"So, uh, yeah. I think my experience would be, um, beneficial to you and your business." The kid on the other side of my desk was tall, baby-faced, and still carried the thinness of youth.

     I gave him my best business smile. "Thank you for your interest. I'll call within two weeks if you've been hired."

     He stood and eagerly shook my hand. "Thank you for your consideration."

     He was laying it on a little thick, but I smiled at him anyway and pointed him to the exit. As he turned my eyes raked over his dark slacks and the checker pattern of his collared shirt. Both were too big for him. He swam in the fabric as if he were playing dress-up in his daddy's clothes, but at least he'd bothered to dress up at all. Two other people I'd interviewed had strolled in here in baggy pants and stained wife-beaters so, hey, far be it for me to knock the kid's hustle.

     When he was gone I closed the door and plopped back down in my chair. Scott Hanson's interview had been decent, though it was probably one of the first he'd ever done since he was only eighteen. I made a few notes on his resume, then refiled it for later. As I was settling back in to my normal late morning routine the landline rang.

     "Taste Teas," I answered with enthusiasm though I was hardly paying attention. "Evie Harper speaking."

     "Huh," said a voice. "I didn't think a girl was gonna answer..."

     "Can I help you, sir?"

     He cleared his throat. "Yeah. My boy's getting married, so I was wonderin' how much it would cost to host a bachelor party. And how many girls would be there."

     "Sir, you want Tasty's, the strip club. This is Taste Teas, the café. Tea, like the drink. It's a pun."

     "Oh. It ain't that funny...No offense."

     "Well, excuse me, Mr. Critic. How many businesses have you named?"

     "I thought up the name for my cousin's weed business. Called it, 'A Friend in Weed'."

     "...That's actually pretty funny."

     "Yeah, see, I got that poetic streak 'cause I'm a rapper—you should come to one of my shows. You sound fine. You fine?"

     "Bye!" I sat the phone back on the receiver and turned back to my computer screen. The phone rang almost immediately. I took a frustrated breath and answered, "Taste Teas...café. Evie speaking."

     "Yes, hello. I'm calling because I read on your website that you host children's tea parties."

     I put her on speaker, closed out my inventory software, and opened the electronic schedule in a couple of swift moves. "Yes, ma'am."

     "My six-year-old wants one for some reason. Lord knows I tried to raise her with a feminist mindset, but she still loves that girly crap!" Her chuckle was thick with apology, though I wasn't sure what for.

     "Okay. We have the next two Saturdays open."

     "Saturday after next." I could hear the tell-tale clicking of a mouse on the other end of the phone. "What comes in this three-two-three package I'm reading about?"

     Our website was straight-forward, but for some reason I always had customers who needed me to repeat the fine print like they couldn't understand it or something. "You'll have a choice of three teas, two sandwiches, and three cake flavors."

     "What kind of food do you have?"

     "For a children's party I recommend the fruit teas or the hot chocolate. We keep the sandwiches simple. No cucumber or watercress. It's tuna fish, grilled cheese, PB&J cut into stars and hearts. The Queen of England wouldn't be impressed but kids usually like it."

     "What about cake?"

     "Our baker makes everything. You'll get a couple dozen mini cakes and a larger one for the birthday girl to blow out."

     "Do you have costumes."

     "No, but if you go it The Make-Believe Factory costume shop and tell them I sent you you'll get a ten percent discount."

     "Hold on, let me write that down...can I bring live entertainment?"

     "As long as it's not animals. Movies are fine too. We have an audio-visual station and a projector."

     "I'm thinking of hiring an actress to play the latest Disney princess. My kid loves that crap too."

     "The actress is fine."

     She sighed. "Alright let's set it up then."

     I took a couple minutes to set Mrs. Huang up for a tea party, Saturday after next for ten children and five adults including entertainer. Once I was done I closed the schedule and pulled the inventory back up. I'd scrolled down less than half a page before my phone rang again.

     "God damn it." I sighed before putting on a more professional attitude and answering the phone. "Taste Teas. Evie speaking."

     Manny was too swamped at work to fully laugh, but there was still humor in his voice when he said, "Is that how you answer your cell now?"

     I looked at the phone in my hand and sighed. "Oh, fuck. Sorry. Force of habit."

     "I got something for you."

     "Is the 'something' your penis?"

     That, he did laugh at. "Yes! But I got something else too."

     "What?"

     "I got the name of your social worker."

     "I thought you couldn't help."

     "I looked at a few old records and crossed checked. I wasn't put out."

     "Well?"

