear it was an accident. You believe me, don’t you?”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe.” I try to steel my voice, but Bree’s pathetic, doe-eyed expression makes me soften what I say next. “But if it really was an accident, you could plead guilty to a lesser charge, like involuntary manslaughter. You might only get a couple of years…”

I’d meant to console her, really, but my words don’t have the desired effect.

Bree simply stares at me for a moment, her mouth open, then bursts into loud, blubbering tears, like a toddler coming to the delayed realization that they should cry after taking a tumble.

Day 105 (Sunday, April 14, 2024): Wordle #1030 – BLIMP

Her weeping continues for a good minute—I can’t make out much except for “I didn’t mean to” and “this can’t be happening” between her hiccupping sobs.

As I exit off the highway and onto the street leading to my apartment, Bree wrangles some tissues out of her pocket and blows her nose loudly. She seems to have calmed down somewhat, but a few more tears slip from the corners of her eyes, as shiny and plump as tiny blimps.

I pull into my apartment complex and park Bree’s Tesla under an old sodium streetlight, washing the car in its warm orange glow. I’ve heard about as much as I can stand, so I undo my seatbelt and reach for the button on the door handle.

“Cecilia, wait…” Bree stops me with a gentle touch to my elbow, her other hand still clutching the wad of crumpled tissues. “I am so, so sorry for what I’ve done.”

Lola whines in sympathy.

“If I could undo everything, if I could take it all back, I would—in a heartbeat.” Bree grabs onto me more desperately, and I can’t help but believe her remorse. “If I could, I would even trade my life for Roy’s.”

This, I believe about as much as I believe in the Mothman.

“But I can’t do that… I can’t bring him back, no matter how badly I want to. And turning me in won’t bring him back, either.”

Day 106 (Monday, April 15, 2024): Wordle #1031 – EQUIP

Oh, so that’s her angle.

“Come on, Bree, you know that’s not how this works.” I worm my arm out of her grip and gather my bag, but I let her say her piece.

“What’s ‘this’? Justice?” Bree demands, incredulous. “Do you really think that punishing me will change anything?”

“Roy’s family deserves to know the truth. Sue deserves to know what happened to her only child.”

It’s a low blow, I know, but an effective one.

Bree blanches, and I’m sure she’s thinking about her mother-in-law. How she doted on Roy, always making beef noodle soup and chocolate chip cookies for him, particularly when he was under the weather. How proud she was of his success, how she’d brag about him to anyone with a heartbeat. Her only criticism of Roy was that he hadn’t given her any grandkids. I should know, she was my mother-in-law once, too.

“You’re right, Sue does deserve to know,” Bree says, and she means it. “But I don’t deserve to spend my life behind bars because of a split-second mistake.”

She might actually have a point there...

No—I shake my head and mentally equip myself to leave, to turn my back on my friend.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t argue about this with you anymore,” I say, already pressing the button to open the door. “I have to go.”

Day 107 (Tuesday, April 16, 2024): Wordle #1032 – SHANK

“Wait! Cecilia—ow!” Bree bumps the shank of her leg against the door as she scrambles out of the car after me. “Cecilia, please, just give me a moment.”

“You’ve already said enough,” I remark coolly, walking away.

Bree heads me off, standing stubbornly between me and the sidewalk leading to my apartment, so I stop. What else am I supposed to do, shoulder-check her?

“Cecilia…”

She looks around cagily to make sure we’re alone. There’s no one else on the walkway, nobody going in or out of the nearby apartments, but still, she lowers her voice to an earnest whisper.

“If you were the one who had done something wrong, I wouldn’t turn you in,” Bree persists. Her eyes burn with painful sincerity. “You know I wouldn’t.”

No, she wouldn’t. She didn’t…

Bree must have noticed that she hit a weak spot, because she homes in—

“I’m begging you, just for tonight, please don’t do anything. Just… think it over.”

—and strikes.

“After all these years of friendship, after everything I’ve done for you, is it really so much to ask?”

