Alysse Aallyn

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  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    We examined the boxes content.

     “Let’s separate in two piles,” Derek proposed;

    “Hopeless and intriguing.”

    But which was which?

    Everything seemed hopeless: ridiculous clothes,

    Shoes with broken heels, endless piles of

    old magazines.  Souvenir of

    Great Britain? – a Union Jack sleepshirt.

    Cosmetics and grubby makeup kits,

    Hairbrushes, scrunchies,

    An ancient red plastic boombox,

    Terrible Advice Books 

    (“The Power of You”)

    costume jewelry of improbable value –

    Even her jewelry box I recalled

    From childhood days.

    All just junk Dominica could

    Have thrown away!

    Why wasn’t Mirabel more literate?

    Dyslexia?  Hadn’t that word

    Been bruited undefined 

    To the insatiable ears of

    An eight-year-old –

    I heard parents always looking for

    Excuses. I thought about what I would 

    Have left – same thing Derek might –

    Notebooks of scribblings

    Journals and diaries –

    “Notes to self” – cherished cards

    Day planners and calendars?

    The only exciting thing: a professional portfolio

    Stamped MONFORT COLLEGE OF MODELING.

    I opened the portfolio, scared and thrilled

    Here’s the Mirabel I would recognize.

    But all the photos seemed outdated –

    Shlocky, overly made-up and

    Inhumanly posed.

    This girl should demand

    Her money back.

    But maybe there was no “money” –

    Goblin gold melts away when you reach for it.

    What is a “model” after all but 

    A blank screen embracing

     Frenzied searchers for the 

    “Other.” Well, she’d been

    “Othered” here –

    One particularly traumatic

    Mirabel in whiteface

    With the cruel thorn-like silver

    Piercings through her lip – 

    Rendered speechless –

    Her life a cage around her

    Nude starved body. 

    Derek saw my reaction and put his arms

    Around me.

    “Well, that settles it,” I said,

    “That was really Mirabel. I saw that lip.”

    To suggest anything else –

    That there could be 

    Cadres of desperate girls

    Scarred and marked and rendered mute

    Thrown away into the dumpster? 

    No wonder

    Mirabel declared the fashion world 

    “Shit!” One precious picture 

    Evoked the “Murble” I remembered –

    Filled my eyes with tears –

    There she was

    Pony-tailed Mirabel in Daisy Dukes,

    Washing the side of a fake car.

    Youthful, hopeful, tender, memories came surging up –

    Mirabel filling the kiddie pool so I could play,

    Decorating my pancakes with Picasso faces,

    Gelling my hair into crazy shapes.

    If you ran these pictures backwards

    They recorded tragedy:  the slow dawn

    Of knowledge as she realized she was in

    Bad hands; turns out beauty 

    Isn’t enough. Answering the question;

    It had been my real sister who

    Threw me at Lord Verne so that she could 

    Get away. Derek dropped the fake nipple 

    He’d been studying. 

    “I’m sorry. I didn’t know 

    She was that kind of model.” 

    I blazed at him: “Everyone’s that kind!

    It’s a job!” Derek spluttered.

    “The human body’s beautiful.”

    I cornered him:

     “Will you get naked so I can inspect you?”

    His face reddened.  Suddenly he

    Was fifteen years old. “Not unless you do too.”

    “I won’t. You’d have to be the only

    Nude person in the room.”

    He huffed, and puffed, “Point taken.”

    And to his everlasting credit

    Hugged me again, but tenderly.

    No further explanations required.

     “Sorry,” I mumbled.

    “Don’t apologize,” he said.

    “It’s all horrible.”

    Bad moment over.

    “Hey, look at this.”

    He’d clicked open the boombox.

    “There’s a home-made cassette.”

    It was an answering machine cassette.

    I recognized it – Dad still used that kind.

    It explained the ancient boombox.

    “Let’s press play.”

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 16 – The Escort Murders

    “I remember those murders now” says Derek

    As the taxi struggled against downtown traffic.

    “The Escort Murders!  It was talk of the news for months

    Year before last. “

    I’d never heard of it.

    Escorts! Was Mirabel an “escort” or

    Only a “friend?” “Escort” did have a

    “Porn scout” feel. Did I really want to know

    About Mirabel’s life if

    This is what I found?

    Disquiet shading to

    Repugnance. “I remember

    Nothing about any survivor,”

    Derek went on, completely

    Oblivious to my mood.

    He wasn’t perfect. Or maybe he was –

    Too “perfect” ever to worry about

    Mirabel selling herself. I pushed:

    “”But they arrested someone?

    Someone confessed?”

    “Yes. Some sixteen year old kid 

    From that same building

    Said he crawled in the window like

    Spiderman. They gave him a plea deal and

     They never went to trial because

    Experts say that it’s impossible. He must

     Be bragging.”

    “Who’d confess to a crime

    They didn’t commit?” I asked

    But hollowly, because I already knew

    The answer. Haven’t you ever

    Heard word come out of your mouth

    That amaze you – words

    You deliberately feed the thirsty person

    Standing at your side?

    We toted the boxes

    Up to his chicly forlorn eyrie,

    But he couldn’t let it go.

    On his laptop he summoned 

    Sheaves of bloody newsprint.

    I reeled – nonconversant, I admit, with

    CAPITALIZED TABLOID MURDER.

    I avoid true crime, finding that

    Getting through high school is grisly enough.

    “Crime’s an acquired taste,” admitted Derek.

    “I advise you not to acquire it.

    You can’t unsee some things.”

    Truly helpful and caring or

    Stuffy and condescending?

    I regarded him with freshened

    Disapproval. 

    “Didn’t I invite you on this case?” I chastised.

    “This is my sister’s case.”

    He was suitably repentant.

    “Mysteries without murder are a parlor game,”

    He defended, “But when they bring out the knives

    Everyone’s at risk.”

    Too true. I shivered. Couldn’t feel safe

    Until both me and the boxes 

    Were quadruple-locked behind Derek’s guarded,

    Security-cammed, barricaded front door.

    I made him show me that the only other entry

    Into the apartment (in the kitchen) was

    Barred & sealed.

    I studied the news reports. They didn’t mention

    Mirabel or her broom closet.

    Could it be an urban myth?

    “Do you think Mirabel was really there?”

    I whispered as if we weren’t

    Alone. “But what could she hear

    Locked in the broom closet?”

