I’ve heard people say it since we were kids, as much in mockery and disgust as in praise. He’s straight as an arrow, honest as the day is long, a shining beacon of truth. Even the sarcasm somehow gave that impression weight. Doesn’t make it the right impression.

My brother’s got integrity in spades, no one denies that. But that’s not quite the same thing as being truthful. He rarely deceives people directly (though he’s not above doing it, either) but prefers spinning lies of omission and misdirection with his stance and his expressions and every word that comes out of his mouth. He’ll be ice cold to one client and warm to another, shifting traits and quirks within the space of a second. It’s not something he just turns off outside of work, either. I’m not sure he could do that even if he wanted to.

Take chess, for example. Despite the sets he places on the mantelpiece and the manuals on the coffee table, I’m convinced he’s not nearly as good at the game as he lets on. I’m sure he’s a perfectly respectable player – that ego of his wouldn’t tolerate anything less – but he always seems too caught up in the trends of the game and its different variations to develop his skills properly. But he still plays up his chess playing for guests and clients alike. Because he knows it’s seen as intelligent, and that’s how he wants to be seen.

Is it merely pretentious, or also hypocritical? I can’t be certain. All I know is that it’s his skill at marketing himself that keeps the money coming in. It’s certainly not his skill at managing that money.

Nevertheless, you can see why I was a little surprised to come back from shooting practice one morning to see Ryan poring over those chess books, a rather ordinary game board laid out beside him. “Try to clean up the place a bit,” He said, waving his hand without looking up, “We’re getting a client here in a few minutes.”

I let out a noise between a grumble and a sigh, then started pulling stray clothes off the couch and the takeout boxes from the floor. “At 8 am on a Monday? Please tell me she’s rich, at least.”

“She won’t have a problem paying the fees, no.” Ryan flipped a page and marked something with a green highlighter. He tapped the end of it on his chin, dark brows furrowed in concentration. I stuffed all the trash I could find into the kitchen trash can as best I could. It would probably take an hour with a plunger to stop all those wrappers from spilling out of it.

“We should probably take out the garbage.” I said, knowing perfectly well it wasn’t likely to happen today, or even tomorrow. It wasn’t as if either of us were particularly busy these days (me especially, let’s face it), but it would just pile up on with the other chores on the list neither of us could be bothered to do. Our parents, or really any responsible adult, would simply classify it as the deeply adolescent laziness of men in their early twenties. They’d probably be right, and I did kind of hate admitting that, if not enough to actually change my habits.

Ryan snapped the book closed, and leaned back on the sofa, his hands intercrossed on his chest. “You know, sometimes it’s enough to know who your client is to know they promise an interesting problem.”

I poured out a cup from the coffee machine and grinned. “Everyone’s capable of offering a divorce case, Ryan. Wasn’t the guy who called on us yesterday technically single?”

My brother scrunched up his nose in disgust. “Don’t remind me. The man had three wives, and none of them were competent enough to get legally married.” He waggled a finger like an admonishing schoolteacher. “And didn’t it take us two hours to get those reporters out of here? We didn’t even take his money! I tell you, Dy, that’s exactly the kind of case I hate. All spectacle and no substance – and there rings the doorbell.”

I came in with the coffee just as Ryan opened the door. A woman stepped inside, brushing dust off her jacket. “This city makes you choke on itself.” She said with a guttural accent that didn’t mask the distaste in her voice. I frowned, feeling instinctively defensive and rather surprising myself in the process. I mean, it’s not like she was wrong. There was so much dust in this part of the neighborhood half of its residents wore masks on their way to work.

She offered her hand for Ryan to shake. “I’m Caissa Veldt, but I suppose you already knew that from the e-mail.”

“Ryan Amadeus Neville, at your service.” He shook her hand briskly and gestured her towards an armchair. It was made of shiny black mahogany and wasn’t the comfiest of the bunch. He always took that one for himself, even as I always sat beside my writing desk. But at least the guest chair hadn’t been repaired multiple times with yellow tape. She took her seat, primly resting her handbag on her lap, and surveyed the room.

