The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow #1)(15)
I’m silent, a war raging inside me. It could be complete coincidence that the note mentions both the words “Genius” and “White Rabbit.” More than likely it’s what Matteo said: it’s the coincidental street name of a drug. My brain can’t even comprehend what would make someone play superhero with real villains. It has to be a coincidence, and the more time Matteo—Detective Kildaire—wastes on this crazy theory, the longer the bad guys are out there. Real people don’t wear spandex and tie up drug dealers, do they? My mind flashes to Kyle and Simon and their injuries. Surely not. I can’t picture either of them deciding to take down a drug ring instead of Jigglypuffs. This has to be coincidence or a joke.
“I still think it’s a long shot,” I say in all honesty. He’s been quiet, letting me sort through his words while we lean over the comic spread on the table.
Eventually, Matteo sits back, breaking the connection of our gazes, and I feel the gulf between us. Like I’ve let him down. “Can you at least show me the episode that you recognized?”
His blunder brings a smirk to my face and a lightness back into the room. “It’s an issue, not an episode, and yes. I think it’s about midway through this one—one of my personal favorites, actually. THF was the first socially conscious hero that Genius published. Rather than fictional villains, he focused on real social crimes. Rape, drug production, addiction, corrupt politicians and cops, stuff like that.”
I look at Matteo to make sure he’s following me. He’s nodding, so I continue, “This comic has two story lines coming together. It’s a bit about THF running for mayor in his ‘real’ life, but it’s also about his brush with a supervillain. This issue in particular is a real turning point in the Hooded Falcon’s career. It’s where he decides he’d have more power working with the law instead of outside it. You see, he’d caught these guys last issue laundering money and drugs already. They got off on a technicality, so he had to recapture them. He’d done his job, but the cops hadn’t done theirs—what?”
OHT is staring at me with something like amusement on his face.
“Aren’t you even paying attention?”
“You’re so different when you talk about this. Like The Hooded Falcon is real to you.”
That irks me more than anything else he could have said. I’m so sick of ComicsGate and everything this industry throws in my face about being a girl who loves comics. My mother said the very same thing to me at seventeen, two years into my Hooded Falcon obsession: “These aren’t your real friends, Michael-Grace, and comic books won’t earn you a living or bring you a husband. Go to school, make real friends, and meet real boys.” Why does everyone assume I can’t tell reality from fiction when it’s my job to write? And isn’t this his lunatic theory in the first place? Even though my geek heart would love a real-world vigilante superhero, I’m the one arguing on the side of logic.
I snap the comic closed, forgetting to be gentle with the copy.
He backpedals, sensing blood in the water. God help him if he tries to salvage this with a patronizing statement. “I know you know it’s not real. I just meant it’s nice to see you passionate about your work.”
“Because I’m a freak show? A woman who loves comics, so I automatically can’t tell reality from fiction? You’re the one who asked me for help, and you’re sitting here making fun of me. I think we’re done here. You can just leave.” I stand to excuse him from the room and am shocked at his audacity when he reaches across the table and grabs my arm with his gloved hand.
“I’m sorry, MG. Really. All I’d meant to say is it was really neat to see how passionate you are. Not because I’m surprised to see a girl reading comics. It’s neat to see anyone passionate about this beautiful work. It’s magical to you. I can see that. I don’t get to deal with beautiful art or passionate writers in my job. That’s it. I promise.”
“Oh.” A hot flash of shame fills my face with what I assume is bright red to match my glasses. After a minute, I clear my throat. I definitely gave him a dressing down he didn’t deserve. It wasn’t his fault that he chose the exact words that had galvanized my desire to prove I could make comics my life.
With a squeeze on my arm, he turns back to the copy on the table. “Can you show me the panel you thought you recognized?” Business it is. And I appreciate it.
“Um, sure.” I sit back down and focus again on the copy. It takes me a few moments to find the page because my brain is buzzing from the fervor of my reaction. “Here it is.”
I slide it across the table to him. He looks dutifully down at the page, a frown creasing his brow. “What am I looking at?”
“Okay, well, here is the panel I thought I recognized.” I point to the lower left where a long panel shows a group of men tied at the pier. “In the comic, the guys are tied together with jesses—those are the leather thongs used to secure a falcon—and the golden arrow is the stake in the middle they’re tied to.” Not painted on the street. “The aura around them isn’t actually there. It’s something the author used to help the reader identify who the criminals worked for.” I point to the white shining rabbit around the panel.
We both study the drawing. “I see the similarities, but it’s not enough to convince me that ours was an intentional copycat.” He rumples his hair with his hand.