Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 110089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 550(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 550(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
Shaking myself out of it, I head down the corridor. Right, then left. The hallway smells faintly of bleach, and I keep walking, acting natural. At the far end, a suite door is already propped open. Glitter sprinkles across the carpet like a warning. Pink, of course.
“Perfect,” I mutter, pinching my nose. My allergies have had a long week too. I push the door open all the way and step inside. Three credenzas line the wall, cluttered with monitors, papers, and bowls of wrapped candies. Between them sits a low table covered in tiny glass bottles from their online business with perfumes, oils, and candles in squat jars, their wicks blackened from use. The air thrums with rose, sandalwood, and something sweet that makes me hungry.
“There you are, my beautiful goddaughter,” Aurelia Mendoza says without glancing up from her monitor, her voice warm. Her name fits her, although she goes by Aura normally. “I heard the whistle. Took you long enough. You getting slower in your old age?”
I snort and instantly regret it when glitter dust drifts up my nose. Coughing, I cross the room fast, bend down, and kiss her cheek.
She’s seventy-three, rocking a neon pink tracksuit that sparkles from ankle to chin. Not manufactured sparkle, either—every rhinestone glued on by her own hand. Bedazzled, weaponized, unapologetic.
I straighten and glance at the other two women waiting, their eyes twinkling like they already know what trouble I’ve brought with me.
Joslyn Park and Magdalena Palmita sit in front of the computer banks, both in their seventies, sharper than most people half their age. The computers can be hidden in the credenzas if anyone wants the room neat, but right now the screens glow with tabs, numbers, and streaming data.
Mags wears a light blue tracksuit with crystals stitched neatly down the sides. Not subtle, but not blinding either. Jos has gone in the opposite direction with jeans and a pressed white shirt, every button closed to the collar.
“Sorry about the glitter,” Jos says, brushing her strawberry-blonde curls back over her shoulder. She’s softened the color as she’s aged. She yanks open a drawer, fishes out a bottle, and tosses it to me. “Claritin. You’ll need it. Your godmother and Mags turned this place into a glitter bomb.”
“We did not,” Aura says, lifting her chin. The rhinestones on her tracksuit catch the light like tiny beacons. “We just wanted to brighten things up a little.”
She’s not lying. Glitter dust coats the carpet, and blinking star-shaped lights are strung across the doorway, wrapped around the window frames, even outlining a couple of paintings like halos. The whole place twinkles with defiance.
I pop two pills and dry swallow. My throat burns, and I cough. Allergic to glitter. Lucky me. It’s only the cheap stuff that bothers me, because I’m fine with sequins. I collapse into the sofa facing one of the credenzas. “How’s it going?”
“Very well,” Aura answers, tapping fast across her keyboard, her gaze on the screens.
Mags glances at her own monitor. “Birthday calls are logged. Kindness tips, too. Five dollars sprinkled here and there. No loose ends.” She keeps it efficient, like she’s reporting in. That’s her thing, sending unexpected thank-yous and thinking-of-yous across the city. I don’t have the time to help, and she doesn’t need me.
She reaches for a small bowl of wrapped caramels. “Fuel,” she says, unwrapping one.
Aura leans back and grabs a vintage atomizer from the perfume table. She sprays a fine mist into the air, the scent warm and floral with a bite underneath. “So glad you like the blinking stars.” Her smile flashes as she nods at the lights above the door.
I don’t answer since I’m accustomed to her changing subjects. Her mind’s a thousand-watt circuit that never slows.
Aura was my mother’s childhood best friend, and she’s taught me most of what I know. She worked switchboards back in the day and then outwitted phone phreakers after that. She broke down billing systems a decade later, trained others to do so, then steadied voices on crisis hotlines for a spell. Now she calls it retirement, but she runs scamproofing workshops for seniors and still manages to send goodwill out to strangers, one message at a time.
The glitter on the floor, the perfume, the blinking lights wrapped around everything—this is Aura’s doing. Her suite. Her command center.
The trio has been at this retirement home for about six months, and once they get it into tip-top shape, they’ll move to another one. It’s a good hobby for them.
Jos looks up from her screen, her expression tightening. “There’ve been two animal cruelty calls in the last couple of days. One’s already handled. The other is a Rottweiler out in the country that needs help. He’s chained up and starving.”
Of course she’d bring this to me. Jos never lets an animal slip through the cracks, and I can’t say no to her.