Her clothing didn’t match her mannerisms very well, with the flannel shirt and the faded jeans. While she seemed to be in her mid-thirties, there was something auntly and benevolent about her that said she was a favorite at the family reunions. She sounded vaguely German, but her dark hair and eyes along with her tanned skin struck me as more Mediterranean in nature. Knowing me and knowing this City I was probably wrong on both counts.

There was a look of dawning revelation in her eyes as she took in the apartment. I wasn’t really sure why. I mean, I’d done a good job with cleaning the place.

One of the bookshelves, creaking under the weight, promptly collapsed onto the floor. Everything from thick tomes of law to glossy magazines spilled onto the ground. Stupid cheap Nikea furniture.

Caissa Veldt shook her head in disbelief. “You’re – you guys are practically kids. I mean, I heard people say you were young, but this is just…” She glanced at the door, as if still wondering if it was too late to hire Pietro Garcia instead. Ryan sighed and nestled back in his own chair. “Why don’t you tell us a little about yourself, Ms. Veldt? I assume you got into chess at a young age, yes?”

She blinked rapidly as if something had gotten caught in her eye. “Well, erm, yes! You must’ve researched me on the Net when you got my message, I suppose?”

“Naturally, though I must say your Wikipedia page is surprisingly sparse. But a name like Caissa more clearly suggests that a fascination with the game runs in the family. I can’t imagine any other reason why you’d be named after the Roman goddess of chess.”

I scowled. I hadn’t caught that, and I’m usually quicker on the uptake than Ryan with historical stuff. Had he actually bothered to read a mythology book in his spare time? Either way, Ms. Veldt looked pleased at the reference. She picked at the cuffs of her sweater and smiled.

“Oh, indeed, Mr. Amadeus-Neville. My father started my sister and me in chess at age four, though I only really became invested at age six. We grandmasters have to start young, you know, to rearrange all the neural pathways in the brain or something like that. I like to think after all this time that I’ve made a name for myself in the circuit.”

“Every chess player in the City must have anticipated your arrival, Ma’am. The Number One Women’s player and the eighth-ranked player in the world, with an Elo of 2750.” He must’ve seen the look on my face because he added in a lower voice. “The chess rating system.”

Veldt was trying to keep her face stern, but the almost constant nodding ruined the effect. “Well, it’s a good thing you’ve done your background work. In any case, the problem I’ve come to speak to you about is Carlton Roberts, the newly awarded grandmaster here, whom I played four matches against two days ago.”

Ryan’s eyes flickered. “I don’t think I watched the games, alas. But I do recall looking up the results. You drew twice against Mr. Roberts and lost the other two, right?”

“Yes, I did.” She said, clutching her handbag so hard her nails nearly punched holes through the leather.

“So, uh, I’m guessing that wasn’t… expected?” Even as I asked the question out loud, I realized there were several different answers that would result in us not getting a paycheck.

For her part, Veldt leaned back in the chair and rubbed her chin thoughtfully. I got the sense she wanted to be emphatic about her answer, something like “of course it wasn’t expected!" but was smart enough to think it through.

“We’re both grandmasters.” Veldt told us at last, glancing over at me. “There aren’t that many of us out there, and getting to that level counts for a lot. So I wouldn’t say it’s a completely out-there possibility that Carlton has improved to that extent. But I will say I was very much caught off guard.”

I frowned. “So you two played the game in person, right?” I waved my hand vaguely towards the chess set in the corner. “Real board, real pieces? Don’t you need like a supercomputer or something to cheat at chess properly?”

Her mouth twisted, as if she’d bitten into a lemon. “In this day and age a cheap smartphone would do.”

Ryan hummed a cheery tune under his breath, in so low a tone I couldn’t recognize it. “I’m assuming you couldn’t see any signs of an earpiece or anything like that?”

She ran a hand over her hair. “He wears a military crew cut, Mr. Neville. Somehow I don’t think he could’ve gotten away with that. Though I will say there weren’t any body searches or anything – we’re chess players, for God’s sake! Practically none of us earn enough to play chess full-time.”

Ryan nodded. “One more question, Ms. Veldt. Other than the results, was there anything about Mr. Roberts and the way he played that made you believe he hadn’t played fairly?”

