Gingerbread Man

of those pretty, pretty boys.

1
----

    IF THE BULLSHIT I wrote was true, I wouldn’t have been standing in the middle of a beehive where all the bees were cops—not one worker bee in the hive, either— trying to get someone interested in finding out what had happened to my brother.
    Then again, if the bullshit I wrote was true, I wouldn’t be holding a white-tipped cane in my hand, either. But the bullshit I wrote was just that. Bullshit.
    Solid gold bullshit, though. Which was, after all, why I kept writing it.
    "Look, I’m going to need to talk to someone else," I said to the queen bee behind the tall counter. My fingertips rested on the front edge, which was up to my chest. Smooth wood, with that slightly tacky feel from being none too clean. I took my fingers away, but the sticky residue remained.
Ick
.
    "And just who else would you like to talk to?" the queen bee asked.
    "Are you getting sarcastic with me now?" I leaned nearer. "How about I talk to your boss, then?"
    "Ma’am, that attitude of yours is not going to help. I told you, your case is getting the same attention any other missing persons case would get from this office."
    "The same attention as any other missing homeless heroin-addict case, you mean?"
    "We do not discriminate here."
    "Not on the basis of intelligence, anyway."
    When her voice came again, it came from way closer. She was, I surmised, leaning over her tall counter. I could smell her chewing gum. Dentyne Ice. "Never thought I’d be so tempted to smack a blind woman upside her head," she muttered. It was probably supposed to be under her breath, but I had hearing like a freakin’ bat. I heard
everything
. Every nuance. So I knew she meant it.
    "Want to try it now?" I asked. "Because I promise you, I will—"
    "Miss de Luca? Is it
really you
?"
    That
woman’s voice wasn’t angry. It was adoring, and coming from about seven o’clock. That was how I found things. A clock inside my head where I was always the center. You know, the pin that held the hands in place so they could spin all around me while I stood still. It was an accurate illustration in more ways than one.
    I closed my eyes behind my sunglasses, shut my mouth, pasted a fake smile on my face and turned. Sometimes not being able to look in the mirror and see how far I missed the mark from the expression I
thought
I was making was a blessing, and I suspected this was one of those times.
    "Rachel de Luca? The author, right?" The woman was moving toward me as she spoke. I waited until she got just two and a half steps from me before extending my hand. Any further, you looked like an idiot. Any closer… Any closer was too damn close. I liked three feet of space around me at all times. It was one of a whole collection of quirks I held dearly.
    "Last time I checked," I said, pouring sugar into the words, using my "famous author" voice. "And you are?"
    "Oh, gosh, this is such a thrill!" She gripped my hand. Cool and small. She smelled like sunblock, sweat and sneakers. Tinny, nearly inaudible music wafted from somewhere near her neck, and I could hear her pulse beat behind her words. No, seriously, I could. I told you, I hear everything. My brain snapped an immediate mental photo. She was too thin, an exercise nut, five one or so, probably blonde. Her earbuds were dangling, iPod still playing, heart still hammering from a recent run. She probably didn’t even hear it. Hearing loss due to cramming
speakers
into one’s earholes and cranking the volume. Joggers were the worst offenders. Sighted people didn’t appreciate how valuable their hearing was.
    Also, she had a beaky little nose and bad teeth.
    Don’t ask. I have no freaking idea how I get my mental snapshots of people. I just do. I don’t know if they’re anywhere near accurate, either. Never bothered to ask anyone or feel any faces. (Give me a break, people, it’s just
disgusting
to go around pawing strangers like that.)
    And she’d been talking while I’d been sketching her on my brain easel. Sally something. Big fan. Read all my books. Changed her life. The usual.
    "Glad to hear my methods are working for you," I said. "And it’s great to meet you, but I have—"
    "I’m so glad I came in to check on my missing poodle," she said. I think she was dog-napped. But I’m staying positive. You know, I used to lose my temper all the time," she went on. "I’d fight with my husband, my teenage daughter—and don’t even get me started on my mother-in-law. But then