Things We Can't Say

4: hello, awful to meet you!

The innkeeper leads me to a petite seating area in the lobby, matching sofas and chairs gathered before a window facing the back gardens. Sitting in one of those chairs, a china cup brimming with tea balanced precariously in his fingers, is a complete stranger.

He's older than me, but not by more than ten years or so, his skin speckled here and there with sunspots and his mouth a thin line of pink. Polished leather Oxfords glint underneath the chandelier, a brown scruff of ankle hair visible between the lines of his navy blue suit and his dark socks. A rose gold Rolex glitters upon his wrist as he lifts a hand, his eyebrows raising in exaggerated, joyful surprise. "Violet! There you are. Just in time, too. I was beginning to think I had the wrong place."

His English is scarcely accented—just a taste, like the subtle tang of berry-infused water. I stammer, my mouth beginning to form the words Who are you, but he widens his eyes at me, an arctic glint to his smile.

I sigh, and try again. It's not like I'm not used to putting on a show. "You're early!" I say, approaching the seating area. "When I texted you the address, I didn't know to be expecting you so soon..."

I trail off as the innkeeper slides out of view.

Once she's completely out of earshot, I wipe the false grin from my face. "Who the hell are you? How do you know my name?"

"I'm afraid everyone knows your name now, dear," says the man, sipping from his teacup. "It's not as if you and your brother haven't been all over the news lately."

"Lower your voice."

"Oh?" He sets the teacup down. "Would you prefer we talk outside? Brilliant. Me too."

Something tells me it would be a very bad idea to follow this guy anywhere—at least here we're in public, with multiple people who'd hear me if I screamed. Something tells me that's exactly why we're leaving.

"Here is fine," I snap.

He raises an eyebrow at me, then exhales, leaning back in his chair just far enough that he's hidden behind the elegant wingback. He flips his jacket open. The black barrel of a gun peeks out at me from the shadows.

"I've got a bullet here for everyone in this place. The nice little innkeeper, her husband, you, and so forth," he says, and grins when he notices the shock that no doubt floods my face. "So, Miss Donahue. Would you like to try that again?"

We go outside. By now, it's early afternoon, the sun still high in the sky, obscured only by the finest mist of clouds. It's broad daylight, clearly, the cobblestoned street lively with people, grade school kids running about and laughing, old men shaking their heads at them from behind shop windows. At first I don't understand—whatever he's trying to do, there's too many people here to witness it.

Then I realize that it's not about what he's trying to do to me at all. He's protecting himself. From me.

"My name is Agent Ortega, but you can call me Alonso," he says, waiting until we're at least a block away, in the opposite direction of the train station. "I'm with the government's investigative unit here."

A cold shiver runs the length of my body. "Are you arresting me?"

Alonso chuckles. "That's up to you."

I start to speak, but then shake my head. "I don't understand."

"Let me make it clear, then," says Alonso, recovering a handkerchief from his pocket and mopping a fine sheen of sweat from his forehead. "Your mother, Claire Donahue? She's a nuisance."

The word sets something alight within me, like a match struck and dropped into a pile of hay. I grit my teeth. "I think people who use nonhumans as a source of entertainment are the real nuisances."