“No. It’s just… I’ve played against Carlton a while back, while he was a teenager, and the way he played then was so different. Faster, and, and… I don’t know!” Her lip trembled for a moment, then she clenched her teeth. “It felt off. Even from the beginning he was way too confident. Just…” She shook her head. “I’m just asking for someone to look into it. I know it’s going to bother me otherwise.”

At least she was willing to admit she had nothing in the way of proof. I took a glance over at Ryan. It was hard to tell how he would react to this kind of case, especially because he couldn’t be guilt-tripped into taking it this time. Usually that was a pretty foolproof strategy.

He stared at the empty space right behind Veldt’s head, motionless and draped over his chair like a cat taking in the sunshine. Then he roused himself in the space of a moment, springing to his feet and giving our guest a little bow. “We’d be honored to take you as a client, Ms. Veldt.”

“Ah, good!” She said, sounding genuinely surprised he’d humored her. “Just make sure to be, let us say, covert? There might be deathly scandal should the knowledge I hired you come out. I understand that may cause you hardship, but I’m sure I can introduce you to anyone you need to talk to without you having to make separate and more public inquiries. There’s a tournament that’s beginning in a few hours’ time, that’s the perfect occasion.”

So Veldt wasn’t ready to accuse the man openly, huh. How thoughtful of her. I saw her wrinkle her nose as she stood up. I’ll admit our apartment may still have borne the olfactory traces of last night’s pizza party, but it wasn’t that bad. I was pretty sure I’d scrubbed off all the visible stains.

“I’ll wait outside.” She said promptly, and shut the door behind her as she left. Ryan shrugged on his jacket and walked into the walled-up enclosure in the living room that passed for his lab. I heard him opening and closing drawers, evidently stuffing into his pockets whatever he thought was going to be useful for this case. It’s always annoyed me that my brother preps each day like a paranoid doomsday survivalist but always looks like he’s going for Saturday poker night.

I cleared my throat. “So what are your thoughts? You think she’s full of shit with the cheating thing? People point fingers at each other for dumb stuff all the time. It could just be a matter of pride with her at this point. Doesn’t want to admit she lost to a guy she still thinks as an upjumped brat.”

Ryan stepped out of the enclosure, straightening his jacket. It was a little bit too battered to be truly fashionable, with its black leather having faded to a charcoal grey. “Kritides once handed me a case file about a woman’s disappearance. Her husband spent fifteen years calling the police, putting up posters, going on the news network, did everything you can think of to keep the manhunt going. After he died they found his wife’s corpse under the living room floorboards.”

“What’s your point? That some people are just crazy?”

He shook his head, picking up his taser and tossing it in his hand. It was pretty small as far as tasers go, about the size of a toothpaste tube, and with another flick of his hand it disappeared up his sleeve. “That once the lies you tell yourself feel real enough, you’ll do anything to maintain them. Although of course we’re getting ahead of ourselves here. I wouldn’t have taken the case if I didn’t think there’s a chance she’s telling the truth.” He checked his watch. “Hmm. It’s a bit late for breakfast isn’t it? Let’s pick up something along the way.”

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I had to leave a few things out of the recommendation, or she would never have agreed to this detour. The Osprey is a “mobile restaurant” – or more accurately a food truck with big ambitions. It spends most of its time parked in a Railcross alleyway,, at the very end of a veritable labyrinth of alleys and narrow roads that constantly have motorbikes and delivery vans speeding through them at a hundred miles per hour.

Thankfully, there’s no mistaking the place. The food truck and the people who run it are draped in a fluorescent green and a blinding, garish purple. Why those colors were chosen for a restaurant named the Osprey is beyond my mere mortal understanding. Not to mention the menus require a magnifying glass to be read properly, and the prices aren’t printed on them, either. This is because Kearney, the owner, constantly pushes them up and down based on his idea of its “true market value”, although to be fair the prices themselves are always reasonable. Kearney and his people are guaranteed to glare at you like your every order is the height of inconvenience, snatching dollar bills and credit cards out of your grasp and shoving steaming bowls right into your hands. It’s a wonder why anyone would want to come here at all.