     He lowered his voice, "Back in the day Peter Daugherty's case belonged to a woman named Deborah Higgs."

     I grabbed a pen and scribbled the name to paper. "Deborah...Higgs..."

     "But listen, she hasn't done social work for about as long as Peter's been out of the system. Public records say she's a shrink now. So, I doubt you'll be able to find her."

     "She still live in the city?"

     "...Yes."

     He couldn't see me, but I smiled at him. "Thank you."

     "You can think of a better way than that to thank me," he said wickedly.

     "Are you proposing I'd put out like a whore for a name and occupation? That's not to say I'm offended—I probably would have done it for a lot less."

     "Like you usually do?"

     "Good day, sir!" I slammed the phone down dramatically before I remembered I was on my cell. I hit the end call button just in time to hear Manny laughing.

     Deborah Higgs, huh? I finished up my work, made a couple more business calls, and made an appointment with my primary care physician for Monday before I came out of my hole to rejoin the unwashed masses in the front of the house. When we got a lull in foot traffic Pasha came over with a twinkle in her eyes. "Can I show you my latte art now?"

     I managed to keep my face neutral. "Sure."

     A few people came in while she was making the latte. Nothing Jackson and I couldn't handle. The two of us got into the usual groove of coffee pouring, tea brewing, and pastry bagging.

     "Jackson," I said to him after a notable silence. "We've got a birthday party Saturday after next. She's coming in tomorrow during your shift so the three of us can come up with the menu."

     "Does that mean I get to use fondant? I love that shit."

     I tossed some paper waste into the trash. "Probably. We'll see."

     His brow knit in concentration, no doubt thinking of all the fun things he could do with the project I'd just given him. "You okay? You been quiet," he said after a while. "None of your corny jokes today."

     "Just had a case on my mind."

     "Oh, yeah?"

     "Found out my dead lady was a child molester."

     "A girl child molester?"

     "Mmm hmm."

     "A girl molester molested a teen boy?...I don't know."

     "You don't know what?"

     He shrugged a lazy shoulder. "How that would work. You can't just force a boy."

     "I don't know. He just said she made him have sex with her."

     "There! What do you think?" Pasha sashayed over and presented the latte.

     I looked down into the ceramic coffee mug and examined the lovingly formed (and slightly sloppy to be honest) patterns skimming the top layer of coffee. "Sweetie," I said gently. "That took you ten minutes to make. Remember what I said about productivity?"

     She frowned and studied my reaction like a student searching her professors face for any clue to her grade. "So how long should it take me?"

     "The time it takes to make a latte, plus potential foot traffic...no more than ten extra seconds or less."

     "Ten seconds!" Some of the coffee spilled over the side of the cup.

     "Take It or leave it."

     She sulked but nodded before grabbing a napkin to dab at the two drops on the floor. When she was finished she drank some of the latte and the three of us went back to taking orders from customers.

     As I sliced a piece of strawberry cream cake I mused out loud, "I just don't understand how anyone could do that to a child."

     "I don't know about that," Jackson exchanged a cup of hazelnut coffee for a five-dollar bill.

     I sighed. "Here we go."

     "I'm saying. Fourteen is old enough to fuck."

     "She was his adopted mother."

     "And that incest shit is nasty. I meant in general." When no one was around to serve he leaned back against the counter and talked a little louder. "People need to stop treating these kids like kids."

     "That is so incredibly backwards," Pasha looked up from wiping down a counter with a swerve of her neck. "They can't drink or drive or vote but they can be violated?"

      "Viola—" Jackson's face scrunched up the way grandmas did when she was about to say some bullshit. "How can you violate somebody who go with you willingly?"

     "Willingly? How can a child consent?"

     "Child? We ain't talking about three years old and shit. After a certain point they want it. It's called puberty."

     "It's called victim blaming!"

     "There's no victims!"

     "Both of you calm down, please." I said as I walked the slice of cake plus a cup of chamomile to table twelve.

     I walked back just in time to hear Jackson scoff. "You two don't understand, 'cause you're females. I started beating my dick at nine. Started fuckin' at ten."

      "Okay, A. No hard cursing in front of customers and B. fuckin' eww!" Now I was the one with the scrunched-up face. "What kind of ten-year-olds are having sex?"

     "I was ten. The girl was sixteen."

     Pasha reached out and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I am so sorry. I had no idea that happened to you. It explains so much about you."

     "I'mma need you and your pity party eyes to back up off me."

     She removed her hand. "I'm just trying to be empathetic. No one ever molested me. I can't imagine how hard that was for you."