    “Screams?” suggested Derek.

    “Maybe a name? If they 

    Knew who attacked them?”

    I posed the ultimate puzzle.

    “But why take a year and a half to run away?”

    “If the killer didn’t know she knew –“

    That sent a stab right through me.

    I didn’t want to play this game

    It struck too close to home. It was

    The first good reason I’d heard since my arrival

    For Mirabel dropping out without a word.

    “The alternative theory –“

    Then he stopped. Too late.

    From his expression

    I knew what he was thinking.

    “They got her,” I said as cold as

    I could muster. “Ugh. I hope not.”

    “So now we have another mystery to solve,” 

    Said Derek. “This one 

    With knives. Find the killer – and maybe

    Find Mirabel. Or give her reason

    To come home.”

    Both of us turned to stare 

    At the dusty boxes just brought in.

    I tried not to elevate my hopes.

    Derek was thinking the same thought.

     “What can be valuable if she abandoned them?”

    But I had the answer.

    “She couldn’t return – if

    The place was crawling with police.”

    Derek was comfortable

    Playing devil’s advocate.

    “What if the real Mirabel WAS killed that night?

    And the person you met was an impostor?”

    “Verne would have to be in on it,” I spoke

    Before I thought;

    Antithesis was obvious. 

    “He could have done it. That gives him motive

    For proving Mirabel’s alive.”

    We both needed cups and cups

    Of good hot sugared tea –

    Orange, cardamom

     And cinnamon.

    “If we’re listing suspects,” Derek braved.

    “Maybe we need a murder board.”

    A murder board?

    Didn’t he move too fast for me?

    I struggled with my memory of Mirabel’s eyes –

    Pleading underneath her teasing.

    “I think that was really Mirabel.”

    “Oh well, there’s always confirmation bias.”

    Derek sipped. “People hating to admit they’re wrong.”

    Obnoxious know-it-all!

    I felt the pressure to one-up him.

    “We’re forgetting something,” I suggested.

    “Mirabel could have done the murders herself.”

    I’d shocked him. I was appalled

    By my hypothesis but proud of its result.

    He was silenced.

    “Still, kill her own roommates?” I queried.

    “What could be her motive?” 

    “These are roommates we’re talking about!”

    Derek knew about roommates; he’d been

    To boarding school.

    “They made her stay in the broom closet!

    Who needs a reason?”

    Derek plays to win.

    “They were helping her by hiding her, so

    Occam’s razor says

    Whatever she was hiding from

    Came and got her.” 

    I tried envisioning Kruptupian and

    His minions. Derek sighed.

     “What if it was your sister,” I started

    To demand, then recalled how

    Annoying Sierra could be.

    He followed my thought and burst out laughing.

    Proved his devotion to the game. “It’s hard

    Physical labor knifing someone.”

    “TWO PEOPLE,” I corrected.

    Perhaps that meant two killers.

    We spread the boxes out on newspaper.

    My hopes WERE high.

    Whoever it was I’d seen last Friday

    Already a life-time ago – now

    The real Mirabel was ready to 

    Jump out at me.

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Was Mirabel just about breaking rules? Or

    Breaking herself against them?

    “Different people have different sets of rules,”

    I suggested.  “She was looking for a different world.”

    “Still looking,” suggested Derek.

    “Probably for a world where 

    You don’t have to lie all the time.

    “She lied to your parents and -”

    “She lied to me and she lied to Verne.

    She said bridegrooms 

    Get in the way.”

    “Wow. And you were with her

    So briefly!”

     “Maybe we’re all impostors,” I suggested,

    “Until we find out who we really are.”

    “Trying to get “it” right without knowing what “it” is.”

    I could really talk to this guy!

    What a relief.

    He googled. “Impostor syndrome.”

    We played dueling phones.

    “No,” I corrected. “I substitute 

    Capgras delusion.

    Thinking everyone’s a fraud.”

    “Neva vu, I call it. When the familiar suddenly

    Seems so unfamiliar.

    What’s that phrase?

    Fake it till you make it?

    Doesn’t that make everyone a fraud?”

     “Adults think kids are easy to fool.”

    “Some teens believe anybody,”

    Derek agreed. “Look at the stuff they post!

    Not me. I’m always ready

    For the universe to turn

    Upside down and inside out.”

    I considered it.

    Maybe I was too. “It makes life more

    Interesting. Trying to see through

    Reality to the reality beneath.”

     “They’re lucky you’re not a snarky Goth.”

    Relaxing guy!

    “Who says I’m not a snarky Goth?”

    Now we both laughed.

    I gave him the Brooklyn address –

    No luck there – far away from traffic cams.

    Spa camera was on the fritz.

    “We need people who knew her when,”

    Derek suggested. Providing an

    Interesting hour

    Of online search.

      Mirabel’s most recent address 

    Was an apartment

    Building on the Upper East Side. 

    We looked at each other.

    “Well, it’s something,”  I said.

    And Derek said,

    “Wanna go see?”

    Chapter 15 – Stage Set

     “Are you here about the rental?”

    One eye peered out at us across a solid-looking

    Door-chain. My voice was raw from unsuccessfully 

    interviewing all the other tenants about Mirabel 

    So Derek swept into the breach.

    “Didn’t Mirabel Marshott live here?”

    The eye rolled, then closed.

    “Who wants to know?”

    “I’m her sister,” I said, but

     Helplessly.

    Just another bust I assumed – yet possibly 

    My breaking voice produced

    Some good; next sound a gasp followed by 

    Unlocking. “You’re the answer to a prayer,” 

    She said. Crazy! “Come in. Hurry.” 

    Reached out an arm to yank us inside.

    We were in a tiny 20th floor apartment

    on the Upper East Side –

    I’m telling you, SMALL – entirely empty. There was

    A highly-polished floor and a fantastic view 

    Of other people’s balconies and terraces.

    “Her stuff’s in the storage bin,” said the girl.

    “We have to make this fast.”

    She was a tiny Filipina with literally POUNDS of 

    Makeup. Any age between twenty and eighty.

    Artily dressed – expensively – I surmised –

    In flowing hand-painted chiffon. Checked her Rolex;

    Opened her Day Planner, plucked out a sticky note,

    wrote BACK IN 5 MINS and slapped it on the door.

    She pulled us outside and carefully locked 

    All three locks. “We don’t want them 

    Finding out about Mirabel,”

    She hissed as she frog-marched us to elevators.

