Of course, Ethel would have a lockpick in the heel of her shoe. And, of course, she would use it to pick the lock of the metallic box she had found under a panel in her parent’s closet. What would you expect from a Grieves?
People on the street only whispered “Grieves,” as if
I was almost positive Puddin Joe had sold me bad intel, but when I tapped in the code for Arbister’s personal office, the door slid open in silky silence.
Stepping through, I ran straight into a diminutive woman wearing glasses so thick the eyes behind them looked like a pair of emerald fish too
I pop in an earbud and settle into my rideshare from O’Hare. The latest episode of my favorite podcast, Good Grieves, just dropped. I press play. “Ethel Grieves keeps a low profile compared to her more flamboyant siblings. She’s known for taking legitimate jobs, always under her real name, and resigning before she’s charged
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I stormed through mahogany doors into our mansion’s library. Due to my limp, my sensible shoes’ wooden heels hammered an uneven beat on the hardwood floor. My older siblings flinched, looked up from their phones, and winced a bit as I scanned their faces. When we were kids, Milton used to call my current
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“Middon, report,” Chief Commander Phezznibbet Maplebark ordered his second in command. He adjusted his bandolier of knives, the leather strap rubbing his fur the wrong way as the fellow Xintixa saluted him. “At ease. What’s the news?”
“The Xintixling and her mother are being surrounded by the Bittlian in the western quadrant of the
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