Day 108 (Wednesday, April 17, 2024): Wordle #1033 – TITHE

I’ll admit, Bree definitely has a point this time—it’s not so much to ask that I at least consider not narcing on her. Even if I do decide to turn her in after sleeping on it, the difference of a day won’t matter much. After all, it’s not like I can bring Roy back to life if I call the police right this second.

And even though Bree’s clearly trying to emotionally manipulate me, she’s right, I do owe her… in a way. Giving her this little bit of grace seems like a small tithe to pay.

“Okay, I’ll think about it,” I say grudgingly.

“Oh! Thank you, Cece,” Bree effuses. She looks more relieved than a Claritin spokesmodel and takes a step forward with her arms open, like she’s about to hug me. When she sees my expression, she stops, letting her arms fall, but her hopes still seem high. “I knew you were a real friend.”

“Don’t thank me yet…” I mutter under my breath, not loud enough for her to hear. I start to head toward my apartment again, so Bree awkwardly shuffles out of the way.

We pass each other, she offers a small, sad smile, and I keep walking.

Day 109 (Thursday, April 18, 2024): Wordle #1034 – FACET

Chapter 11.

THREE YEARS EARLIER

When I opened my eyes, I was surprised to see that it was raining. Not hard, just a smattering of drops sprinkled across the windshield, glittering like tiny faceted gemstones.

What should have surprised me was that my car had run off the side of the mountain road and into a tree. Also not hard, mercifully. The airbag hadn’t even deployed.

But my head was too foggy to register precisely why or how that broad pine tree had come to be pressed up against the nose of my car. Because I was dizzyingly, stupidly, utterly drunk. Again. Which was not surprising at all.

Day 110 (Friday, April 19, 2024): Wordle #1035 – RAISE

A noise came to me slowly. An incessant, insect-like clicking that I realized was the car’s turn signal.

My body felt submerged in Jell-O, but I managed to raise my arm enough to put the vehicle in park and then turn off the ignition, silencing the tsking turn signal.

This all suddenly struck me as very funny. Stuck in the mountains, in a busted car, in the middle of the night. Oh, and in the rain, too. I laughed. A hollow sound that sank dully against the car’s interior, now plunged into darkness.

Then, a light. The sweep of another car’s headlamps as it pulled onto the shoulder of the road behind me. A person jumped out of the driver’s side door but kept the car running, their figure silhouetted against the vehicle’s bright, golden eyes as they dashed toward me.

A knock on the window. Through the scree of raindrops across the glass, I could make out a smudge of blonde hair, a frowning face.

“Cece! Oh my god!” Bree’s muffled voice came through the door. She yanked it open then grabbed my shoulder, shaking me urgently. “Are you alright?”

“M’fine,” I slurred and chuckled a little at myself, but this only made Bree frown harder.

“Why didn’t you let me drive you? You idiot,” Bree scolded me with worried affection. She patted my hair, turned my chin toward her, squeezed my arm, looking for signs of injury. “I knew I should’ve taken your stupid keys. I should’ve tackled you or something…”

Day 111 (Saturday, April 20, 2024): Wordle #1036 – LUCID

Or maybe, Bree shouldn’t have dragged me on this trip in the first place.

A “divorce party,” she’d called it. A weekend escape to Santa Cruz to forget all about Roy, she’d said, just as soon as the paperwork was finalized. I had been resistant from the start. Not least because I knew it would give me a good excuse to wallow, and to drink.

And drink I did.

Bree had found a divey bar purporting to be a five-star cocktail lounge on the edge of town. It was small, and crowded, but Bree finagled a barrel table and a couple of high stools for us on the outdoor patio.

To fight off the chilly night air, I’d warmed up with two vodka sodas, with lemon, my drink of choice. Not that I was all that picky.

Even when Bree tried to cut me off—several vodka sodas later—by running interference between me and the bartender, I’d somehow thrown back a couple more. Probably when she was busy flirting with any guy who looked at her, which was a lot.