    “She’s a deal killer.”

    Derek and I were both too stunned to speak.

    Me of the short game, found my words first.

    “Who’s them?” I asked.

    “Oh, you know,” she whispered, punching the button

    “Anybody who knows the case.

    People fear the killers could

    Come back. If you’re savvy enough

    To afford this apartment you know

     The guy who confessed couldn’t 

    Have done it. So the killers are still out there.”

    Derek was the first to address

    This fray.

    He was more familiar

    With the wayward ways

    Of Manhattan tenantry.

    “Mirabel stayed here unofficially?”

    “Right,” said our hostess, seemingly irritated

    By the elevator’s slowness.

    “She was in the broom closet. It has no windows!

    Six kinds of illegal.

    I mean, she wasn’t actually here that often.

    Probably used it as a mail drop – or

    Stayed with boyfriends while avoiding

    Other boyfriends. You know how that goes.”

    We didn’t. She looked me up and down 

    Realizing far too late –

    She was giving too much away. 

    “I heard your dad was terribly strict.”

    She pursed her lips.

    I wanted to defend my poor dad –

    After all, if you have a lot of boyfriends and

    Play them off against each other

    Won’t you find – eventually –

    One who’s “terribly strict”?

    But I cared too much what Derek thought.

    I muted. Elevator arrived. We rushed inside.

    “She was there that night?” prompted Derek.

    “When the – killing – happened?”

    “MAYBE,” breathed our Latinx, so excited to be a

    Bad news bear she vibrated physically.

    “Stabbed to death in their beds. – Franny and Jane.

    Mirabel just took off – I mean who wouldn’t? So the cops 

    Maybe even the murderers – never knew she was there.

    Now we have to sell the place –

    I’m Dominica –  Jane’s sister.”

    Uncomfortably long elevator ride

    To the basement. Finally she said,

    “You know, you look like her. Here we are.”

    A bump along the basement floor.

    “Mirabel kept her stuff in bins. 

    Here, you’ll need one of these.”

    She slid a trolley at us.

    I gathered courage.
    “Did you know Lord Verne?”

    “We all heard plenty

    About the titled ex-.

    Violent and threatening. But

    I thought he was in Europe?”

     “5106, 5107 – here we are.”

    She unlocked a storage unit. Three boxes piled

    In the center of the floor. Marked MM.

    Our helper watched us load them.

    “Thank God you’re getting these out of here –

    We didn’t know how to contact her.

    I’ve got to get back. Interest

    Has been heavy.”

    “How do you explain the murders?”

    “When you need real estate

    You’re not scared of death. Just

    Don’t say how – they don’t want

    To know.” She nodded fiercely

    “Unbelievable I know – but that’s New York.

    Your door’s is that way.”

    We both stared at her departing back,

    And clattering heels.

    “Wow,” said Derek, “Plenty to chew on.”

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    I would have yelled at Derek 

    For manhandling me if I hadn’t needed it

    So much. Was this the way

    Mirabel had felt, impressed by Verne?

    Climbing into crowded trains was a skill 

    I didn’t have. We could sit 

    This time. “I wonder if that guy’s

    An Epstein flier,” Derek mused aloud.

    “I wondered the same thing!

    But I don’t know if he

    Could get along with ANYBODY

    Long enough. The way he clutched at

    Mirabel; do those guys care

    About anything that much?”

    Derek seriously considered

    This ill-expressed idea.

    “It’s a club like any club,” he said.

    “They’re posing for each other.”

    Hard to argue with.

    Hadn’t Verne and Mirabel

    Been posing for ME?

    “I had the most awful dream,”

    I tentatively began.

    “You believe in dreams?” I almost hit him.

    Our first quarrel!

    “People know things subconsciously before

    They know them consciously.” I was

    Quoting my drama prof, but

    It sounds legit.

    He was amenable. “So explicate

    This dream.” I expanded.

    “A ruined house – Downtown Abbey on the skids. 

    Shattered.

    Sad and… threatening with a lot of

    Broken stuff.” I found I couldn’t

    Express the horned man.

    Derek tried to locate the dream’s

    Progenitor.

    “Was it something he said?”

    “He said Mirabel tried to live there and

    Didn’t like it.”

    “Intriguing,” murmured Derek. “Let’s research

    this guy when we get home.”

    Chapter 14 – A Ruined Manor

    Derek’s family place was a

    Penthouse atop the

    Museum Mesko.  Mostly glass.

    In the “reserved” elevator

    Derek grilled me:

    “What do YOU think happened? You

    Think she ran away

    And left you holding – HIM?”

    Unsure of speech when hurtling so fast

    I breathed relief when the door bonged.

    “I haven’t told you the worst part.”

    “What’s that?”

    “Our dresses for the wedding

    Are the same. It’s

    THE SAME DRESS.”

    He didn’t get it.

    “That’s worse than having

    Fourteen year olds?”

    “Yes, because SHE DID IT.”

    Should I tell him Mirabel was some kind of

    Flesh scout? He would never understand

    Why I still sought her.

     “You were her replacement.

    Good that you got out of there.”

    Through his folks’ dark foyer, 

    With the Tiffany lamps and stacks of mail

    He led me to a long living room

    With at least six sofas and the most

    Fabulous view. Enough modern art to

    Give anybody nightmares.

    But the city laid out

    Beneath the clouds was

    “Ravishing.”

    “Want something to eat?”

    Why was I always hungry?

    Was it hunger really or

    Existential despair?

    Existential despair can make a person

    Fat. The microwave pinged.

    “I can’t believe you didn’t Google this guy.”

    I can’t believe I didn’t either.

    Why didn’t I? Derek was good

    At pointing out the logic of

    The illogical world I’d just escaped.

    Was this decompression something I shared

    With Mirabel?

    He levered out a plate of nachos,

    Adding sour cream and guacamole.

    I WAS hungry!

    “I think I need a bib.”

    He added piles of napkins.

    I dumped nachos into my despair.

    “Coffee? Tea? The wine’s

    Locked up.”

    “Coffee’s fine.”

    On their home computer

    I googled while he buttled.

    The news was bad.

    “His house looks like my dream!”

    Valerian Hall, Verne’s “ancestral home.”

    “There’s even a lake with folly.”

    “Swear you didn’t look before?”

    Derek was persnickety.