     "Stop trying to turn me into a victim. I victimize others, they don't victimize me!"

     "Both of you stop," I said in my firmest tone of voice. "It doesn't matter how either of you feel about it. The only thing relevant here is that for all intents and purposes, that woman was his mother. No matter how young or old or depraved anyone is you'd be hard pressed to find someone who wanted that."

     They settled down, seemingly coming to an impasse. After a period of silence Jackson sighed and said, "So, he killed her for molesting him. He can get off for that right?"

     "I don't know," I said. "I know the longer he's gone the worse it looks."

     From behind the screen of her phone, Pasha chimed in. "I read a statistic that said juries sympathize more with women than men."

      Jackson nodded. A rare moment of agreement between them. "They favor women during divorce too. Lot of brothas in jail for back child support."

     "Maybe they should sue for custody since they tend to make more money. Then child support would be a moot point." Pasha smiled at him slyly before answering his silence with a self-satisfied, "I thought so."

     "I've got an errand." I said as I walked toward the back. "You two try not to burn the house down while I'm gone."

*****

     Downtown Burenville was a little blotch of nothing if you compared it to other major cities. Urban development had stagnated over the decades and thus, there was little downtown but businesses, government buildings, and places for all those workers to go to lunch during the week.

     I sat on a concrete bench casually watching the door to Hirsch and Ashworth. I'd left my purse locked in the trunk of my car and power-walked from the meter to conduct a mini mid-day stack-out. The only thing in my possession was my I.D. and the information on Chelsea Greer shoved into the pockets of my coat.

     Hollis Park was crowded as usual at this time of day. It was a patch of concrete and trees that housed a fountain, a monument of some Confederate douche or other, the entryway to the monorail, and seemingly all of the homeless people in the city asking for change all in the space of about one city block.

     Voices echoed off tall buildings and footsteps shuffled against concrete. The bells of the historic Catholic church rang out twelve times. I squirmed on the bench, pulled my jacket together and kept one eye on the door, and the other on the people surrounding me.

     Finding Peter's baby mama was as simple as a google search. Her face was plastered all over social media. A litigator with a killer smile. The image she displayed online was one of a happy woman with a full life. Lots of friends. Lots of laughs. Lots of adventures. But today she was going to take a trip down memory lane...or at least that's what I hoped.

Pedestrians walked past me with their eyes staring far ahead. Four feet to my left a curly haired woman jumped when accosted by a man who'd been standing just off the sidewalk.

     "Ma'am, you got a dollar?"

     "Um, no...sorry."

     When his eyes shot my way, I stared down at my phone.

     I didn't want to scare Chelsea by just showing up on the doorstep of her home. And I wasn't looking to finesse my way into her place of business. Too much hassle. Instead, I was staked out across the street of her law office, waiting for her to take a lunch break so I could kamikaze her on the sidewalk.

      Seconds turned into minutes. I checked the time. Twelve-fifteen. It was lunch time. Where was she? Maybe she ordered in...Or decided to skip her lunch today. Or has lunch in a different hour...Maybe I didn't think this all the way through.

     I was about to consider it a wash when I saw her. She came flying out of the gold trimmed doors of Hirsch and Ashworth like a bat out of hell. She wasn't wearing a jacket, in spite of the chill. Her tailored white pantsuit gleamed under the winter sun as she stepped briskly. I jumped up from my seat, my ass sore from the lack of padding on the bench and jogged across the street before she got too far.

     "Excuse me. Chelsea Greer?" My voice shrank beneath the sounds of the city.

     She turned to me. "Chelsea Greer-Gonzalez. If you're looking for legal advice call my office. I'm on break."

     "Actually, I'm looking for you."

     "What's this about?" Her brown ponytail bobbed as she looked me up and down.

     "It's about Peter Bergman."

     She raised a confused eyebrow. "I haven't seen Peter in fifteen years."

     "It's also about your son."

     "I haven't seen him in fifteen years either." She turned back toward Monroe Avenue. "And he's not my son. I waived my rights."

     "It'll only take ten minutes."

     "Time is money." She started back to prowling down Adams Street like a cat on the hunt. "Walk and talk."

     "I was hoping you could fill in some of the details about Trudy." I struggled to keep pace with her.

     "I didn't know her that well to be honest."

     "Anything helps." She was at least a foot taller than me and I had to take two steps for every one step her long thin legs took.

     "I first met her when I was pregnant."

     "Peter never invited you over for dinner or anything before that?"

     "God, no. He couldn't stand her." Her stalking was stopped only by a green light. "He was always vague about why. Turns out he was the asshole."