Around midnight, maybe, I’m not sure, Bree said something that set me off. Something about how Roy and I had always been an odd couple, I think. So I stormed out, weaving my way to my car with Bree on my heels. First, cajoling me not to drive, then, making a lunge for my keys.

How I had managed to evade her, find my Subaru, and get halfway to our cabin Airbnb without careening off the hillside was anyone’s guess. Bree must have followed me in her own car…

My focus slowly came back to the present, to the tree and the rain, to Bree looking at me expectantly. I got the impression she had asked me a question.

“What?” I stumbled over the word, still far from lucid.

Day 112 (Sunday, April 21, 2024): Wordle #1037 – JOLLY

“I said, do you think you can stand up?” Bree demanded to know, panicked and impatient.

“Last time I checked…” I giggled to myself again, despite Bree’s mood. I tried to get up, only to be pushed back by the buckled seat belt, and I couldn’t stop the laughter that bubbled up from me like a jacuzzi.

My college friends had always called me a “happy drunk.” Sometimes, I could even be downright jolly, and I supposed this was one of those times. Well, it was better than the other times…

Not waiting for me to pull myself together, Bree leaned across my lap, jabbed the seat belt’s release button, and hauled me to my feet.

As it turned out, I could not, in fact, stand up.

Bree let out a groan, like I was doing this just to annoy her, and propped me against the side of the Subaru. I slipped a little on the rain-slick panel, but it felt nice to be out of the car. Bree mumbled something and I swiveled my head to see her still bent into the cabin.

“D’you say something?” I asked, but Bree didn’t answer, too busy pawing through what I realized was my purse. She grabbed and pocketed the cash from my wallet, then flung it and the purse carelessly onto the passenger’s seat. “Hey, what are you doing?”

Day 113 (Monday, April 22, 2024): Wordle #1038 – LASER

“Making it look like your purse and car keys were stolen,” Bree said matter-of-factly. Her demeanor had changed from nervous and skittish to laser-focused in an instant. “We’ll say that we left the bar together in my car, that you were too drunk to notice you’d left your purse behind. Which is, like, kinda true…”

She then grabbed me under the arm and dragged me away from the Subaru. I had to lean heavily on her for support, my feet dragging through the dirt.

“Come on, we have to get out of here before someone drives by and sees us,” Bree said, urging me to keep up, then resumed her cover story. “We’ll say that we planned to go back to the bar the next day to pick up your car—we didn’t know it was stolen.”

She was trying to get our alibis straight, but she might as well have been talking to a wet sock for all the response I gave. I attempted a nod to show that I was listening but a swoony wave of dizziness swamped me.

Before I could pitch face-first into the ground, Bree deposited me into the passenger seat of her Prius like I was no more than a bag of groceries. She slammed the door behind me, rounded the hood of the car, and jumped behind the wheel in a matter of seconds, three-inch heels and all.

Day 114 (Tuesday, April 23, 2024): Wordle #1039 – ROVER

As Bree whipped her car off the shoulder and back onto the road, I got a better look at my Subaru.

Its nose was flat against the scaly trunk of a looming pine tree, striped by the rain, mere feet away from a steep drop-off into the murky darkness below.

The sight shocked me—sharpened my alcohol-blunted senses just enough for me to picture how badly things could have gone.

The drunken giddiness that had been hugging me head-to-toe let go of its warm embrace. Even with Bree beside me, I felt utterly alone, more isolated and pathetic than the Curiosity rover singing “Happy Birthday” to itself on the desolate plains of Mars. Or at least, that’s what I felt I deserved.

“Why did you do that?” I asked, my tongue sluggish.

“What do you mean?” Bree’s eyes kept flicking between the road and the rearview mirror, but she spared a look for me. “Do what?”

“That, back there.” My mind was sluggish, too. “You didn’t have to…”

“What? And let you get hit with another DUI?” Bree seemed offended that I had even asked. “You’re still on probation, aren’t you?”