Oh, right. The food is amazing. The view isn’t too bad, either, overlooking the harbor and half of the entire city. I would’ve liked to stay here a little longer, having staring contests with the seagulls and enjoying the off-beat jazz playing from the food truck, but our client insisted on hurrying up. The stupid tournament wouldn’t start for another three hours! It would take staggering levels of tardiness to miss that deadline.

Caissa Veldt took another bite of her wrap, chewing voraciously. She looked like she was enjoying the food very much and was extremely irritated by that fact. She glanced over at Ryan, who was still on his phone. “Do you think he’s going to finish that call anytime soon?”

I shrugged. “He’s a busy man, and honestly, we’re much more likely to have no cases on the back burner than just one. In this business when it rains, it pours. But still, I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”

“Very reassuring.” She said, looking at me and showing a very different kind of frown, more curious than exasperated now. “You know, you strike me as a little familiar. I think I saw you on TV somewhere.”

“Probably something relating to a case.” Ryan’s appearances on network channels were few and far between, but no one could deny they were memorable.

I stuffed the rest of my sandwich into my mouth. I once read somewhere that Confucius, the Chinese philosopher, believed that balance in all things must extend to flavors. Kearney and his cooks must have been enthusiastic adherents to that belief system, because every bite held scalding spice and cloying sweetness, with healthy sprinklings of lemon juice and soy sauce mixed in… somewhat overwhelming to eat, to be sure, but Kearney had balanced it all perfectly.

Part of me was hoping that the food was distracting enough for Veldt to drop the question and return to chewing over her own problems, but her eyebrows were still furrowed. “Sports… I think I saw you in a sporting event.” She gave me another skeptical stare, going over the not-insignificant flab around my midsection. I’d actually managed to bulk up some impressive biceps when practicing archery and the discus, but the cursed convenience of my pistol had led to all those muscles atrophying. “Were you in the Olympics, Mr. Neville?”

“Was I?” I licked the goopy, garlicky aioli off the sandwich wrapper and crumpled it up in my pocket. “Well, ma’am, you’re paying us to look into your affairs, not freely provide juicy details about ours.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t think –”

“Tell you what,” I saw Ryan, still murmuring something on his phone, toss his own wrapper into a nearby red trash can and followed suit. “I’ll answer your slightly invasive question if you’ll answer one of mine.”

She sighed. “Ask away.”

“Right, then. I’ve always wondered: why is there a separate bracket for women in chess? I mean, for something like swimming it makes sense, given women biologically have less stamina and all, but chess? It’s a purely mental game, right?”

I judged it a question perfect for my purposes; common and irritating enough for her to lose focus of her own query, while not being outright offensive. Yet Veldt’s smile was more sardonic than annoyed.

“Why would a woman not want to play chess with men? Oh, you mean other than the rampant threats and harassment provided by this lovely community?”

“I, uh…”

“No, no, it’s an interesting question. If I recall correctly, most of the women’s leagues were originally created because a lot of men straight up did not want to play against women. Today I’d say it’s mostly because a lot more boys are taught than girls at a young age, especially in the regions and neighborhoods that embrace chess. That leads to… how do they say it in English? A strange cycle?”

“Vicious cycle, I think?”

“A vicious cycle, yes. Girls don’t like playing alone in big groups, so even fewer of them join. And when you have less women competing as a whole…”

“You get less female championship players. Yeah, that makes sense.” I blew out my lips. “That sucks, huh?” I couldn’t think of anything better to say.

“The situation is getting better, though, if more slowly than I’d like.” She smiled. “More girls are playing more openly these days. Now, if we can go back to my question -”

“Oh, look. Ryan’s just hung up his call. We should probably get going now. Wouldn’t want to get late for that tournament of yours, right?”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the olden years before the Internet, I’m told, hobbying was much harder than it is today. Of course, this varies based on the hobby itself, but even with the more mainstream ones it meant entering dank and dimly lit corner shops and joining cultish neighborhood clubs. You still get plenty of all this today, of course, but you do have more options.

