Oh hey, the Fourth exciting clue! // Soon you will get your proper due. // Yes, now the showboating must end // Before I over milk this trend. // You’ve shown a lotta logic here // The ending is now drawing near.
I chuckled. “Get oat milk lotta—latte—now. The fourth word of every line.”
Priya clapped her hands. “Go see your man!”
I made her promise to cover for me, then skidded out onto Rogers Street. The rain had stopped and the sun squinted between the clouds. I was almost to Café Mona’s door when I remembered Aaron wouldn’t be there—he mostly worked afternoons.
Well, crap. Did I have to find another clue inside the coffee shop? Inside, I paused and pictured Kristen hanging out here before planting the next riddle, inside my beautiful, impenetrable Café Mona—slung across the mismatched chairs and lumpy sofas, wrapping her fingers around their fat, chipped mugs. It felt incongruous, a mismatched collage.
Aaron was there, ensconced in a green armchair and buried in a book. A smile stretched across his face as I headed toward him.
“Well, if it isn’t the birthday queen!” He stood to kiss me, then wrapped me in a hug. My shoulders eased and my heart rate slowed. “Having a good day?”
“Yep!” I sat. “I’m several clues deep into Kristen’s scavenger hunt. Did she loop you into it?”
“Sure did!” He leaned forward. “What are the other clues?”
I pulled them out of my purse one by one; Aaron kept shaking his head, astonished. He’d been the one to plant the invisible-ink circle inside the mug and slide it to the front, I learned. Not Kristen.
“And come to think of it, this clue was foolproof too.” I handed him the blue strip. “If I didn’t catch the doorman bit and took the cupcake one literally, I’d still end up here. Kristen thought of everything.”
“What, does she think you’re not as smart as her?” The joke hung in the air for a moment. The scavenger hunt did feel a little like a tacit declaration: Nobody knows your brain like I do. But no, it was a labor of love, nothing more. Not a reminder that she would always outwit me, always have the upper hand.
Aaron held out a small, neatly wrapped rectangle. “For you!”
“This is so sweet! I thought dinner was the gift.” Aaron had offered to cook for me that evening—candlelight, cloth napkins, the whole nine yards.
A shadow flashed across his eyes, and then he shrugged. “I couldn’t wait!”
A white box, creamy and smooth. I lifted the lid, then peeled back a fold of gossamery paper.
The room fell silent. All I could hear was my heart beating in my ears.
Because what was inside was impossible. It had been stolen from my bag that awful night in Quiteria, Chile.
Inside the box was the green leather wallet.
CHAPTER 19
My fingers sprang open and the box clattered to the floor, tissue paper crinkling. I gasped and lunged for it; Aaron did the same, and our heads bonked near our knees.
“Sorry! I’m such a klutz.” I set the box on my lap and held the wallet. On closer inspection, it wasn’t exactly the same. The zipper was different, the card slots vertical instead of horizontal. Still: freakishly similar.
“It’s so my style,” I said, which was true, and forced a smile. “Thank you so much, Aaron.”
“Kristen helped me pick it out!” he said. “She said you got pickpocketed in Chile. That sucks—you didn’t tell me that.”
A rush of cold, like a tap turned on in my chest. What else had she told him? “I was embarrassed—I left my purse open in a bar like a dummy. But this is so thoughtful and perfect. Thank you.”
“I’m glad you like it!” I could tell he didn’t totally believe me. I leaned in for a kiss.
“Did you look inside?”
“Oh God, are we not at the end yet?” I unzipped the wallet and nosed my fingers into each compartment. There it was: a crisp dollar bill with Kristen’s tiny cursive across the front. I read it aloud:
Before we conclude this, I just have to ask:
Who handles the handler’s masterful task?
Who debeards the barber and cooks for a cook?
Who buries a digger and steals from a crook?
Who makes up a barrister’s ultimate will?
Now seek out the person who just fits the bill.
My breath caught in my throat and I was momentarily speechless. Buried bodies. Stolen wallets. Wills for the dearly departed. Friends and families and next of kin spangled across South Africa and Spain, begging for clues to the young men’s whereabouts.
But Aaron mistook my horror for puzzlement. “Sorry, can’t help you—I can’t even do a sudoku. An easy one.”
I chewed on my lip. “It’s kind of morbid, right? Burying and stealing and writing wills?” My heart thumped in my wrists and neck.
Aaron plucked the bill from my hand. “It’s sorta like, ‘Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.’ It asks who does the thing for whoever does it professionally.” He pointed. “Cooking for a cook, making up a lawyer’s will. Wouldn’t that just be, like, another cook? And another lawyer?”
I felt it snap into place. “Let me see that again.” Aaron watched, grinning in anticipation. “Oh right, duh. ‘Who debeards the barber.’ It’s a famous logical paradox: If a barber…that’s it, if a barber exclusively shaves every townsman who doesn’t shave himself, who shaves the barber?”
He furrowed his brow. “Not the barber?”
“He can’t, because he only shaves men who don’t shave themselves. So there’s no solution—a paradox. It’s a thought exercise. Kristen and I learned about it in this philosophy class we took. I forget what it’s called.”
But Aaron had his phone out. “Is it Russell’s paradox?”
“That’s it!” I met his high-five. And then the final realization clunked. “Oh my God. Russell. My boss, Russell. Do you think I’m supposed to talk to him?”
Aaron’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Well, would Kristen have the balls to call him up? Tell him what to do?”
“She would.” The box with its pretty green ghost inside slipped off my lap again, and I caught it before it hit the ground. “She absolutely would.”
* * *
—
Back at my desk, I hesitated. Aaron had procured a wallet and along with it, some intel on Chile, compliments of Kristen—the story of the pickpocket, something I’d kept from him. What would crop up in this conversation with my boss?
I lingered in the doorway of Russell’s glass-fronted office, then gave the frame a timid knock. He started, then broke into a grin.
“Word on the street is it’s your birthday!”
“The rumors are true.”
“Well, happy birthday. Big plans?”
I shook my head. “Just dinner tonight. And…a friend of mine set up a cute treasure hunt for me.”
“Kristen! She is one convincing lady. And a great friend, because she got you a day and a half off.”
I was quiet for a moment. “Wait, what?”
“Your weekend starts now. Don’t tell the others or everyone will be wanting the same treatment. But if you keep an eye on email tomorrow, we’ll call it work from home.” He winked, and I continued to gawp.