    “Don’t you think sometimes

    You absorb things from the air?

    By osmosis?”

    He politely considered the question,

    Working his logic

    Around this idea. “Remote viewing?”

    “Peer Loses Bid to Break Entail.”

    Screamed headlines as I scrolled.

    Down, down, down.

    “Looks like he couldn’t pry more money out.”

    Derek typed – my research not

    Enough for him.

    “Says here he can’t go back because

    There’s a warrant out for his arrest,”

    “Look at the site!” I argued. “How could Royal Gossip

    Know anything of value?”

    “I admit you can’t trust exclamation points,”

    Derek concurred. 

    “But it is a reason to avoid police.

    Whatever it is, 

    “Can’t be enough to extradite.”

     “I need a bathroom.”

    To throw up?

    I rose abruptly, headed down the hall.

    “There’s a close one off the kitchen.”

    Around the corner from the wall of refrigerators.

    I checked myself in a tiny bathroom mirror.

    Hollow-eyed, a girl who sorely needs a tan.

    Completely different from my

    Made-up, Russian hooker, Mirabel self.

    “I found what he’s in trouble for,” said Derek

    When I got returned. GBH.”

    “Party drug?”

    “Grievous bodily harm. He attacked someone.”

    “A woman?”

    “No. Some man in a pub.”

    I couldn’t picture it.

    Verne seemed more irritable than physical.

    But then I recalled how he was about Ravi.

    “So Verne’s on the run it sounds like.”

    “It’s a new idea,” I agreed.

    Derek moved effortlessly from coffee to seltzer.

    The boy was a sponge.

    “This is more fun than a video game.

    Maybe I’ll transition to “criminal justice”.”

    “What are your parents pushing?”

    “Wealth Management.  Fundraising.”

    He made a disgusted face. “Tax Avoidance. 

    Dull, dull, dull. Studying rule breakers, though

     You don’t find that interesting?”

    Did I?

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 13 – Why Women Want to Escape Lord Verne

    I know I did. Did this mean that I

    Could finally consider myself

    Grown up? Wouldn’t my teachers 

    Be surprised. Verne inveighed against Kruptupian

    The whole way back

    And I didn’t stop him.

    I imagined myself floating above him

    And looking down on him

    Pityingly. Wondered if Mirabel

    Ever had done that.

    At the Fifth Avenue apartments

    Someone claiming to be Derek Lowther

    Was pacing back and forth,

    Eyed by the suspicious doorman.

    He was over six feet tall, very skinny with

    Explosively curly brown hair, 

    Big soulful green eyes and perfect skin.

    I almost threw myself into this strange man’s arms

    And kissed him.

    “You’re not Derek,” I announced, exiting the car,

    .“Derek Lowther is a ratty, pimply little brat 

    Who spits when he talks.”

    “And you were a squirt with braces

    And a squint,” he sassed back,

    All I needed to hear for confirmation.

    Nobody knows about the squint.

    “It’s called amblyopia 

    And I’m all cured now,” I told him

    As  we race-scrolled through family pics –

    Growing up for each other’s eyes

    Across eight years of ski slopes

    School parties, beaches and

    Christmas.  “Verne, this is Derek Lowther.”

    Verne barely deigned to register

     The presence of another human being.

    “Step into the café,” he ordered.

    Perhaps if you’re six feet tall 

    And possibly still growing

    Things are different but hadn’t we

    Just breakfasted?  No one cared.

    Derek:  2 Breakfast burritos and a café Americano,

    Verne: espresso and blueberry blintzes,

    Richenda: Milky coffee, everything bagel.

    Only ordered where I can

    Shed bagel dust at will.

    As he and Verne gazed at each other

    I thought Derek required a call-back.

    “Remember Mirabel?”

     “I remember the Mirabel Legend,”

    Derek offered.  Honest guy.

    “Kids absorb gossip.”

    “What kind of gossip?”

    Verne was too sharp, I thought, snapping

    At a guest like that.

    Soon Derek too would want escape –

    Playing into my hands exactly.

    I smiled to myself, steepling my fingers

    Like a movie mad scientist.

    “Text and sub text,” Derek offered.

    “Text” was parents explaining Mirabel had run away,

    “Sub-text” came through eavesdropping about

    Mirabel living wild and free to public acclaim.”

    I could work with this guy, I thought,

    Satisfied.  At least

    We spoke the same language –

    Very unlike me & Verne.

    “We were going to get married,” huffed Verne.

    “She gave up her job with her boss –“

    “Her nasty boss –“ I added. Helping.

    “She called Richenda to help with planning.”

    See? THAT wasn’t true.

    Since I didn’t challenge Verne went on more

    Confidently, “Ghosted us at dinner.  

    Didn’t come home at all last night.”

    Derek looked at me with an

    Expression seeming to communicate

    “Tell me the REAL story later.”

    I liked him more and more.

    “Wow,” Derek commented evenly. 

    “Rough.” Turned to me. “You saw her?”

     “I did,” I offered, not willing to say

    In front of Verne what exactly I had seen.

    “She’s a redhead now.”

    Verne was impressed enough

    To plunge into a long recital 

    Of our late night Kruptupian call,

    Then insisting Ravi posed as

    Mirabel’s groom. I could tell

    My silence was registering with Derek.

    Since he seemed to know I saw it

    Differently, he must know I wanted

    Getting out of there.

    “Runaway Bride,” said Derek,

     “I get that you can’t involve the media.”

     “Any ideas?” asked Verne.

    “I’ll study traffic cams for Mirabel locations,”

    Derek offered, “See where she went.

    And with who.”

    Verne’s eyes jumped with excitement.

    “You can do that?”

    “Traffic cameras are easy, private cams

    Are more complex.”

    “I’ve got the exact times she was in 

    Brooklyn and at the spa,” I offered. 

    “I just need my laptop,” said Derek,

    Hastily said,

    “I need the ladies’ room”

    But secretly went upstairs

    To get my bag and leave it

    In the hall.

    Verne did not alert, unaware

    Of my escape. Like Mirabel

     I was getting the hell out.

    When I got back they were discussing

    Hiring a P.I., Derek’s dad

    Had an art theft guy.

    “We think she ditched her phone. “

     “But her online account,

    See who she called –

    It’s golden. Maybe just a password hack,” 

    Said Derek. “Depends how well you know 

    The person.” “I can help with that,” I said,

    Possibly unwisely – Verne’s face

    Froze in jealous competition.