On the other hand, having larger and more interconnected communities means any existing drama is magnified a thousandfold. Ryan claims the local chess scene is actually quite homely and welcoming (though I’ll note he’s never actually joined a club himself) but what people know the City for is the rivalry between its two most prominent native players, both in possession of large and aggressive online followings. Whether they’re the best two players in the City was a little less clear to me.

First of the two is Anand Bose, an International Master of chess, who it seemed prefers to be called Andy. While he has the lower rank of the two rivals, what he does have on his side is a bigger fanbase. Andy specializes in making fun of people and in using unconventional opening strategies, with names including the Toilet Variation and the Sicilian Hyperaccelerating Dragon. This kind of rampant silliness is honestly right up my alley, except Andy is known for having something of a temper towards his fellow players. The kind of temper that leads you to swiping your pieces off the board and storming out in a hissy fit. Don’t dish out what you can’t take, buddy.

Rival Number Two is someone who’s already been brought up, by the way: Carlton Roberts. A significantly higher-ranked player reaching even more significant levels of self-seriousness. This is the kind of guy who plays Mozart symphonies as background music in his online games. Apparently, he was also an electrical engineer who graduated top of his class at Doldrum and currently was working for Apple. So I suppose the dude had a lot to be smug about.

With these kinds of egos in play, I’m pretty sure everyone saw these two coming to blows eventually. Though the inciting incident for their rivalry was…uh…

I reached out and tapped Ryan on the shoulder. “Hey, what started the fighting between those two again?”

To his credit, he immediately understood what I was talking about. “Bose and Roberts? If I recall correctly, it started with an argument about handshakes. Most players have a custom of shaking hands before each game. At one game Bose just didn’t do it. I do remember him claiming later that he got distracted, but that didn’t stop Roberts from getting offended. It began a long argument that ended with Roberts bringing up an official recommendation from the – hey, wait a second.” He raised a finger.

We were currently sitting in the first few rows of an indoor stadium, watching rows of stony faced players face off against each other in the center. They were of all ages, too; one of the most nail-biting matches was between a twelve-year-old and someone old enough to be her grandpa. But Ryan, strangely enough, was focusing on neither Carlton’s nor our client’s matches. Instead he was staring across at Andy Bose and his opponent, a young man wearing copious eyeshadow. Andy himself could be recognized a mile away, with a shiny coat covered with sponsorship patches and the tips of his hair frosted a light blue. He’d brought a snack to the table, actually, and was scooping large globs of blueberry yogurt into his mouth as his opponent made a move.

A pocket-sized chess set was set out on my brother’s lap – and I do mean pocket-sized, those pieces were tiny – arranged in the same position that Bose was playing at the moment.

Ryan offered me an earbud. I hesitated, then inserted it into my ear. “Stockfish just gave Bose a +1.5 eval, Jude! It looks like Petrov is on the ropes, can Estonia’s rising star find his way out of this one?”

“Stockfish?”

Ryan waggled his fingers dismissively. “It’s a computer program. It’s pretty impressive that Bose managed to eke out this kind of advantage here, though. Most people consider the Hippopotamus Defense a fairly passé opening, though I’ve always been fond of hypermodernism.”

I glared at him.

He sighed, and quickly arranged the pieces on the board. “Okay, so normal chess strategy is just to move fast with your less valuable pieces and take as much territory in the center as you can, right? More territory equals more control. Hypermodern strategy works the opposite way, attacking from a distance without putting anything at risk. That’s kind of what the Hippo defense is named after. Lurk unassumingly under the water until you can make a devastating attack.”

“Huh. I heard hippos kill more people per year than lions or tigers.” I said, mildly impressed he’d kept that explanation so short. “Any chance you’re going to get into why we’re watching this particular game?” It was always possible he was just sneaking in some time for personal entertainment. That didn’t seem a lot like him, though.

I looked up at the game to see the eyeshadow-smudged young man, presumably Petrov, putting his head in his hands. He slapped the chess clock beside the board, activating Bose’s timer.

“And Bose strikes again with his rook! What. A. Move! I don’t see Petrov coming back from this. Maggie, what’s Stockfish’s eval?”

“2.8, Jude! Petrov has so much material left on the board, but it doesn’t seem like any of it is going to save him now.”