“Unsupervised, yeah. And it was only my first one…” I trailed off, realizing mid-sentence that this wasn’t the flattering defense I’d thought it was.

Day 115 (Wednesday, April 24, 2024): Wordle #1040 – OVERT

“You’re lucky that no one got hurt, you know,” Bree said, looking sideways at me.

“I know. It won’t happen again,” I said without much conviction. I’d said it before, after all—more than once.

Bree sighed skeptically but didn’t argue the point further.

We continued up the mountain road without speaking for several minutes. The only sounds were the intermittent shushing of the wiper blades and the patter of rain against the windshield.

As we rounded a corner, another car passed by headed in the opposite direction. Its headlights blinded me for a moment, but I could see Bree stiffen. She sat up straight, her eyes wide with overt worry as she checked the rearview mirror, over and over.

When it became clear that no one was pursuing us—no red and blue lights flashing in the rearview—Bree finally relaxed, deflating surer than a spare air mattress. After a minute, she broke the silence.

“What happened?” She asked softly.

“I guess I must’ve blacked out for a second,” I mumbled, abashed. I let my forehead rest against the window, hoping its cool glass would soothe the sudden throbbing in my temples.

“No, I don’t mean tonight.” Bree’s voice grew even softer, she hesitated. “I mean… what happened to you?”

Now that was a question I didn’t expect, much less have an answer for. She didn’t say it in a judgmental way, but the words dug in deeper than a stepped-on LEGO.

“I wish I knew…” My breath fogged up the window and I drew a small frowny face with my finger. “Hey, Bree?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

I wanted to say more but didn’t know what. My tongue still felt disconnected from my brain, and my brain felt like it was sloshing around in my skull. I managed only a wan smile.

“Oh, you don’t need to thank me,” Bree said, sounding relieved. “I know you would do the same for me.”                                                                                            

I nodded, froze, and then threw up all over the glove box.

Day 116 (Thursday, April 25, 2024): Wordle #1041 – INTRO

Chapter 12.

It’s morning and I still don’t know what to do about Bree.

After she had driven away in her Tesla last night—I’d watched her go, peering out my front door’s peephole—I had simply collapsed onto the couch and thought. And thought and thought. Hours of thinking without much sleeping.

A sudden yawn splits my jaw open wider than a nutcracker, so I reach for my coffee mug for the umpteenth time. It’s empty.

As I stand up to get a refill, Chicken and Waffles mew in protest, reluctant to hop off my lap, but then they’re more than happy to follow me into the kitchen for a treat.

“What do you think I should do, Waffles? Hmm? Turn Bree in?” He bumps his head against my calf, snaking between my legs like the trip hazard he is. I sigh. “You’re useless, you know that?”

By the time the Keurig finishes gurgling out a mugful of weak coffee, I don’t feel much closer to making up my mind. They really should’ve covered this in Intro to Private Investigation: “What to do when your best friend’s a murderer.”

Maybe if I speak with Bree again, maybe then this wishy-washiness will crystallize into a decision.

I wish I could talk it over with Roy.

That idle thought pangs me. Not only because I miss him, obviously, but also because, God help me, I’m leaning toward letting Bree off the hook…

Day 117 (Friday, April 26, 2024): Wordle #1042 – VAPID

The early morning calm is suddenly shattered when the doorbell rings. I almost drop my coffee in surprise, and the cats scatter away into the recesses of my apartment.

It’s too early for deliveries—just before 7 a.m. according to my phone—and who besides Bree has ever stopped by my place? Maybe she’s here to try to head me off, or to take my head off…

“Yes?” I call from the kitchen. I set my mug down on the counter and make my way toward the door. “Who is it?”

“Police,” comes a stern voice from the other side of the wall.

My heart trips, and so do my feet, but I manage to catch myself before I fall against the door. I carefully put my eye up to the peephole.

On the small landing are two uniformed policemen and, I assume, a plainclothes officer. Before I can even process what I’m seeing, let alone think about letting them in, one of the uniformed men bangs his fist on the door. I flinch but don’t move from my position.