     "What do you mean?"

     "I was young. In love, I thought. Nothing snaps you out of teenage inanity faster than an underage pregnancy." Cars sped by as we stood side by side on the corner. "When I found out I must have called him a thousand times. Asshole ghosted me. So, I found his mother instead."

     "Why did you decide to give her your baby?"

     "She was such a kind person. She offered to pay the hospital bills. Drive me to appointments. Anything I needed. I thought I might get rid of it, but the Catholic in me came out and I decided adoption would be the best choice for everyone."

     "Did you ever think about keeping him?"

     "No. I had plans. I was going to conquer the world, climb mountains, and have Earth shaking love affairs. How could I do that with a baby on my hip?"

     The crosswalk sign changed to 'walk' and we went back to strutting down the sidewalk like runway models. Well, she looked like a runway model. I looked like an out of shape crazy woman who's never walked with grace a day in her life. "What about your parents?"

     "They were disappointed. I was the golden child. What can I say? Plenty of girls fall for that bad boy shit."

     "You considered Peter a bad boy?"

     "Oh yeah. He had all sorts of behavioral problems. Got kicked out of class every other day. Was failing nearly every subject. Bad attitude. It was hot to a straight A student like me. Well, I learned the hard way." She finally stopped when we got to a fancy looking sushi restaurant. "You know, he finally got expelled around the time he disappeared for assaulting a female teacher."

     "Do you remember the teachers name?"

     "Uh...Ms. Williams or Williamson. Something like that."

     I could feel sweat starting to gather underneath my winter coat. I'm not about this exercise life. "Was he ever violent with you?"

     "Eh...aggressive, but nothing alarming."

     "What about Derek?"

     "Derek?"

     "The baby. Did you ever go to see him after the adoption?"

     "No. Once I handed him over I considered that part of my life closed. I'm married now and have children of my own. They don't know about my past. I'd like to keep it that way."

     "Has Peter, Trudy, or Derek tried to contact you recently?"

     "Nope. And I probably wouldn't have picked up if they did. It's not my problem anymore."

*****

     After being at work all day there was nothing more I wanted than to unwind at home in my favorite little ratty shorts on my own couch, but Alice sent me a text close to closing begging me to go out with her before she went postal on those assholes she works with.

     So when I got home, instead of winding down I showered, slipped on a black evening dress, and fixed my hair. I was about to walk out the door when I remembered Alice has a strict no bums in her presence policy, so I hauled my ass back into the bathroom and slapped on an acceptable amount of make-up.

     The Redding Room was a hole in the wall that hosted live neo-soul acts. While my idea of fun was a couple of brown sugar pop tarts and some Game of Thrones reruns, Alice was more into clubbing, and bar-hopping, and 'there's no way you're staying home on a Friday night, get down here now'-ing. I caved to her whims because she was my girl, plus I needed the distraction.

     "Thank God you wore make-up," she said in that husky drawl when she saw me.

     I sat down across the table from her and looked around. "This place is different from what you usually like."

     Exposed brick wall and low lighting made the room feel small and intimate. The band played some lesser known Sam Cooke jam that set heads to nodding. The men wore slacks and the women dressed to impress, but modestly. On the dance floor couples danced a respectable distance apart.

     "Clubs are played." She twist her mouth in disgust. "I was in a night club last month and this ugly dude asked me to dance, right—"

     "Why he got to be ugly?"

     "Let me finish. So, I'm pity grinding on this uggo and I'm not even fully present, you know? Like I'm throwing this shit back on him, but all I can think about is tax returns and shit."

     "We grew up." Gone were the carefree nights of our early twenties. Now we had bills to pay. "I haven't been in a club in a while anyway. Too busy."

     "You're aren't missing shit. I don't recognize the music anymore. And half the people in there are twenty-one. This dude was trying to talk to me and I kept thinking, 'how did baby-face get past the bouncer'. When did I get so old?"

     "You're twenty-nine."

     "And apparently old," Alice liked her liquor the way men liked their liquor. No cutesy fruit to mask the taste or garnishes to add style. She liked her whiskey neat and her vodka straight up. "I thought this place might be a little more adult. Nothing but twenty-five to thirty-fives. I'm trying to get laid not rob cradles."

     "Take heart. At least one of us is getting laid."

     "Don't brag. It's obnoxious." She fingered the rim of her glass and looked around. "Sorry I bailed on his little run for cancer thingy. Work is fucking me up right now."

     "It's your favorite time of year."

