JACQUARIOUS

"Jacquarious?" The depth of Warren's voice couldn't hide his surprise. "Regina, I thought—"

"Yes, yes, I know," she mused. "But I had to bring him, love. If he's going to be writing for us, he should be here for these meetings. Especially after...everything that happened at that funeral."

Warren gave me a nervous glance. "Listen...Regina—"

Mrs. Cabot's phone blipped next to me, her eyes darting at once to the flashing screen. "Cekoda," she murmured.

Warren sighed. "Talk about rotten timing."

Rotten timing? "Is everything okay?"

"It's...it's nothing, dear," Mrs. Cabot said. "Just a piece we're doing on Maverick Sports and Outdoors. One of the CEOs we're interviewing doesn't seem to want to sit down for an interview."

"Doesn't matter," Warren huffed. "Not like we'll get her to admit to the merger anyway."

"Merger?" I puzzled.

"Yeah," he said. "We got an insider at this big fashion company, says they're planning a huge merger with Marverick Sports. But they're playing their cards pretty close to the vest."

"Wait...a fashion company?" I stared off to the ceiling, hesitating before turning again to face the Cabots. "That name you said. That's...I think that's my aunt."

"Cekoda?" Mrs. Cabot quirked a brow as I nodded, my puzzled look starting to fade. "Cekoda Bennington is your aunt?"

"Yeah," I said, giving a small grin. "I haven't seen her since Thanksgiving though. She was out of the country for Christmas."

Warren shook his head. "Kid, pardon my French, but...are you screwing with us?"

Mrs. Cabot laughed as she beamed at me. "You're just full of surprises, aren't you?"

"I uh...I can call her if you need me to."

Mrs. Cabot chuckled as I swiped through my phone to access my contacts. "Well, good luck with that. Your aunt is a notoriously busy woman, and she hasn't exactly been playing ball with us—"

"Hello?" I tapped speaker and held up my phone, Aunt Cekoda's voice crackling through at the first ring. "Jacquarious, is that you, hon?"

Mrs. Cabot's jaw dropped in time with her husband's.

"Yeah, Aunt Cekoda. It's me. Sorry if this is a bad time..."

"Don't sweat it, baby. Just tell your auntie what's goin' on. I missed your mama's Christmas cooking last month. Thanks for twisting the knife and blasting it all over Instagram." She giggled through the phone, Warren staring in pure disbelief while his wife scrabbled through her purse for a pen and a discarded coffee receipt, scratching out a flurry of words faster than I thought possible.

"I uh...well, I'm actually kind of...interning. For a newspaper."

"Afryka must be so proud o' you, baby," Aunt Cekoda crooned.

"Y-yeah," I managed. "Thing is...I haven't exactly told her yet. I only just got the slot, and...and I'm trying to make a good impression."

"Well, I know whatever you write's gonna be magic, boy. Need any help?"

"I...I mean..." I glanced down at the receipt Mrs. Cabot had fished from her purse, scanning it quickly as she slid it to me across the table. "Would you maybe...be able to sit down with someone from US & The World? It wouldn't have to be in person; a conference call could work. They uh...were just hoping to interview you about your work with Fenton Maverick."

Aunt Cekoda sighed. "You workin' for that newspaper?"

I gulped.

"Well, then I got you, baby. But tell them they better treat you right. I'll get my secretary Tyler to pencil something in."

"Awesome," I exhaled. "Thanks so much."

"Anytime, hon. And tell your mama to make more sweet potato pie next time I pull up."

I chuckled. "I will. And...thanks again."

"Love you, baby."

"I love you too." I closed my eyes just before the click of the dial tone, then met the grins of Mr. and Mrs. Cabot when I reopened them.

"That was incredible," Mrs. Cabot trilled.

"You really are the golden goose of Goldengate." Warren chuckled, earning a knowing glare from his wife. "Not that we plan to kill you," he added with a smile.

"See, Warren?" Mrs. Cabot tilted her head toward him. "You worry too much. Aren't you glad now that I brought him along?"

