Chapter 9: Birdie

I stood under the marquee with the phone against my ear and the rain dripping off the edge onto my bare shoulder.

I didn't say anything for a while.

Goldie had stopped digging in her bag. She was watching my face.

"Does she believe him?" I said.

"She believes he's a Holcombe," Briggs said. "That's worth a lot in this city."

"So we're done."

"No. We're slower." He breathed out. "Two stories can't both be true. The printout puts Delphine at the rack, and the ring knows which of them lied."

"And Delphine has the ring."

"Delphine has the ring."

Goldie took the phone out of my hand.

"Briggs? It's Goldie. I'm unemployed. Do you need anything sewn?"

The next morning Briggs walked into the rehearsal hall with a child attached to his hand.

"School's closed," he told the director. "Teacher training day. My mom's sick. I have nobody. She'll be quiet."

"I'll be so quiet," said Birdie.

She was eight, gap-toothed, with two brown braids and sneakers that lit up red every time she took a step.

She was not quiet.

She asked the stage manager about her headset and the lighting designer about gels.

She asked the man who played our father if he was really anybody's father.

"Two grown sons," he told her.

"Do they like you?"

"Mostly."

"That's good," Birdie said, and patted his knee.

At the break she came and sat beside me on the edge of the stage.

She swung her lit-up sneakers. She looked at my arm for a long time.

"Does it hurt?"

"Not anymore. Sometimes it's tight in the cold."

"Did you get it in the fire my dad was at?"

"Yes."

"Can I touch it?"

Across the room, Briggs started to get up.

I shook my head at him.

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