    Apparently I belonged to him

    Already.

    Verne paid the bill,

    Discomfited by precipitous

    Abandonment.

    “I have some friends to call,” he sniffed.

    Threat or promise – we encouraged him.

    “I’m going to see Derek’s folks” I lied so

    Smoothly Derek kept his calm.

    “They’ll have all kinds of suggestions.”

    Verne was stymied

    By our determination.

    “I’ll call,” I promised pathetically.

    Verne made a note of Derek’s number.

    I marched after Derek

    Who was walking decisively.

    “So where are we going?” I hissed

    Conspiratorially.

    “Subway. No car service on my allowance.”

    Down the steps into the hot and stinky 

    Underworld. “Fine with me,” I offered.

    “I want to be anonymous.”

    “I know the feeling,” said Derek.

    “What’s with that guy?

    You’re escaping a police state.”

    We clutched straps and leaned together

    Studiously ignoring people who

    Were studiously ignoring us.

    “So, what’s the deal?”

    Hissed Derek.  “Do you think he murdered her?”

    “Not sure,” I said, “When he wanted me

    To comfort him he said

    I wasn’t the first fourteen-year old he’d had.”

     “Oh, my God,” said Derek. “Disgusting guy.

    His world is him and whoever he’s picked

    To be his mirror.”

    A startling, grisly, accurate thought.

    “He left with me,” I mused,

    “I’m his alibi but he could always hire someone.” 

    “But you don’t think she’s dead.”

    “I hope she’s not. But if I find her now

    I feel sure she’ll finally tell the truth.”

    That idea sounded stupid to my ears.

    Wouldn’t Mirabel do what she’d

    Always done and feed me any story

    I wanted to believe?

    “I think I can tell the truth from lies,”

    I offered, I’d like to

    Test it.” To Derek’s credit

    He didn’t argue. “My only question is;

    What if he killed her, and then

    Hired a girl to impersonate Mirabel?”

    I had to admit I’d thought of this.

    “It doesn’t sound so hard to me,” said Derek.

    “After all you haven’t seen her for – what –

    Six years?” I shook my head.

    “I think it was really her and everything

    She said and did was signaling. 

    I longed to learn her language.

    “I think –“ could I confess this deepest secret

    To this stranger –

    “She’s longing to be found.”

    A moment’s silence but Derek didn’t

    Counter. “We’ll check her friends,” he said, 

    “When we open her account.”

    Did Mirabel have friends?

    Would Verne allow it?

    I must have looked like a stopped clock

    Because he propelled me out the double doors.

    “Is this our stop?” “Change trains.”

    Back to waiting on a dangerous platform 

    In the dark, hovering over an electrified hell.

    Had I always been this scared

    Of  everything?

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

     Derek speaking.

    “Sounds just like Mirabel to me.  Wasn’t

    Disappointing everyone her stock in trade?”

    Impossible to argue with.

    But I put in the effort.

     “Maybe something’s REALLY happened to her this time.

    She seems to have been juggling two men

    She hated; stealing diamonds and God knows what.”

    Should I explain her attempted

    Brain hijacking?

    Maybe I shouldn’t tell him anything.

    Why couldn’t I stop myself? Because

    Derek is my age and will have

    Predictable response? It felt like,

    AT LAST a human being 

    To speak to in this world of artificial masks.

    “God. I’m sorry.” His voice really did

    Sound sorry. “Do you want to come here?

    Should I go there?”

    It was fresh and novel to be offered

    The Choice. Sounded like he really

    Wanted to help. 

     “What could you do?”

    My own voice sounded like a five year old

    Quivering on the edge of tears.

    “Help you look? I’d do anything I can.”

    I gave Derek the bridegroom’s address.

    Speaking of the bridegroom, he burst through 

    The doors, arms full of literature and bottled water.

    “Hotel coupons, flight discounts –

    These could suggest where Mirabel might go.

     Or where Ravi might stash her.

    What a liar! That bastard!”

    He DEFINITELY wanted to be the one

    Whose mood Mirabel controlled.

    I felt I had to interject some authenticity.

    “She probably wanted to keep Ravi

    From chasing her. Or suing her. 

    For, you know, the diamonds.”

    Verne paused to drink from his

    Chilled bottle, flicking

    Droplets on his collar.

    “She shouldn’t turn to him.”

    So we were back to Bad Mirabel,

    Conniving Mirabel, with motives

    Always suspect.

    Not so different – as Derek pointed out –

    From the way she’d always been.

    We climbed dispiritedly back into the car.

    I needed Derek. Just to speak to

    Someone sane.

     “Have you announced your engagement

    Formally?”

    “No. We just thought of it. No details yet.”

    This opened an unpleasant picture.

    Why was I the first

    Wedding task?

    It couldn’t be that Mirabel needed

    Someone sane to speak to –

    I must be a distraction

    From what I could see was Verne’s

    Slow boil.

    At that very moment

     he eyed my phone suspiciously.

    “So, who was that?”

    I saw him itching to 

    Commandeer my phone.

    Who WOULD I be talking to? The press?

    Poor Mirabel! Her trap was sounding

    Worse than ever.

    I engineered my way out.

    “My parents’ friends.

     Their son could help –

    He’s hacker smart.” 

    Should I mention my upcoming move?

    Best not; a storm settled between 

    Verne’s eyes. He thirsted to be

    My focus of attention with

    No competitor to mute his power.

    “He’s meeting us at the apartment.”

    Verne didn’t like that one bit.

    I realized, even if I have to sacrifice my clothes

    I must escape.

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aalyn

    I closed the door for

    Privacy but Dad only wanted 

    To speak to Verne. He was

    WAY more interested in talking to a man 

    He’d never met than listening to

    His own kid! Go ahead. IGNORE the Virgin.

    The virgin is used to it!

    At least I was allowed

    To listen in.

    Verne said Mirabel had just pulled a “Mirabel.”

    “Wedding’s off, I take it?” asked my Dad.

    He sounded relieved!

    “Not because of anything I’ve done or said,”

    Verne assured. “She just can’t seem to cope.”

    Handed back the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

    “Take the first train home,”

    My Dad directed.

    “Dad, it’s only Saturday!”

    “You can’t stay alone

    In some young man’s apartment.

    Doesn’t look good.”