“Milpitas Police Department,” he says with a bored, almost vapid expression—like pounding down unsuspecting people’s doors is the most routine thing in the world. Which, for him, I guess it is. “Open up.”

“What’s this about?” I ask, my voice surprisingly steady.

“Search warrant. Open the door.”

Day 118 (Saturday, April 27, 2024): Wordle #1043 – GLEAM

“What the f…”

I draw my chunky cardigan closed over my Killers tee, suddenly very conscious of the ratty shirt and sweats I’m wearing, and no bra. Nevertheless, I quickly undo the deadbolt and open the door, fueled by equal parts intimidation and curiosity.

The gruff cop who had been banging on my door bullies his way inside immediately, followed by the younger uniformed officer. There’s a noticeable bounce in his step and an excitable gleam in his eye—he eagerly takes in my apartment like he can’t wait to get started.

“Are you Cecilia Cale?” The plainclothes officer asks as he strides inside, seemingly in no hurry himself.

The man’s hair falls in loose waves to his ears, except for where it’s been slicked back in front, and he flaunts an unapologetically 70s mustache. But the look doesn’t stop there—he’s wearing a sports coat and a high-collared shirt that’s unbuttoned low enough to make even Magnum P.I. blush. The only thing missing is a Winston between his fingers.

Despite it all, I’m loath to admit, there’s something attractive about him.

“Yes, I’m Cecilia Cale,” I say, trying to sound as cool and confident as possible. “And you are…?”

“Detective Craig Palumbo.” He shows me his badge with a supercilious flourish. “Miss Cale, we’re here to execute a warrant to search these premises.”

Days 119 & 120 (Sunday, April 28 & Monday, April 29, 2024): Wordle #1044 – PRUNE & Wordle #1045 – CRAFT

“Why? On what grounds?”

“Here, see for yourself,” Detective Palumbo says flatly and hands me a few folded pages. Then, to the officers, “Go ahead, boys.”

I’m torn between getting an answer to my question and keeping an eye on the policemen—already throwing open drawers and doors, their blue nitrile-gloved hands a flurry of motion. I snap open the papers and start reading.

“In the Superior Court of the State of California…” Yada yada yada. “Items to be seized: For the following property, to wit: Items believed to have belonged to Roy Liu, including cellular phone (model: iPhone 15 Pro), wallet…” My eyes skip further down the page. “Pursuant to California Penal Code § 187 (a) Murder…”

“W-what?” I scoff, unable to articulate my total incredulity any further.

“You should really prune your plant, you know,” Palumbo says, like he hasn’t been paying me any mind. He’s bent over my monstera, wiggling his finger through a fenestration in one of its broad leaves. “If you trim below the nodes—”

“What is this?” I demand to know, not about to let him derail me. I march over to him and thrust the warrant under his nose. “What’s all this about?”

“You don’t know? I heard you were some kind of hotshot P.I. or something.” Palumbo’s mustache hitches into a smirk. “Guess I was mistaken.”

The older uniformed officer chuckles but doesn’t look up from determinedly rooting through my craft basket. Like he’s going to find a bloody knitting needle hidden under the yarn.

Day 121 (Tuesday, April 30, 2024): Wordle #1046 – PROWL

“I know what a search warrant is, obviously, and I understand what it says but—” Okay, now I’m getting flustered. “You’re accusing me? Of murdering Roy?”

I can’t help but laugh, it’s all so ludicrous.

Palumbo looks amused, too, but he’s laughing at me, not with me.

He continues to prowl around my living room, performatively conducting a mockery of a search—lifting up the corner of an afghan draped across my couch, overturning a candle, peeking into a jar of cat treats. He’s clearly leaving the actual legwork to the uniformed officers so that he can size me up.

“Well, did you?” Palumbo puts back a book he’d just riffled through and looks at me from under his eyebrows. “Murder Roy Liu, I mean.”