     "Fuck tax season." She smiled. At someone behind me. Probably some man. It never took long for her to catch someone's eye. "So, what happened?"

     "I ended up taking Henry."

     She smirked. "I bet he loved that."

     "Not really. But they're in a good place now."

     "What's he like?"

     My smile was a mile long. "He's perfect...well..."

      "What did he do?"

     "Nothing. It's what he wants to do that worries me."

     "All men are nasty, Evie," she said with a sage-like wave of her hand. "It's just a matter of how nasty."

     "It's not that there's a kink. I'm not trying to kink-shame—if that's how the kids say that now—"

     "Shit are we old enough to be asking what the kids are saying these days?"

     "Yep."

     "God, life sneaks up on you fast." She fingered her long neat locs and shook her head.

     "I'm not trying to kink-shame or whatever, I just want him to say it and stop with the pussy-footing."

     "It's 'cause you've got chronic wifey face." She leaned forward. Trying to draw the attention of whatever man she was eyeballing behind me by showing off her cleavage. "I told your ass to stop wearing them damn take-me-home-early-from-the-sock-hop headbands years ago but nooo..."

     "It's just so frustrating. I like the tender caresses and the sweet words and the gazing into my eyes, but sometimes a girl wants to be rode hard and put away wet."

     "I'm Evie. I'm mad because men respect me. Wahhhh!" She would have given me even more sass, but she was trying to appear approachable.

     "It's not that..."

     "You want to know how men approach me? I was in Walmart the other day and some fucker came up on me talking 'bout my ass looks juicy in my jeans."

     "That was the opening?"

     "Girl, I'm just trying to buy some Cocoa Puffs like a human being. Not have some lame bugging me in the cereal aisle. What's wrong with people?"

     "I think the better question is why someone who makes as much money as you bothers with Walmart at all. Go to Publix."

     "And then you're over here running game on this cop—"

     I would've clutched at my pearls if I were wearing any. "I do not run game! That is something shit men do to dumb women."

     She narrowed her eyes. "Right. So when you put the pussy on ice for those first two months that wasn't some scheme."

     "No!"

     "Even though you got an all-expenses paid bang-cation out of it?"

     "'Bang-cation'? We went to St Augustine Beach to get to know each other. That wasn't about sex."

     "Mmm hmm. I'm not Henry. Or your mama. I'm your girl. I don't hold your hand. I tell it like it T.I. Is. He took you on that vacation to fuck you."

     I grinned. Damn, I missed this blunt bitch. "...Yeah, he did. And I enjoyed getting fucked very much. Who doesn't?" I shrugged. "But there was no scheming on my part. I wasn't holding out. I was just busy."

     "Fair enough." She went back to drinking her whiskey and eye-fucking the man at the bar.

     "If I have chronic wifey face, what do you have?"

     "Chronic side-piece face."

     I snorted out a laugh. "That's awful."

     "I'm not bad, I'm just drawn that way," she said with a wink. "Is he fun?"

     I nodded and sipped my sangria. "All we do is fuck and eat. It's glorious."

     "The honeymoon phase is a great phase."

     "I'm shedding like crazy."

     "Then cover your hair." When I sighed she said, "He's going to have to see it sometime."

      "I know."

     "What's the dick game like?"

     "You know I don't kiss and tell."

     That made her eyes roll. "Scandalous."

     "It's called intimacy. Not 'share everything with Alice'."

     She pouted. "You guys go to used bookstores and museums and marathons and shit. He sounds like a cornball."

     "He is!" I beamed. "Just like me!"

      "I'm happy for you," she said with a laugh. "So, what else is going on with you? Feels like I haven't seen you in months."

     "A difficult case."

     "You know it's just your side hustle, right? You don't have to take it."

     "I know, but it's a long story."

     She gave me her full attention as I dumped the weight of all the bullshit of this week onto her. "That's fucked up," she said after I was finished.

     "I don't how I couldn't see it. She was right in front of me."

     "Abusers don't look like boogie men. They look like everyone else."

     "I know that in theory. But in reality she seemed so nice."

     She shrugged at that. "You got played. It happens. Now stop wallowing. You're a problem solver. So, solve the problem."

     She was right as usual. There were few challenges I'd faced that I hadn't overcame. Either through willpower or just plain old dumb luck. I didn't fully believe Peter had killed Trudy. Though I'd never met him, and only talked to him a couple times on the phone, my intuition was crying out that there was more to this story than an abuse victim turned murderer.

     As far as I saw it I had two goals. Find Peter before he did something stupid. And figured out who really killed Trudy Bergman.