    “Who’s looking?” I demanded. “Besides, he’s staying

    at The Stanhope,” I winked at Verne.

    “I’m sorry, no! Must I put your mother on? 

    You know she’ll back me up.”

    “At least let me call the Lowthers.  

    Maybe they’re in town.”

    Longtime family friends. He subsided.

    Muttering.

    “Parents are so awful,” I proclaimed out loud once

    Severing connections.

    “They think I’m a baby.”

    “They want you to never age”

    And Verne smiled wickedly at his private

    Epsteinian joke.

    I found the Lowthers’ number and got only voicemail –

    Should have figured that would happen!

    They were at the Cold Spring country house of course!

    I enunciated clearly, “This is Richenda Marshott

    with an emergency question. Please call me back as soon 

    As you get this at 715-527-1313.”

    This granted me another day at least

    I thought till

    Someone might check in.

    If I spoke to any member of the family –

    even barf-inducing Sierra – I could fend off Dad

    For the entire weekend.

    Verne looked hungrily at my phone.

    “What question will you ask?”

    “Why, if they’ve heard from Mirabel of course.”

    Dropped it in my pocket. High-waist jeans

    Have deep, deep pockets.

    “I’m going to the Day-Spa,”

    I said, allowing him to bail. 

    But of course he said,

    “I’m coming too.”

    Chapter 12 – Derek

    Bioceutically Renewed was so far east

    It was almost in the water.  At the door, a

    Sweet-faced Asian lady

    Expressed almost comic dismay.

    “Customers privacy sacrosanct!  You understand.

    Sacrosanct.” But

    Just when I would have recommended

     Verne get more friendly

    He went haughty.

    “We’re talking about a missing person!”

    He barked. “This is a police case!”

    She was not to be caught.

    “Are you police?”

    “He’s the fiancé.” Reaching out to touch her arm was

    Too naïve! She shrank away.

    Verne swelled, his importance

    Throbbing. “I’d like to see

    The manager!”

    We filled the tiny waiting room.

    The employee backed away, alarmed,

    Scurrying, hastily diminishing

    In size. I imagined that was their secret to dispense –

    Clients requesting “to be smaller”

    Turned into mice. I hissed at Verne.

    “What if she calls the police on US?”

    He waved this away, airily.

     “Flunkies never do.  A British title paves the path

    To everything.” How I wished

    This wasn’t true. The frosty-eyed manager 

    Was neither young  nor Asian, 

    But when I introduced, “This is Lord Verne, 

    Mirabel’s fiancé and I’m her sister” 

    Her expression changed most notably.

    How in our democracy could Verne be right?

    “Have you told the police?”

    “They’ll get involved after the waiting period,” Verne said

     Smoothly. Far too smoothly. How many

    Wives had disappeared on him before?

    “We think she’s under duress. We’re trying 

    To act fast.” I begged;

     “We just want to find her! She carries

    Valuables. She could be in danger.”

    Verne’s eyes raked me over,

    While he fluttered his lips

    Disgustedly, as if to say –

    “And she left me with this THING!”

    Instead of instant ejection

    We made it to the inner sanctum, an

    Unromantic room where filing cabinets loomed 

    Over wooden chairs. Ms. “Operations Manager”

    Consulted her computer.

    “She signed up for our Wedding Package

    But only made the first appointment. That was

    Days ago. I understood – er – her fiancé

    Was…someone different altogether.”

    Verne paled and lost his breath.

    Fell into a punitively twisted chair.

    It was up to me to ask the questions.

    “Short, fat, bald?”

    “That’s the one.” The woman panicked

    At her own audacity.

    “Tells us what we need to know.”

    Verne was gasping like a fish

    And he was not a good color.

    I thought he might stroke out.

    “Contact numbers?”

    “Contrary to policy. I’m sorry.

    Her voice was cold, but her eyes were warm.

    “May I get you a water?”

    “Please,” said Verne. “Bottled, if possible.”

    The moment she was out the door I raced

    To the computer. “Last appointment was three days ago!”

    I took a screenshot with my phone.

    Ms. Harvey returned with a bottle of chilled water

    which Verne accepted. I was rescued

    By the ringing of my phone.

    “I’ve got to take this.”

    Stepping into the hall.

    I heard a deep masculine voice. 

    “Hi. This is Derek Lowther. Is that 

    Richenda?” Derek Lowther? Last time I saw him he was a

    Particularly nightmarish twelve year old jerk.

    (I was a cool eleven year old sophisticate.)

    This was NOT the person I’d hoped to speak to. I

    Pushed out through the anteroom and into

    The pale winter sunshine, playing

    For time. “Yes,”

    I told Derek unwillingly, “it’s me.”

    “So what’s the emergency question?”

    “Have you heard from Mirabel?”

    He was genuinely astonished.

    “Has ANBODY heard from Mirabel?

    I certainly haven’t. I’m at the apartment.

    Do you mean, did she call here?”

    “Maybe you could find out 

    If your parents have heard anything?”

    “They’re on retreat in Sri Lanka.  You can assume 

    The answer’s No. What’s the hurry?”

    “Mirabel is missing.”

    A beat of silence. I could hear his struggle to be polite.

    “Wasn’t Mirabel ALWAYS missing?”

    “This time’s exceptional. She came back. 

    She was getting married.  

    Then she disappeared. Again.”

    I have to admit it did not sound like an emergency.

    Impossible to explain anything to this guy!

    Hadn’t seen him in 3 years and already 

    I was angry at him.

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 11 – The Perfect Alibi

    Over breakfast I peppered him

    With questions.

    “If Mirabel was a scout for porn –

    What does that mean

     She actually did?”

    Verne moaned.  

    “I tried so hard to make her quit,”

    He writhed and sighed pointedly –

    Reminding me who’s

    The victim here.

    “Set dressing. That’s what they call it.

    Pretty young girls who want to

    Get ahead.

    Sometimes she found investors at

    Openings and parties.”

    Was that what she did

    To me? Threw me at

    Verne as a distracting toy?

    Ignoring me –

    Living alone in his world was HIS 

    Superpower, I’d

    Decided;

    Angry and increasingly incensed,

    He worked himself up.

    She took something he needed

    That much was plain.

    Pushed his plate of tempting food away.

    “Is that how she found you?” was

    The question he refused to answer,

    Playing with his fork

    As if he’d stab me.

    I summoned up my calmest adult voice.