“N-no! Of course not!” I protest. The part of my brain that knows better warns me not to answer any more questions without a lawyer present. Not even to defend myself against bald accusations of murder.

“I had to ask.” He shrugs. “Could’ve made my job a lot easier.”

“You’re the lead detective on the case?” He doesn’t look like he could solve a two-piece puzzle, much less such a high-profile homicide.

“Guilty.” Palumbo smirks at me again and I consider the consequences of ripping his mustache right off his face.

Day 122 (Wednesday, May 1, 2024): Wordle #1047 – DIARY

A small battle of wills ensues, neither of us wanting to be the first to break the charged silence.

Palumbo’s eyes stay on me as he pulls a pack of gum from his jacket pocket and pops a piece into his mouth—nicotine, I’d bet. He smacks it loudly between his teeth, mouth open.

I cross my arms and level a steady look at him, not letting my gaze follow the younger officer as he disappears down the hall.

Finally, Palumbo concedes with a shrug, but I don’t feel like I’ve won.

“So, where were you on October twentieth?” He asks casually, like it’s of no more importance than asking Alexa the time. “The day Mr. Liu disappeared.”

I shrug back.

“Why don’t you take a look at my diary? I’m sure you’re dying to get your mitts on it anyway.”

I don’t actually keep a diary, but he doesn’t need to know that. Best to keep him guessing.

Day 123 (Thursday, May 2, 2024): Wordle #1048 – SLICE

“Maybe I will,” Palumbo says, still smacking his gum. I flatter myself that I’ve gotten under his skin the tiniest bit, that his smirk has slipped a fraction. “Or maybe you could tell me—”

“Sir!” The young policeman’s voice slices through whatever Palumbo had been about to say. The officer sounds excited, confident. “You had better come over here! I think I’ve found something.”

Palumbo’s self-satisfied grin returns in full force, and I feel my own expression fall. My stomach plummets to my feet, too, despite knowing that I have nothing to hide.

Days 124 & 125 (Friday, May 3 & Saturday, May 4, 2024): Wordle #1049 – EBOY & Wordle #1050 – VALUE

Palumbo doesn’t immediately head toward the hallway. He’s getting off on his control over the situation, savoring my discomfort, keeping me in suspense.

As he stares at me, sneering, I notice just how dark his eyes are. I would say they’re ebony, but that’s too pretty of a word. They’re black and inscrutable and more than a little creepy—like shark eyes.

“Sir?” The officer calls out again, louder this time, sounding as impatient as I feel.

At last, Palumbo turns away from me with an amused snort and ambles down the hall. I follow close on his heels, ignoring the hand he extends behind him to wave me away.

In a few short steps, we’re at the open door to the bathroom. Palumbo sidles halfway inside, unable to fit any further into the small room already occupied by the other officer. He tries to block off the doorway with his arm, but I manage to peer over his elbow by standing on my tip-toes.

“What have you got?” Palumbo asks.

Yeah, that’s what I want to know…

The younger officer looks up from where he’s crouched in front of the sink cabinet and flashes Palumbo an expectant smile.

I frown, puzzled. There’s not much I keep in that cabinet except for some extra toilet paper, tampons, and a value pack of drugstore shampoo. If that’s newsworthy to this guy, he needs to get out more.

Day 126 (Sunday, May 5, 2024): Wordle #1051 – DECAL

“Take a look, sir,” the officer says and pulls something out of the cabinet. I have to crane over Palumbo’s arm to see.

Held out in his gloved hands is an iPhone. He turns it this way and that for Palumbo to inspect. The screen is clean and uncracked—so definitely not a phone I’ve ever owned—and the Apple logo has been covered up by a decal of an alien.

Is that—?

I gasp but quickly shut my mouth when Palumbo shoots me a penetrating look over his shoulder.

“There’s more,” the policeman says with pride. He sets down the phone on the countertop before reaching back into the cabinet.