Warren shook his head, eyes dimming at her words. "Regina," he mused to her, lowering his head. "That's...you know that's not why I didn't want him here."

I gulped, glancing off to the right, to the black curtain dappled with gold.

Warren's voice fell. "I'm worried this might be too much for him."

Too much? I turned back to face him. "I...I'll be fine, sir. I already had a few ideas for my next column if that's what you're worried about."

He sighed, head twisting left and then right before he pulled the booth curtain even tighter. "That's not it." He slid an index card across the table, Mrs. Cabot's face growing grave the moment he did.

"What's this?"

Warren cleared his throat. "A threat. Slipped into the mail at US & The World this morning."

I gulped as I read it aloud:

"Cryptic scrawl is scratched in sand at neighborhood parks.

But stroked in black and dashed in red is a work of art.

How dare you knights of lies with poisoned pens

Call my words cryptic and shutter them?

I bestow, bequeath you one more chance.

I offer you one twee last dance.

Print my words in full, get them right,

Print them in full, or pay the price."

Warren sighed again as I shuddered, dropping the card to the table. He turned to Mrs. Cabot, her nervous gaze returning his uncertain stare.

"But...I thought the police had him in custody—the guy who murdered...you know."

"They do," Mrs. Cabot said. "But apparently, they couldn't connect him to DeWayne's death. Only his father's."

"We thought this was over, but...it looks like there might be another killer out there." Warren pressed a fist against his left temple.

"Which is why I wanted you to be here for this meeting," Mrs. Cabot added, shrugging off another withering glance from her husband. "You need to know this if you're going to keep writing for us. A sadistic killer brazen enough to scrawl a poem over a teenager's dead body and threaten everyone at our newspaper is—"

"It's not the same guy," I cut in, shaking my head.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Cabot gaped at me in unison. "What?" Warren asked.

"The poem," I tried. "Whoever wrote this didn't write the couplet on the shower in Goldengate."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Well, it's...the tempo's all wrong."

Warren rested both elbows on the table. "The tempo?"

Mrs. Cabot's eye's popped wide, light flickering across them despite the curtained shadow cast over us. "...You're right." She retrieved her phone, clicking open a locked album of photos. "Shower, shower, Uncle Tom. Scrub those black bones raw." She held up the photo and pointed it at me and Warren. "The couplet uses a seven-and-five syllabic pattern, and it's not worried about rhyming every line. Whoever's written this has certainly written a lot more. It feels truncated, a more lyrical style."

Warren tilted his head to the side, propping it on his fist. "And?"

"And the threat doesn't," I answered, picking up the card again. "This isn't nearly as...advanced. The syllabic patterns are all over the place, for one thing. Twelve, thirteen, ten, nine—there's no harmony, no common thread. The basic rhymes are there, but the writer is forcing them; it's like he's trying to mimic something. Like he's got this poem but nothing else by the same author and he's doing his best to fake it."

"If that's true," Warren mused, "then that means the rest of this poem is out there somewhere."

I nodded.

"And if we find it, we'll be one step closer to finding the creep who's using it."

"That's a bit of a longshot," I mused. "If it's a popular poem, anyone could've found it online and thought it fit. It's...really not much to go on."

"That's true," Mrs. Cabot said. "But it's certainly not a poem I've heard before—and definitely not one I'd forget."

"Me either," I whispered, though something inside my brain felt faintly as if it twitched with my words. "I'll see what I can dig up—"

"No," Warren said, his tone earnest and sobering. "I don't want you getting mixed up in this." He rested a palm on his forehead. "We have trained professionals on our payroll; let us handle the poem. You just stick to writing, alright?"

"Oh..." I mused. "Okay, I guess."

Mrs. Cabot gave a soft exhale, then slid her hands together. "Alright, then. Quite a prelude that was." She pulled back the curtain that hid our table, raising an arm to grab the attention of the waitstaff. "How about the three of us indulge for a bit? With the week ahead of us, I have a feeling we're going to need it."