    “Let’s call the police. I think it’s time.”

    A shudder ran through him

    As though I’d suggested

    Daylight to a vampire.

    “Too humiliating.

    They’ll only say she’s

    An adult whose feet are cold.

    They don’t know her well enough

    To find her. We do.”

    I felt just the opposite. The police look

    For the actual person; Verne 

    Only wanted certain Mirabels – others

    He needed to stay gone.

    On a sudden inspiration –

    “The trash!” he raced to collar

    Overflowing baskets and

    Upend them on the counter.

    Good idea, I must admit.

    We attacked the problem

    Like an archaeological dig

    Separating

    Paper here and garbage there.

    But I realized – if you want to know a human

    You need her phone –

    Phones are more intimate than

    Bodies. As Verne sorted through her

    Discards, I considered ways

    To break into her account.

    Still, he levered intriguing items; a

    “Welcome new members” card for

    “Bioceutically Renewed Day Spa” and a crumpled pack

    Of ginger parsley tea. I knew the tea

    Through schoolgirl gossip –

    Never tried it myself;

    Supposed to cue overdue menstruation.

    Surprise! Mirabel bothered

    With menstruation: tiny as she was?

    It perhaps had other uses.

    Levered out the members’ card – 

    No need to mention the tea – and tidied up the mess.

    Verne’s shoulders curled in

    Frustration. “There’s nothing here.”

    I waved the card.

    He was rude. “Where’s that get us?”

    He was tough to help

    And something about that made me mad.

    But if my school teaches anything it’s

    Disguise your feelings.

    I said coldly,

    “We should check her phone.”

    “How can we – if she’s taken it with her?”

    “There might be a way if you pay the bill.”

    He rolled his eyes.  “I pay everything. 

    Where’s my laptop?”

    Really, the man was helpless.

    “I think I saw it beside the sofa.”

    He blocked me from retrieving it.

    “You finish breakfast. I’ll get it.”

    I couldn’t eat with him typing 

    In the other room. 

    “What are you finding?”

    “Nothing.” He turned away.

    “There’s nothing there. 

    She dumped it somewhere.”

    Are we playing 

    “Baffle the Virgin”?

    “Mislead the Virgin?” But

    I had to hand it to Lord Verne

    Realer than Mirabel, so honest about

    His needs while she vanished

    Into legend. Now I cultivated 

    New ideas. Everyone knows

    The leading cause of death for

    Girls is Men. Let’s say

    You wanted to kill a person

    But create a perfect alibi.

    It would help to have the person

    Seem to disappear all on their own.

    Could the Mirabel I’d met

    Be an impostor who’d somehow

    Managed to greet me with Mirabel’s

    Special look? I discarded that

    Impossible theory. But it was attractive;

    Suggesting why her new self

    Was tried out on me and not

    The folks. Thinking of my parents caused

    My phone to buzz.

    Damn, they’re psychic too. Pressed

    “Ignore” but knew that wouldn’t

    Work for long.

    Verne, suddenly hardboiled American –

    Snapped his laptop shut.

    “Does she have “find my phone?”

     “You see location on a map.”

    This man was a death-ray.

    “We don’t want it. It’s just a piece

    Of junk.”  I’d like to believe

    Verne grew values, honoring

    The spirit rather than the object

    But I know he saw himself

    As the sole animating force.

    I contemplated ways

    To escape this echo chamber.

    “At least we’ve got Bioceutically Renewed to try.

    But first I need to report to Mom and Dad.”

    The blood washed out of him

    Never was a swain so 

    Fearful to confront the folks.

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter Ten – Is Lord Verne In the Epstein Files? 

    Cycling through museums of dream –

    Christine, threatened forever by

    Her hideous Phantom, Daphne

    Sprouting as a laurel tree;

    Philomela without her tongue.

    Was that what Verne meant by

    Classics? In the night’s dark heart 

    I woke and thought I saw him standing there or

    Was it Mirabel – reaching out through a gold-framed

    Mirror to beckon me closer

    Or warn me away?

    Somehow I became convinced

    Mirabel was dead – murdered by

    Lord Verne – he must have done it because

    I was his perfect alibi, covering up

    His appearance in the Epstein files

    Of life, where old roués

    Tarnish up the young.

    If I stayed here

    I’d be Mirabel forever – so I

    Fled through shattered French windows where

    Sheer white curtains blew across my face

    Impeding me; supplicating

    Me to dance, daring my embrace.

    Where was I? Was this the ruined castle

    Where the wraiths were tourists

    Gazing at destruction paid for

    With the lifeblood of the country?

    The stone terrace beneath my feet

    Was littered with the broken glass

    Of Piper Heidseck bottles – picked my way

    Between the broken statues – horny Pan 

    Whose face had split, cupids gaping with

    Their fractured mouths, Vulcan lobbing

    Stone pineapples down the mossy garden steps.

    Pursued by something

    Too disgusting to confront

    I saw his shadow –

    A leering man with antlers.

    At least the distant view

    Was comforting – pond encircling island

    Ornamented by gazebo – forests crowned 

    By snowy mountains. 

    Surely he could not pursue me there.

    Something amiss about this lighting –

    Bleached too white – bad weather or

    Apocalypse; eclipse of the sun or

    The end of the world?  I revert to

    The “helpless bystander” dilemma of childhood –

    This was too horrible: I forced myself awake. 

    Dreams multiplied enigmas –

    I could not abandon Mirabel

    Prance on home

    And declare she’d

    “Done it yet again.”

    Either she was in danger or

    I was. And all my life

    I’d been preparing for this moment.

    In the mirror I saw

    Richenda Marshott complete with morning mouth –

    Sunlight exacerbating a hangover

    Not from overdrinking but

    From over-dreaming.

    Verne’s door was closed –

    It would be awkward if I’d killed him

    But I refused to check. Men

    Should not be so dangerous.

    I took control of the empty kitchen.

    Some bad person – probably me –

    Left out the cake – stiff and

    Ruined now – only cardboard sugar

    Which I guess it’s always been.

     Tossed it,

    Put the last espresso in the

    Microwave and

    Opened cabinets sadly.

    Here’s finally a place where guests could

    Unpack their clothes –

    Empty, empty, empty.

    The front door unclicked –

    I jumped so hard

    I banged my head.

    “Ow!”

    And Verne cried

    “Breakfast!”

