man on the screen was going in for the kill. The woman in the hoodie had the piano wire taut between her fingers, pulled wide, raising her hands slowly to reach for the teenager’s throat. She was timing it out, waiting for the recorded scream to shake the speakers.
Nell slipped into the seat right next to her and jammed the tube of the rolled-up program against her hip.
“Bad news,” Nell whispered. “You brought a garrote to a gunfight. Don’t move.”
And don’t look down, she thought, banking on the power of suggestion to turn her harmless roll of paper into the barrel of a pistol.
The strange voice spun the teenager in her seat. Her eyes went wide when she saw the piano wire. The horror chords exploding from the speakers punctuated the moment.
“Amber?” she breathed. “What the hell?”
The woman in the hoodie let out a furious hiss. Then she let go of the wire and threw one arm, driving her elbow straight into Nell’s stomach with the force of a heavyweight boxer. Nell doubled over, wind gusting from her lungs. The program dropped from her fingers and fluttered to the floor. The woman was already up and moving, launching from her chair, hitting the cinema door with her shoulder and plowing through on a shaft of light.
The girl was right behind her, a heavy backpack in her grip. Nell pulled herself up, wincing at the sharp, stabbing pain in her gut, and nearly caught the swinging door in her face as she chased Seelie’s heels. She followed her through the lobby, bursting out onto the sidewalk, both of them jolting to a dead stop.
The would-be killer was gone, swallowed by the city and the fallen night. Nell watched the flicker-play of emotions on the girl’s face. Anxiety, betrayal, anger, fear.
“You saw Arthur Wendt die,” she said. “You were with him last night.”
The girl took a halting step away from her.
“You a cop?” she asked.
“No,” Nell said. “I’m a reporter.”
She blurted out a nervous laugh. “The last thing I need right now is a reporter. Just…leave me alone, okay? Please, leave me alone.”
Nell held out her business card, extending it like a lifeline.
“I can help you,” Nell said.
She wasn’t sure if that was true, but it felt like the thing to say, the magic words to keep Seelie from turning rabbit. They weren’t. The card was. Seelie read the name at the top of the pressed cream rectangle.
“Nell Bluth,” she said.
“That’s right.”
She met Nell’s gaze. “You’re involved in this.”
“Arthur was one of my sources. We were working on a story together.”
“No, I mean, you’re involved. People are talking about you.”
“Normally that’s a good thing,” Nell said.
Seelie stared at her. She shouldered her backpack.
“It’s really not,” she said. “I’ve got something you should see.”
14.
A block away from the Quad, the Good Stuff Diner offered a fever dream of the fifties plunked down in the heart of West Fourteenth. Diner decor, vinyl and chrome, set amid a kaleidoscope whirl of rainbow tile. They were open twenty-four hours a day and, most importantly where Nell was concerned, they served breakfast around the clock. She ordered a Belgian waffle with a side of bacon and a diet Coke and told Seelie to order anything she wanted. The Brooklyn Standard would be picking up the tab tonight.
She studied the teenager, building the human-interest article in her head. Seelie—Cecilia, I mean, call me Seelie, everyone does—insisted on sitting as far away from the diner’s glass facade as they could manage, with her back to the wall. Nell didn’t miss the fire flash of suspicion on her face when she told Seelie her meal was free. An immediate what do you want for it? glare, the look of a girl who had never been handed a gift without strings attached.
When her order arrived—a broccoli and cheddar omelet with sides of potatoes, white toast, and Canadian bacon—Seelie tore into it like a starving wolf. Swallowing as fast as she could chew, one slender arm curled around her plates like someone might try to take them from her. Feral. Nell wondered how long she had been living like this. She wanted to ask, but mostly she wanted to piece together the murder she’d stopped from happening tonight.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Seelie told her. “Amber wouldn’t do that.”
“And you’re sure it was her?”
“I’ve known her for over a year. It was dark, but I recognized her voice. She said he was watching us from the other side of the theater. I