Gingerbread Man

I started writing your words on index cards and Scotch-taping them all over my house."
    "That’s really—"
fucking pathetic
"—nice to hear. But like I said, I—"
    "‘If you get up in the morning and stub your toe, go back to bed and start over,’" she quoted. "I
love
that one. Such a metaphor for everything in life, really. Oh, oh, and ‘When you’re spitting venom onto others, you’re only poisoning yourself.’ That’s one of my favorites."
    The woman behind the counter snorted derisively and muttered, "Oughtta be droppin’ dead any minute now, then," just loud enough for me to hear. If I had been the metaphorical cobra in my metaphorical affirmation, I would have spun around and spat a healthy dose of venom into her eye to keep her from costing me a reader.
    "Sally," I said, struggling for patience. No, that’s not true at all. My patience was long gone. I was struggling to hang onto the illusion of it, though. "Like I said—"
twice now
"—it’s nice to meet you, but I actually have something important I need to do here."
This is a police station after all. I mean, do you really think I’m here for shits and giggles, lady?
    "Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry." She put her hand on my shoulder. Familiar. Like we were friends now.
    I
almost
cringed. People think they can touch you when you’re blind. I have no idea why. I hear pregnant women complain about the same thing, but of course I’ve never seen it.
    "I hope everything’s all right. Not that I’m asking, of course."
    Yes she was
.
    "I’ll go." Two steps, but then the parting shot. I was ready for it, even guessing which one it would be. "Remember, Rachel," she called back, her overly happy tone making me restrain a gag. "‘What you be is what you see’!"
    She left as I tried to remember which of my books had contained
that
particular piece of crapola. Her sneakers squeaked as she trotted away, until the sound got lost amid the buzz of the drones.
    I turned back to the woman at the counter. Her image in my mind was short, hefty, with melon-sized boobs and long shiny ringlets.
    "Where were we?"
    "I believe you were about to threaten to kick my ass," she said. "Or maybe you were gettin’ ready to dole out one of those Susie-sunshine lines you’re apparently known for." She paused, leaned back in her chair—I heard the movement—and slurped coffee that smelled stale. "So are you famous or something? `cause
I
never heard of you."
    I placed my hands flat on the tacky countertop and leaned forward. "My brother is missing. I reported it three days ago, and I haven’t heard one word from you people since."
    "‘You people’?"
    "You
cop
people. I want action. I want my brother found. I at least want some indication that you’re looking for him. Can you give me that?"
    "I already
gave
you that. I
told
you, we’re doing everything we can. I’ll have an officer call you later in the day. I already
have
your number."
    Oh, brilliant double entendre there. Apparently I was dealing with a genius.
    "Thanks a million."
    I turned and waved my cane back and forth, half hoping I’d whack someone in the shins on my way out. But no. Apparently the bees were parting like the Red Sea. I was not amused that my identity had been revealed in the cop shop. My agent would lop off my head for being a bitch in public at all, much less being recognized while I was at it.
    What the hell did I care? I’d deny it. My legions of followers would believe me. I mean, as long as it didn’t happen too often or in front of someone’s cell-cam and wind up on YouTube, I was golden. And even if it did, they’d forgive me for losing it if I let them know why.
    My brother was missing, for God’s sake. A
saint
would be on her last nerve.
    I tapped across the room and out the door, feeling the space around me widen as I moved through it. I turned left down the hall to the main entrance. Lots of doors there. I picked the quietest one and went through it and then down the broad stone steps to the sidewalk. I intended to cross the street to the coffee shop, grab a Mucho-Mocha with extra caffeine, and phone my assistant to come and pick my ass up. My mind wasn’t on what I was doing, though. I was flashing back to the last time I’d seen anything.
    It had been Tommy’s face.
    I was twelve and knew I was going blind. I had a corneal dystrophy, a rare one. At that point I could still see, but it was pretty bad. Blurry, dull. Worse and worse. I’d been having a nightmare, dreamed of