    I hadn’t killed him after all. Seems 

    I’m the one who overslept.

    “I haven’t slept so well in ages. What was

    That stuff?” he 

    Eyed my mug with disapproval.

    “You can’t drink yesterday’s.”

    I’ve heard it said their lordships

    Can’t comprehend the hoi polloi.

    “I brought everything.” He went on,

    Impossibly cheerful

    Considering yesterday.

    Waffles, eggs, fruit.

    Coffee. No milk?

    “It’s OK,” I said to his 

    Self-recriminating face

    “I noticed you have ice cream.”

    Vanilla works as well or

    Even better.

    “Mirabel never drank milk,” said Verne.

    “She says it makes cowbones

    And soy makes man-boobs.”

    She would say that.

    Charming Mirabel.

    I could one-up and list the

    Plant-based milks I willingly absorb but –

     “Ice cream is better.”

    Hard to one-up when one is

    Drooling. Visibly. 

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 9 – Shock the Virgin

    He opened the door on baited

    Breath as if Mirabel waited but

    Of course she did not.

    Did he long for her or

    Fear her? I could not figure them out.

    In their world, the blow is

    Desired; not in mine. I am determined 

    Not just to resist

    But to understand.

    The rooms embraced us into its

     Darkness, blandness.  Silence. I should be

    Exhausted, yet I new

    If I closed my eyes she would appear

    No stranger but 

    A part of me, both future

    Avatar and past life

    Alter. Her perfume

    Teased us with its sexy cloud

    As if from somewhere she was

    Watching. Teasing. Listening. Laughing.

    “I’m terminal,” yawned Verne.

    Now there’s an odd expression.

    “I could sleep.” I scanned the two

    Bedrooms, yoked by unlockable

    Double doors. 

    At least my bathroom

    Had a lock.

    Was it rude to remind him

    He was supposed to have rented

    A hotel room?

    But if I sought politeness

    He did not.

     “Sorry there’s no telly,”

    He casually insulted me.

    Ignoring the fact I have a phone.

    He lifted a hand – where would

    It drop? I watched with

    Frozen fascination as he dumped it heavily

    On my shoulder.

    Stumbled words – 

    “This has been a horrid homecoming

    Holiday for you.”

    Homecoming? No more a

    Homecoming than a holiday.

    Luckily, I’d never considered this mission 

    A vacation. “No worries,”

    I tossed off lightly,

    “I’ve got plenty for my end-of break-essay.”

    His hand tightened painfully.

    I tried to shake him off but he clenched harder.

    “You can’t write this!”

    I am NEVER ready for this reaction

    Though God knows I should be –

    Parents and school seem equally aghast

    By my take on things

    Refusing to grant me 

    The power to call them out –

    That I was born with. It’s my

    Superpower – NEVER

    Reject a superpower.

    Took both hands to de-clench

    His grip. This would

    Leave a mark.

    I’d no wish to rile him but

    How could he silence me?

    “It’s all grist,” I quoted, lightly,

    “You know, sweet mystery of life.”

    Literally he spat with rage. 

     “That’s so American!”

    (His deadliest insult.)

    “Maundering on about all the details

    Of your tiny lives, as if

    Gossip is the better part of

    Being!” 

    I backed away, trying to control my face.

    They hate it if they think you’re laughing.

    “It’s a mystery to be solved,”

    I reassured, “Use all

    The tools we’ve got:

    Hypothesis, antithesis and

    Synthesis. Occam’s 

    Razor. Refine

    Possibility into

    Probability.”

    He snorted. “This is what comes

    “Of not teaching Classics!

    Confession substitutes for mastery!”

    In my short experience

    Those who try to “master” Truth

    Will never understand it;

    Won’t get that ultimate reward –

    Uncovering the deepest questions –

    Invisible to us now.

    Playing politician by

    Managing me, or

    Controlling truth won’t locate Mirabel.

    I threw him a bone. It worked –

    It usually had before.

    “Poetry’s my specialty,”

    I taxed him.

    People back away.

    He seemed relieved.

    “You mean like – metaphors?

    An allegory?”

    This man wouldn’t know a poem

    If it gobsmacked him.

    Poor Mirabel!

    Of course she had to leave!

    He cleared it up in

    Just that second; guaranteeing me

    Needed rest.

    “Good night,” He told me as he closed the door.

    Manners abound with

    Strange expressions: this night

    Was anything but good.

    I chewed my lip.

    It’s a bad habit of mine. Let’s hope

    He doesn’t sleepwalk.

    Mother wants me to unpack first –

    No hope of that – these

    Drawers and closets were jammed

    With gaudy accoutrement

    Complete with price tags.

    Because what’s the good of

    Acquisition sans

    Provenance? 

    My clothes would have to stay

    Jumbled together in their

    Carpetbag.

    I should really film all this –

    Make a video –

    But where to share it?

    And that’s the trouble with

    My school – they’re never interested in

    What excites me. And what

    Excites me? Just the things

    I cannot know. I’ll always be

    In the process of

    Finding out.

    Behind the locked bathroom door

    I soaked myself in

    Dead sea salt. Washed

    My hair in watermelon mint &

    Rubbed myself with Mirabel’s

    Mango chutney cream – never approximating 

    Her clingy floral scent.

    Pulling on my jammies I

    Welcomed this new self of mine –

    Solving grownup disasters by

     Avoiding the reasoning

    That caused them in the first place.

    There was a knock at my bedroom door –

    I said nothing but it opened slightly

    Verne’s face poked in.

    “Ok if I sleep in here?  I just

    Can’t be alone tonight.”

    “No,” I told him firmly. “I wouldn’t sleep 

    A wink.” The nerve of him!

    “Afraid of rape? You wouldn’t be

    The first fourteen year old I’ve had.”

    I concealed my shock.

    “You’re not having this one. Leave.”

    “You’re ignorant of sex. It’s

    Life’s mightiest comfort.”

    “No thanks. Are you leaving or am I?”

    “Oh, all right.”

    He sighed.

    “Can I leave this door open?

    Just until I fall asleep?”

    Was he a rapist or a baby?

    Why did I feel this was some 

    Miserable recap of his many nights

    With Mirabel?

    “I have some pills to knock you out.” I

    Double-dosed him with Benedryl.

    Closed the door and

    Disappointed myself by falling 

    Asleep before I could sort my

    Jumbled thoughts.