Out comes an Apple Watch, a gray cardigan I don’t recognize, and a slim leather wallet. The young officer flips open the wallet with the relish of a magician revealing a card.

There, on the driver’s license, is Roy’s unsmiling face.

Day 127 (Monday, May 6, 2024): Wordle #1052 – SHAVE

It’s been planted, I tell myself, I’m being framed. But my mouth has gone too dry to form any words.

Palumbo, however, has no trouble finding his tongue.

“Nice job, kid.” Palumbo leans away from the door to clap the young officer on the back, but he keeps one eye on me, gloating. Then, he points at the gray cardigan. “What’s that?”

“Oh, there’s a small spot of what looks like blood on the sleeve…”

The policeman’s voice is drowned out by a stream of muddled thoughts rushing through my head.

This has to be some kind of misunderstanding. Some kind of sick joke… Wait, do they really think I’m dumb enough to leave a pile of incriminating evidence under my own bathroom sink? I mean, really?! No, they must know what’s really going on. They probably put it there themselves…

“You planted that, all of it,” I can’t stop myself from blurting out. Even though I know I shouldn’t say a word without a lawyer. Even though I didn’t see the young officer bring anything inside with him.

“Yeah? Interesting theory,” Palumbo says archly. “Not sure anyone will believe it, though.”

He moves his arm toward me—maybe to steer me away from the bathroom, maybe to put me in cuffs—but I twist out of his reach. His fingers barely shave across my upper arm, but even that whiff of a touch is enough to make me cringe.

Day 128 (Tuesday, May 7, 2024): Wordle #1053 – MUSTY

Whatever Palumbo had intended to do, he changes his mind and simply shrugs his shoulders. Like it doesn’t matter whether I resist now—I won’t escape for long.

He lobs another smirk at me before turning back toward the officer.

“Looks like we’re done here,” Palumbo says around the wad of gum in his cheek. He gestures at Roy’s belongings with a sweep of his hand. “Bag ‘em and tag ‘em.”

“Sir, I found this, too. But I don’t know if it’s covered under the warrant…”

The policeman reaches far back into the cabinet, grunting as he rummages around. He emerges in a waft of musty air—Is my sink leaking too? That’d be the cherry on top of this shit sundae—and then proffers a large bottle.

Palumbo has given up on barring me from the bathroom, so I can easily see that it's a half-empty handle of Jack Daniel’s. He lets out a huff, somewhere between laughter and derision.

“I guess she was right…” Palumbo twists the corner of his mustache, looking me up and down but talking right past me. “About her being back on the sauce.”

‘She’ who? Bree? And I’m not! Tito’s in the freezer was always more my speed anyway…

The urge to defend myself comes on stronger than a frat boy at a block party, but I manage to keep my mouth shut.

Day 129 (Wednesday, May 8, 2024): Wordle #1054 – PIOUS

“Should I mark it as evidence, sir?” The policeman asks Palumbo hopefully.

“Evidence of what? Last I checked, possession of alcohol wasn’t a crime,” I snap. Sassing a cop also isn’t illegal, technically, but I know I should be more careful. “Did we time travel back to the Prohibition era or something?”

Okay, tone it down, Cecilia.

“I don’t think you’re in a position to lecture me on what is or isn’t a crime, ma’am,” the young officer shoots back at me with pious indignation.

Palumbo makes a “settle down” motion with his hands at both of us.

“It’s alright, kid. You can forget about the booze.” He shifts his attention from the policeman to me. “We already have more than enough.”

This time, Palumbo moves quickly and clamps his hand around my bicep before I have time to wriggle away. I try to wrest my arm free but his grip only tightens.

“Hey, stop it!” I object, digging in my heels to little effect. Palumbo marches me away from the bathroom and down the hall with humiliating ease, grinning the entire time. Every step feels like I’m sinking. “Let me go!”

“Miss Cale,” Palumbo crows, “You are under arrest for the murder of Roy Liu.”

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Want to read more of my work? Check out my murder mystery set in Japan, Red Tea.

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