Harris was taught not to talk with his mouth full, but why stop while he's ahead?

"Ships?" he manages around the mouthful of rice, then grabs the glass of water to wash it down. This isn't the kind of vocabulary one expects out of his dad's mouth. "M-minority?"

"In the comments on her podcast about her engagement to this British guy. I'd say thirty percent."

Harris doesn't need to ask whose podcast it is. "Thirty? That's identical to the success rate you purported to have with my dates on Tinder. So pardon me for being suspicious—"

"Fine, maybe not thirty. Maybe twenty. But they're vocal, Harris. And they think Oliver is fishy."

"That he is. But, Dad, Ablaze is not a child, she—"

Sarkisian Senior waves off his objections. "The fans' opinion is just an appetizer. The main course is coming. I have a professional here confirming it. Lonita wanted me to show you this."

"Lonita, the neighbor?"

"Yes, our Lonita. The Detective with the Milwaukee PD."

The grin on dad's face skews to one side with the bravado Harris hasn't seen in him before. No, not bravado. Pride... and he had seen it. When he'd won that chess tournament, that's how his dad smiled. The pang of jealousy is so strong, his chuckle comes out as artificial.

"Really? Well, I'll be damned! A detective?"

"That's right. Lonita, a.k.a the detective with the Milwaukee PD," his dad repeats.

So, he's heard it right. "Wow!"

"Okay, now you're up to speed, Lonita spent her precious leisure time doing us a favor and looking into Oliver."

"Doing you a favor. I never asked anyone to run a background check on the other guy."

Sarkisian Senior pinches his lips and nods his head sagely. "Then you wouldn't want to see this."

Dammit! Of course, he's seen through Harris like his head is transparent! He grabs for the phone, but his Dad moves it slightly higher. They repeat this game until Harris mumbles, "Okay, okay... I want to know what Lonita has unearthed. Please give it to me? Pretty please?"

Once his dad relents, Harris scrolls through the screenshots. Lonita sent them a copy of a chat log from restaurants' reviewing site, a local Yelp! of sorts.

I'd never believe, the poster rants, that Mrs. Ang would sell! The shops did marvelously even after Mr. Ang has passed away, and now it's not the same. The sound of the place is gone.

Harris frowns, lifting his eyes at Sarkisian Senior. He doesn't understand his dad's triumphant grin. It has to do with the food, but still...

"It's just restaurants' reviews. Some guy wants things to stay the same, even his coffee. So what? It happens all the time."

Dad taps his finger on the screen. "Keep reading, you'll see it."

Harris scrolls through a few more messages. They are all in the same key. Praising the incomparable Mrs. Ang and bashing Oliver—which is pleasant, but useless—until his eyes catch the word 'fire'. Lonita even highlighted it in orange for those in the back. Duh!

He grasps the phone tighter.

After those fires in the kitchen, maybe she had no choice but to sell. Once Appleby took over, their safety record was stellar again. So you can't say he's done nothing for the business.

"Fires in the kitchen..." he whisper-repeats the post.

His dad nods so enthusiastically, his salt-and-pepper curls shake. "See? See? Sounds like a racket to me and Oliver needed such a business to lure Ablaze's family into this atrocious deal."

"Dad, she likes him." Or, whatever it is that she feels for him. Attachment? Fatal attraction?

"Did I raise a dullard? Woe is me!"

"Dad!"

"The girl goes to Wisconsin alone to think things over—and boom! A fire in her hotel. She's found in iffy circumstances. The family's embarrassed. But Oliver swoops in, makes his pretentious little spiel—and voilà! He saves the day. He gets what he wants. How suspiciously convenient, don't you think?"

Fires spring in Ablaze's wake no matter where she goes. Could those be like the fires laid out by hunters herding their prey into a trap? It is suspicious, but, but, but... "Dad, if the police think Oliver is the arsonist, then great. They'll arrest him. What do you want from me?"

"Lonita passed it on to the detective on the case and to your own task force. However, it'll take time and there's no extradition treaty with Singapore. In the meantime, your girl—"

"She isn't my—"

"—our girl will marry a man who could be a dangerous psychopath. Do you want that for her?"

