The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow #1)(65)

Radio silence from Matteo since Friday night, though I know Lawrence is on his short list. I’ve been on pins and needles, waiting for Matteo to show up at any moment, or at the very least call me to tell me he’s arresting my bestie. Finally, I couldn’t stand waiting. I told L I want to get a new color for the gala, and here I am. Lies of omission.

We’re just finishing making my hair Power-Up Blue, and I couldn’t love it more. Just shy of navy, and it screams superhero. Superman wishes he had hair this awesome.

I pretend to read through the new issue of The Hooded Falcon. The fire has set back production at Marvelous Printing. Nothing major damaged, but all the machines needed to be cleaned over the weekend. I got a call from Andy early this morning informing me that our limited run of Hooded Falcon origin books was lost in the fire. He dropped off a new test copy, straight off the press, just this morning, and he needs everyone on the team to sign off on the test copies today. It’s the only way the issue will be released in time for the thirtieth anniversary.

“Weight-of-the-world-type stuff?” Lawrence catches me staring out the window into the waning late afternoon light. The Monday rush hour is winding down, and the roads are quieter. It’s my favorite time of day—pensive. Not quite dark enough to need light, not quite light enough to see well, everything made of part shadow, part reflection. If I were a superhero, this would be the time of day I’d go crime fighting.

I sigh. “More like fate-of-the-world-type stuff.”

L arches one perfectly drawn brow at me. He sets down the broom, spins the chair next to me, and settles in it. “This sounds serious. Is there a shortage of sequins for my dress?”

Despite my anxiety, laughter bubbles out of me, and I instantly feel better. “No, I have all the material I need for your dress, you tall drink of water.”

“Is it Hot-Lanta?”

“Part of it.”

“Your date didn’t go well? I’ve been wondering why you haven’t texted gushing. Bad kisser? Fish lips?”

I think back to the “date” where we saw a drag show, kissed in an alcove, and missed catching the person who set off an explosion at a printing press. “It’s complicated. I like him. And he likes me. But the timing isn’t right.” Like we are just two normal people who met in a coffee shop. I sigh. Rip off the Band-Aid. “But that’s not what’s got me in a funk. Well, not all of it. L, we need to talk.”

“Girl, you’re not breaking up with me for that tramp down the street? He wouldn’t know navy from cyan.”

“No, definitely not. You’re still my best friend, but . . . I may not be yours after this.”

“I doubt you could make me hate you, M. What’s up?”

I bite my lip and toss the test copy of The Hooded Falcon onto the countertop with L’s styling tools. “Do you remember the journal you showed me? Well, I kind of broke my promise to you. I showed the copies to someone.”

Lawrence frowns at me, an expression I see so rarely, it makes me swallow in nervousness. “You showed someone the copies I gave you?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“Michael-Grace, I knew you’d end up showing one of your nerdy friends. It’s not a big deal. I still have my journal, and you got your research.”

I close my eyes. “It wasn’t a nerdy friend. It was the police.”

“You . . . the police? Why on earth would you need to show sketches to the police?”

Go big or go home? If I’m going home, I’m going home big because everything tumbles out in a rush. “Because I’ve been helping investigate a rash of copycat comic book crimes. Matteo is a narcotics officer, and my boss was in for an interview. Matteo showed him the copies, and Casey Junior is convinced the new crimes are linked to drug dealers his dad was following before he died and that he was murdered by a crooked cop.” I swallow, nearly tossing my cookies onto the floor. “And you . . . were there. Casey Junior said you were involved. And you have a journal, so now you’re kind of a person of interest in the case, so I need to ask you some questions before the police show up to take you in for questioning.”

We both look at the door. I half expect to see Matteo marching into the little shop, furious that I’m interfering again. That would probably be the nail in the coffin for us romantically, and Rideout would definitely have his proof that I’m meddling in the case.

I refuse to look in the mirror or at Lawrence. Long moments pass. I shut my eyes, contemplating becoming a praying woman.

“That’s a lot to handle.” No sass. No character. Pure unfiltered Lawrence.

I open one eye. He’s still in the room with me and hasn’t bludgeoned me with a curling iron, so that’s a minor success. “I know.”

“You’ve had all that going on and you haven’t told me?”

My long-held breath explodes out of me. “The police told me to keep my involvement secret. There have been threats made against people involved in this case.”

“I see.” Sarcasm drips from his words. “Thanks for letting me know I’m involved.” Cue internal eye roll.

“I’m really sorry, L.” My voice sounds a little quavery. I will not cry.

He stands up, lets out a deep breath, and wipes his hands on his pants. “I guess what’s done is done. What do you need from me?”