The Secret Songs of D.C. Silverenn

| 22

My fingers twitch into fists at my sides. I fight to keep a smile on my face, to expel the scowl hardening in its place. It's a bad look when I'm about to ask a store to borrow their phone. I try to focus on the racks of clothing—a mashup of sequins, fringe, rips, and either too big or too small items.

"This day is mine! Nothing can stop me nowww."

Gosh darn it, that song is too annoying. It even followed us an hour from Dewhurst to Cabbage Edge.

"If only Bach had this much notoriety," Emi says, shaking her head.

"Then everyone would be sick of him. It'd ruin his music," I say. Not that I particularly like his music. It's too boring, conforms too closely to traditional classical music composition. I prefer something more experimental, hence why Silverenn's music caught my eye.

We pass by a central display of mannequins. One of the tall plastic women wears a cropped fur jacket over a distressed denim crop-top and shorts. Separately, both fabrics could be stylish, but even I acknowledge that throwing them together goes too far.

"I know that mannequin isn't real," Emi whispers. "But still, I think it should be blushing with embarrassment at its appearance. I mean seriously, do those scraps of fabric count as clothing?"

"Sure." I step into line behind two other customers. My peripheral strays to the plastic bins full of beauty products, taunting me on all sides. If Emi weren't here, I'd browse through them, just like I did yesterday. But I need to stay focused. I'm here on a hunt, not for leisure.

Once more, Emi whispers in my ear. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Of course. They'll recognize me as the shopper from yesterday." I nod toward a mannequin on the far side of the room. "Besides, you match."

Both the display and Emi wear the yellow jumpsuit I bought yesterday at this very store. Of course, Emi wears it better.

"Day is mine! Day is mine!"

What a stupid bridge. It doesn't get much less creative than that. I smile as I approach the desk, though it might appear maniacal. All I can think about is how that song should be banned from the United States. But the cashier's bubblegum-pink lips upturn as I approach. Either my expression is completely normal or is well-trained with odd people.

"Hello, how may I help you?" she asks.

"I know this is such a weird request, but would you mind if I use your store phone to call my boyfriend? He's supposed to pick us up, but my phone died, and my friend forgot hers at home."

"Oh, sure. Here." She pulls the store phone out from behind the desk so I can dial the number. I take a scrap of paper from my pocket. Ten numbers scrawl across it, the ten numbers I'm about to punch into the telephone. The ten numbers that will connect me with Harriet Witfield, the person from Silverenn's clue.

The clerk turns to the next customer. No one is paying attention to us.

Emi's hand rests on my arm. "Cerise, are you sure?"

I nod and punch each number into the phone. Tingles run along my fingers and through my palms, as if I'm about to drop the phone and break it. Anyone may answer the line. I grip the plastic tighter to silence the sensation, the nerves. I hold the phone to my ear, and Emi presses her ear on the other side to listen in.

My nervous energy increases with every ring.

I'm calling a stranger. I'm calling a friend of Silverenn. I'm calling a mobster. I'm calling someone that might not exist.