Would he want to, when even the thought of her marrying a rich, polished and genuinely decent man sends him reeling with frustration? And into the first warm bed he can find too. He grits his teeth.

"Harris, we think—"

"You and what army, Dad? Your vocal minority?" No, no, no! He doesn't want to snap at his dad. He wants to yell at the mirror. "Sorry..."

Dad doesn't even notice, for his eyes glow with enthusiasm and his nostrils flare. He's really living it now and on the case. Committed.

"Me and Lonita! But I'm sure our virtual friends would also agree that you should go to Singapore pronto and talk her out of it. Convince her to come back with you. She'll be safer here until the investigation is completed."

Fly to Singapore... talk to Ablaze... just like that.

For a second his head swims with the idea. He lifts his butt off the chair, his aching body suddenly ready to run. If only he could sprout fiery wings like the angels of her dreams, he would. Then he'd fly to Singapore in style, flapping them until— Hah!

Until he would fall out of the sky, even in a day dream.

With a groan, he drops back into his chair and the pain far worse than from overworking himself pierces his gut. He might as well have crushed from a mile's height for real.

"Dad," he says quietly. "Dad, I don't normally discuss our finances with you, but to put it bluntly, it's either I fly to Singapore on a whim or we keep the house."

Sarkisian Senior's eyes round. "What?!"

"We... we're in debt up to our eyeballs, okay? I don't have the money to fly to Chicago, let alone Singapore."

But he'll text her. She might even reply. Yupiii!

Sarkisian Senior slumps in his wheelchair. "If it's that bad, why didn't you tell me? I understand that with the medical bills we'd be pressed, but I had no idea... Harris? Harris?"

Harris what? Yeah, he hasn't casually mentioned to a man who's lost everything he loved in life, who'd been clinically depressed for years and only recently started to see the light in the sky, that his son's a giant failure. Gee... should he say it just didn't come up?

"I... I hated to worry you, Dad. Plus, it's temporary—" temporary, short-term troubles, only dragging him under for three years now. He squashes that thought. He can't afford to wring his hands and despair. He has to work to dig out of the hole. "I'm sure it'll get better soon."

He mixes the leftover rice on his plate with his fork, nauseous. His stomach is full to bursting. Why did he pig out like this? He never pigs out. He also never screws like he did yesterday, till his dick was ready to fall off. Not the kind of firsts to be proud of. He heaves a sigh and pushes the plate away—too late, but there's nothing for it.

"Anyway, I'm tired. If you leave the dishes, I'll wash up in the morning. Okay?"

He can't endure his Dad's painful frown, so he looks away and edges sideways off his chair. Straightening up and taking every step sets a new ache off. He is broke. So broke. Nothing is working as it should.

He scoops his phone—yes, this too isn't working out, as there is no reply.

"You need help with going to bed, Dad?" Harris asks.

"No, I'll manage. I want to..." Sarkisian Senior makes a vague gesture. "I want to finish up something."

"Okay. Just... whatever. I'll wash up in the morning." Harris has no energy left for anything, but crawling to his bedroom. He's disappointed everyone.

"Harris," his Dad calls after him. "Don't give up. Just rest. I'll figure something out, I'll promise."

Rest, yes... rest and rely on his Daddy to solve his messes. Him, a man of twenty-five. Awesome! Just awesome.

"Thanks," he calls back to his dad anyway, but even to his ears, his voice sounds defeated. "And I'll forward Ablaze—Agatha—this stuff Lonita found."

The way she talked about Oliver, she'll dismiss it. And who could blame her? Vague allegations versus the kind of devotion that was evident in the guy. Heck, women flock to dangerous men with money, even when they know they are crooked.

After he showers for the third time that day, Harris paces his bedroom, drip-drying more than toweling off. He's rubbing the last of moisture from his hair, when the phone on his bed pings.

His towel flies to the floor, he rushes across—thankfully his bedroom is about half the size of Desiree's—stubs his toe on the bed frame, cusses and stretches on the blanket with his prize. Like a damn teen girl! Whatever... she texted!

Can't chat rn. CY.