Whatever had made his daughter so upset that day in the modeling agency, could this possibly lead anywhere good? Of course not. If it was something harmless—a petty fight with a friend—it just needlessly opened old wounds. And if it was something truly bad—the kind of nightmare every parent prays their daughter never faces—then those same wounds get opened, and there’s a new horror to layer on top.
Still, the truth matters. Zig knew it did. So he should keep calling around, trying to track down old employees from SuperStars Modeling. But instead, Zig swiped back to his phone’s home screen and clicked on Recent Calls. He redialed one of the numbers.
The phone rang once, then twice . . .
“Barron’s Steakhouse. How can we help you tonight?” a man asked.
“Richard, it’s Zig, from— I was in earlier.”
“Looking for the iPad . . . sure,” the manager said, the restaurant bustling in the background. “Unfortunately, I don’t have a better answer. We got the program for the reservation book open, but no one knows how to get in the email account to change the password. I think our weekend hostess knows it. I’ll call you when I get it. I haven’t forgotten.”
With a click, the manager was gone, leaving Zig sitting there, wondering if it was bad to spend more time worrying about Nola’s current safety, rather than his own daughter’s decade-old videotape.
Mmmmm, the bees hummed as Zig flipped back to the photo Roddy got from the funeral, of the soldier who tried to jump Nola early this morning. He was clutching his knee in agony, Nola’s colored pencils scattered everywhere.
C’mon, Nola, you never get spooked . . . so why the hell’s this one getting to you?
Mmmm, the hive continued to murmur, lower than ever, despite the fact that Zig had just given them a snack, a new water-and-sugar mix that a friend called bee whiskey.
The party didn’t last long.
Mmm, the bees added, already back to their baseline. When Zig got his first beehive in college, his professor had taught him that every hive would have its own personality. Once, Zig had a hive that was so chill, he called them stoner bees.
But this hive here? It used to be forty thousand strong. Now, they were down to almost half. Bad sign. Zig had checked for mites or beetles, but for weeks now, deep down, he knew the cause.
The queen.
“Diana-27, do not give up on me,” Zig said, using the name he’d given every queen since Diana-1 and Diana-2. It was a tip of the crown to Princess Diana. Zig always wished she’d gotten her shot at queen.
“You’re a fighter, Diana-27. It’s like Rocky III—the best one! Get up off the mat! There is no tomorrow!”
Mmmmm, the hive replied sluggishly.
Typically, the queen was replaced every two years, but Diana-27 had lasted twice that long. Mystified, Zig called expert after expert, until a Chinese blogger from a site called Honey, Bee Careful told Zig that in 5 percent of hives, there can be two queens—a mother and daughter—who work side by side.
Right there, Diana-27 became Zig’s favorite queen. Today, though, with this attrition, he could see that trouble was coming. Left to its own devices, his hive would die—unless he “squished the queen,” meaning he’d have to manually grab Diana-27 and leave Diana-28 in charge. It was the only way the hive would live. Focus on the future, not the past.
Swiping back to the video of his daughter, Zig watched his Magpie sobbing into the camera, a stranger’s hand on her shoulder.
With another swipe, Zig flipped back to the present, back to Mint’s funeral and Nola’s scattered pencils.
For decades, people had assumed Zig was a mortician because he liked taking care of the dead. They always had it wrong. From his first days at Dover, Zig’s best reward was helping the living—the families of fallen soldiers. He brought them peace, kept their best memories alive, and gave them closure—the one thing he never got himself.