It struck me as a little strange how often those two went back to the score. Even in a match between humans, the computer was the true arbiter of the game.

Bose took a long lick off the back of his yogurt spoon, put it down, and made his final move. There was a look of triumph at the moment he won, yeah. But there was an undercurrent of anger under that smile too. He brushed off his opponent’s attempt to shake hands and stormed off to speak to what looked like an assistant.

My brother leaned back and took off his headphones, tapping his fingers against the seat in a slow and steady rhythm.

He offered me a sheepish smile. “I’m surprised you made it that long without complaining, Dy. To answer your question: I watched this game because I wanted to properly figure out the baseline here. Not just what the rulebook allowed, but what was actually enforced in practice. Hard to tell how someone’s cheating in these games otherwise.”

“But I’m guessing that’s not the only reason.”

“Right on the money. When we first got the case, I took a few moments while we were having our meal to call…”

I threw my hands. “Oh, come on!” A teenager a few seats over shushed us, his eyes furous. I sighed. “Look, no way. I refuse to believe you have special connections in the chess world. What did you think you’d use them for? How did you even get them in the first place?”

“At a sewing club, actually. Avila is an ex-girlfriend of mine, although we parted quite amicably.” He shrugged as if saying welp, what can you do, and continued, “Avila works for FIDE, i.e. the people helping organize this tournament. While she couldn’t give me any useful information, she did prvide a few names to ask the right questions from before we arrived here.”

Come to think of it, I did remember him taking a longer bathroom break than I’d expected. I’d been mostly distracted by Caissa Veldt giving me the lowdown on all the drama happening on the local chess scene. Have I mentioned that I love it when people share gossip? You won’t find a better way to become fast friends. By the end of it all Caissa and I had exchanged numbers with each other.

I cleared my throat. “I see. So, Sherlock, what exactly did you learn from all this?”

“I was hoping to gain some evidence that our friend Mr. Roberts had been working with the organizers. It’s lazy to assume he paid off somebody there, I know, but it was somewhere to start. It turns out he’s burnt a lot of bridges with the people in FIDE. On the other hand, Mr. Anand Bose here took a very personal interest in organizing this tournament, and has made a lot of recent friendships with the people here.”

“ What, you think he’s also cheating? Or he helped Carlton cheat? I thought those two hated each other.” I glanced back down at the last few games wrapping up, all the players congregating in groups to discuss the results. “I don’t know, it seems like a stretch to me.”

“It is.” Ryan admitted. “But there’s at least one more reason why that rivalry of theirs is important. If Roberts really did figure out a way to cheat, Bose here might be one of the few people here with a vested interest in finding out about it. So I want you to go talk to him.”

“Me?”“The games are ending for today, and they’ll be starting early tomorrow. We won’t get a better chance to talk to either of them for the next few days. So I’m going to have a talk with Roberts. If I have time, I’ll try to catch up with you. Now go.”

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I never felt so sympathetic towards salesmen until now Asking people awkward questions is hard enough. Asking them questions they know they don’t need to answer is downright impossible. Ryan manages to pull it off with sheer confidence and a healthy dash of chutzpah. I, on the other hand, had my chutzpah reserves at a record low, especially with no alcohol currently in my bloodstream. Might as well give it my best shot, though.

What cover story to use? Claiming to be a reporter might work, but I had neither a notebook nor a voice recorder in my pockets. I couldn’t think of anything to pretend to sell to him, and there was no way I knew enough chess to be a convincing fan. Perhaps I should just tell him the truth and see where things went from there. If Ryan had a problem with that, well, he shouldn’t have given me this task to begin with.

Andy Bose, for his part, seemed determined to make my job as difficult as possible. I would’ve missed him entirely if I hadn’t come down in time to see him pull on a grey overcoat over his sponsorship-laden jacket. He took a cap out of his pocket that he tipped over his eyes, then he went straight towards the back of the building.

Weird. All his fans were out by the front entrance, and this was probably one of the few times each year he actually got to meet them in person. Ryan had mentioned offhandedly that Bose had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, so maybe he didn’t really feel a pressing need to maintain his sponsorships. But still, guys like him really seemed to thrive on the attention. So what was up with all this cloak and dagger business?

