Truth, Lies, and Second Dates - MaryJanice Davidson Page 0,60

At MAGE? You weren’t supposed to be there.”

“Where was I supposed to be?”

“Somewhere else.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

“You don’t live in Boston.”

And you know this how, exactly? “That’s correct. I do not live in Boston. I was not at the MAGE conference in the capacity of a local checking out the visiting geniuses.”

“But you were there. Which makes sense! I’m here because of you!”

“You—okay.”

“But why? Why were you there?”

“Well, Becka, as a matter of fact—and you’re still standing really close for a conversation between colleagues who haven’t known each other long—I was in Boston at the request of a new friend who thinks Danielle Monahan’s killer might be targeting me.”

“Oh! Oh. But why would the killer even do that?”

“Excellent question, Becka. Anything else? Because you should have been on board twenty minutes ago.”

“On board what?”

“The plane, Becka. The Boeing 757 the airline puts into service as a gigantic flying Uber. C’mon.”

It’s probably not what I think. And even if it is, I can’t just bar her from the flight and tell HQ that they should take my word that she might be a killer, a vandal, or a killer-vandal, even though I’ve got nothing to base that on.

But there’s no question she’s behaving strangely. I haven’t known her long, it’s true, but—weird. That was the cold truth. Less cold, but still true: she was dying to call Tom and give him the latest on Becka Miller. Yay, an excuse! Not that she needed one. They agreed they’d see each other.

But she had Becka to thank for one thing: whether the scattered flight attendant had guilty knowledge or not, it meant she’d be seeing Tom sooner than she thought.

Thirty-Nine

“My favorite MAGE exhibits were the disaster-recovery drones and the empathetic AI, Uncle Tom.”

“Because?”

“It’s one thing to ask an Echo to order pizza, but one that can tell when you’re angry or sad and counsel you appropriately? I can’t think how Marcus got the algorithms right.” Hannah shrugged. “Well, he’s old. Prob’ly took years.”

“I believe Marcus just turned nineteen.”

“Which doesn’t disprove my last sentence.”

“No.” Tom smiled at her. “It does not.” They’d packed for the trip home; Tom was inspecting the room to make sure nothing would be left behind, and his niece was perched on the end of the bed, sneakered feet swinging as she chattered. Abe had wanted the indulgence of another trip through the decadent food courts of Faneuil Hall

(“Smoothies and raw oysters and éclairs and roast beef and spaghetti … c’mon, bud! I’ll bring ya back a doggy bag.”)

and would meet them at Logan.

“The empathetic robot was impressive,” he agreed. Laptop, check. Toiletries out of the bathroom, check. Tiny hotel conditioner that he did not need but that gave him a silly thrill to take, check. (Ditto the shower cap.)

“‘Impressive’ is Uncle Tom–ese for ‘this is a startling technological advance, which I can barely understand much less embrace,’” she teased.

“You are correct.” He thought about the AI in question. It had resembled a large plastic light bulb, and he could imagine it scooting around the house dispensing empathy, therapy, and the occasional monoamine oxidase inhibitor. Good morning, your serotonin levels are low and you are sad. Would you like an antidepressant or to discuss your childhood?

“He’ll be rich,” Hannah said with satisfaction. At his curious gaze—he hadn’t been aware Hannah cared about such things—she added, “Don’t worry, Uncle Tom. I’ll be rich, too, and I’ll take care of you and Grandpa the way you’re taking care of me now.”

“It’s not a trade, Hannah.”

She snorted. “Of course it is. And it’s important for all parties to keep to such an agreement. Just ask anyone ensconced in a nursing home.”

“And that’s important? Taking care of elderly parents simply because there’s a social contract?”

She gave him the same look he got when she realized they were out of Cocoa Pebbles. “That’s not why I would take care of you.”

“I adore you,” he said, zipping the carry-on closed.

“Thanks!”

“What is that?”

She looked where he was pointing. She was wearing shorts, and just above her kneecap she had what looked like a cloud sticker.

“It’s a temporary tattoo, the kind they give children,” the child explained. “See?” She rubbed her fingers across it, but nothing smeared.

“But what is it?”

“It’s a lamb. See?”

Tom squinted and could make out little black legs on the clou—the lamb. “Why?”

“They were handing them out at the sleep clinic. You know—‘counting sheep’? That’s why it’s shushing you. So you quiet your mind and sleep.”

“There’s not a temporary tattoo in the world that can