He was already a hundred feet or so ahead of me by the time I stepped out of the building. Just like that, I made up my mind to follow him. What was the worst he could do to me, strike up a conversation?

Shit, Ryan’s such a bad influence.

We wandered out of Railcross fairly quickly, and Bose seemed to mull over taking a ride on the subway before turning in the opposite direction from the station. I had to duck into a goth-themed barbershop and turn down a haircut just so I wouldn’t bump into him. Not that we’d recognize each other, of course. But it was probably better to stay out of sight for now.

It wasn’t a beautiful afternoon, exactly. The sky was too overcast with the beginnings of a storm, and the autumn season had already stripped away most of the City’s greenery, revealing bare and twisting branches. But there was a liveliness and cheer in the air, parents taking their kids to the park and buying armfulls of holiday decorations. There were still street musicians playing on the sidewalk, and I even passed a juggler and mime along the way, though sadly not in the same place. It would’ve been an interesting stroll even without someone to follow.

Shadowing, Ryan calls it, which I suppose is a more palatable term than stalking. He divides it into two kinds. One where you make sure you aren’t seen, and one where you make sure you aren’t noticed. My brother holds a PhD in both, to the point I know he’d beat me in a fight nine times out of ten. It doesn’t matter if I can plug any target with any projectile you can care to name. He’ll always find a way to get close enough without me evening knowing it.

But I digress.

Point is, the second type of shadowing is easier to learn than the first. People are just terrible at paying attention to their surroundsl. If you can slip into the rhythm of your environment, into the rhythm of your target’s movement, their gaze will slide on and off you without leaving a trace.

And to be fair, Bose glanced behind himself a couple of times, and even doubled back once. I hid when I could, but mostly I just stayed back and tweaked my appearance a couple of times. You know, simple stuff. I tied my hoodie around my waist once. Rolled up my trousers. Wore a scrunched-up face mask I found in the depths of my pockets At one point I even popped into a clothing store and bought a pair of sunglasses (charged as a business expense, naturally). People’s memories are fluid at the best of times, and those little edits serve well from a distance.

But as we got into the streets of Hartview, I got the sense all this was unnecessary. Yes, Andy here was suspiciously paranoid, but he was also a creature of habit. After a while I could even predict exactly when he’d dart his head to look behind him.

The fact we were now in Hartview was interesting. A long walk away from the coast, that’s for sure, and the hardest place to navigate in an entire City that’s practically designed as a maze. It’s an artsy neighborhood, with gigantic murals and a lovely blues edge to the street performances. But it was just a touch too cracked and crumbling around the edges for a rich kid like him. Although the price range of the local establishments were perfect for someone of his resources, and believe me that’s not a compliment. Take the coffee shop he’d just walked into, for example. They’d probably extort fifteen bucks just for a simple latte. Bleurgh.

I hung back, not following him into the shop, and tried to figure out my next move. There was nothing stopping me from just walking in and talking to him, but after all this song and dance it kind of felt like a waste. The man was clearly about to do something suspicious. Whether that was shooting up heroin or buying crypto or anything actually relevant to the case I had no idea. Maybe I should just follow him in there. If he was going to meet somebody it was probably best to –

I was backing away, clearly too deep in thought to notice who I’d smacked right into. “Ryan? Ryan?”

My brother held up his hands in warning. “What do you say we keep it down a little, Dy?”

I knew he said he’d try to catch up with me, but how exactly… had he been following me while I’d been following Bose? Even by my current life standards, that felt like something out of a sitcom.

“I promise this is just a coincidence.” He said, reading my expression. “Or maybe that’s not the right word. Suffice to say, I had a short conversation with Mr. Roberts, and then probably had the same idea as you did. We probably went through wildly different city routes, though.”

“Different routes?” I glanced over the coffee shop window, only to see Andy stand up to greet a man. Someone I remembered from the stadium not too long ago. Mr. Roberts. The two of them sat down to begin their meeting, talking intently the whole time, as if they were old, old friends who hadn’t seen each other in years.