Six
My dad isn’t home when I return that evening, but I’m not surprised to have the apartment to myself.
He likes to visit the city library a few evenings a week.
It’s a homey, red brick building with floor-to-ceiling windows and a robust automobile history collection.
On the third floor, there’s enough of a view that a corner of our old house is visible, if you know to look for it.
He claims he can focus better there when he’s working overtime and filling out timesheets.
It’s nice to see that he’s not taking Arielle’s “don’t go out after dark” threat too seriously.
It also means I can have whatever I want for dinner.
I hunker down at the kitchen table with a plate full of tuna sandwiches, carrot sticks, and peanut butter, my favorite foods.
Arielle had worked us incredibly hard today, like we were training for a war against killer whales.
(As Kristen has said, “whoever named them killer whales is a moron. They clearly should have been named panda whales.” She’s all about fashion.)
Fans run the site, which hosts blog posts, Golden Ace sightings, news articles of his heroic needs, and a Wiki with everything we know about him, like his powers and every move he’s made during his coolest battles.
The forum even has a leaderboard to track Golden Ace’s stats against other Supers, like their number of punches thrown versus taken and their number of bad guys defeated, which all confirms his spot as the Number One Super in Capital City.
If there’s anything nerds love more than statistics or Superheroes, it’s statistics for Superheroes.
People have searched for his hideout over the years, and everyone has either come up empty or has kept his secret.
When I was twelve, I fantasized that his hideout would be in a treehouse, up so high that the canopy would disguise a clandestine entrance and a hidden elevator would bring him down to a room full of gadgets.
Now, I realize all the trees in Capital City shed their leaves during autumn, and none of them are thick enough to hide anything.
I don’t check the site every day anymore.
There aren’t as many updates as there used to be (no one has posted about where Golden Ace could have been the night I so memorably met Raincoat Guy and D.S.), but the Goldies have grown to a group of over 58,000.
I click through the latest posts. Are people talking about Dark Static?
There.
A new discussion topic began at 5:00 A.M. this morning:
Golddigger99: WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT THIS. I thought D.S. was gonna be a joke but not LOLing anymore. He can start fires from the sky?
MrsAce: GA where were you????????????
G0ldfishy: Prob asleep. He’s not immortal.
KingMid@s: Chill. GA beat worse than D.S. Remember Nightsight? She was invisible!
Golddigger99: Nightsight didn’t fly.
KingMid@s: Invisible evil flying evil.
Golddigger99: STILL EVIL.
(KingMid@s has left the discussion)
G0ldfishy: Y’all get the crime watch alert? $10k reward for anyone w/ info on D.S. Courtesy of Dottie Milligan.
MrsAce: is Zane GA???????????
(MrsAce has been blocked from the discussion by the moderators)
YellowGlitter : D.S. SUCKS.
YellowGlitter: Why attack Milligan? Why not Bridges?
Golddigger99: Wondering same thing.
I continue scrolling, but the next fifty posts are from Goldies either wishing Golden Ace good luck or declaring that they’re not worried about Dark Static.
I’m not so sure. Dark Static knew things about Capital City, especially its crime scenes, that I didn’t expect.
Does he also know something about Dr. Milligan that no one else does?
What happened to your mom was no accident.
I drag my laptop closer. Its blue light strains my eyes, and the keys clack sharply as I type into my browser’s search bar: “Meredith Roberts car accident Capital City.”
Only one article answers my search, the same article I used to read four times a day. I skim through it, not sure what I’m looking for.
Three Capital City Journalists Die in Crash
By Chronicle Staff
A man and two women are dead following a weather-related crash and subsequent fire at Capital Cliffs on Tuesday evening.
The Capital City Police Department says the vehicle was heading north when the car lost control on the wet roads just before 7:00 P.M. The minivan hit the cliff’s guardrail, exposing the engine, and immediately went up in flames.
Passengers have been identified as Elaine and Jonathan Levine and Meredith Roberts, all editors-in-chief at the Capital Chronicle.
CCPD confirmed crash investigators are looking into whether faulty equipment might have contributed to the crash, but photos show little of the car has remained intact.
Tuesday’s accident is the fourth crash in recent years on Capital Cliffs.
Capital City Police officers encourage drivers to check their tires and reduce their speed in rainy weather.
Two photographs accompany the article. The first shows the broken guardrail between the wet road and steep cliffs.
It was taken during the day, when police tape blocked off the scene.
A chunk of the iron rail lies on the grass with a horse-sized dent in it.
The second photo is of the Levines’ minivan, which is charred and scattered in pieces on the grassy side of the cliffs.
It’s the same image I’ve seen a trillion and one times.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I dig my phone out of my sweatshirt pocket and dial.
“CCPD,” says the woman on the other end.
“Hi, my name is Madeline Roberts. My mom died in a car accident a few years ago, and I was hoping to see the police report.”
“Hang on,” says the officer. The line goes silent and I check that we’re still connected.
I finish the last few bites of my dinner and bring my plate to the dishwasher.
She returns a minute later. “I can share the report, but you gotta come down to the station. Records department closes in an hour. Can I schedule you an appointment for tomorrow?”
“Nope. I’ll be there.” I hang up and text Kristen.
~
“So, we’re here because a Super who’s terrorizing everyone stalked you and made you second guess your traumatic loss?
” Kristen whispers as we follow Officer Kyle, a balding, middle-aged cop who smells like strong coffee and canned meatballs, into an interrogation room.
I don’t know if Kyle is his first name, last name, or both. Kyle Kyle. Better than being named Fox.
Officer Kyle places the accident file on the wobbly wooden table.
The interrogation room has cinder block walls, a long two-way mirror, and flickering lights.
There’s also a computer from at least thirteen years ago on a desk in the corner, and metal chairs surround our table. Officer Kyle takes one. I take another.
“I’ll stand,” says Kristen.
“Suit yourself.” Officer Kyle checks his watch. “Don’t mean to rush you, but we close in fifteen.”
“No problem,” I say. The folder isn’t thick.
The Capital City Police Department feels dated and cramped. After Golden Ace came, their budget went to other departments in the city and the PD downsized, but this place is a good setup for catching criminals. If I were guilty, I’d confess just to get out of here.
“Looking for something in particular?” asks Officer Kyle. “I remember that accident. That’d been some storm. Deeply sorry for your loss.”
I shake my head and open the file, bracing myself for the ringing in my ears that starts when I touch this part of my life. Six months of therapy, and my only breakthrough was to give myself some compassion when I hear the ringing. Nothing yet. Onward.
The contents blur under the dim lights. On top is a picture of my mom standing between Mr. and Mrs. Levine that’s been pulled from the Capital Chronicle’s website. They pose, smiling as if it all will last.
My mom steals the photo. She wears a black blazer with pulled-up sleeves and a crisp white shirt.
Her peach lipstick is perfect. Her eyes are bright, and heavy auburn hair curls around her face, making her shine.
She was competitive and relentless, always searching for the truth. The photograph captures her perfectly.
Underneath it lie pixelated photos of the accident scene and a thin stack of official documents. I realize I should have brought a notebook. Anything.
“Can we copy these?” I ask.
“Copier’s broken.” Officer Kyle’s peppery drawl makes him sound older than he looks. He must notice my face fall, because he quickly adds, “But you’re welcome to take photos. Since this isn’t a criminal case, everything’s public record.”
“Why isn’t this stuff computerized?” asks Kristen.
“No staff.” He shrugs.
If you stopped exploiting Golden Ace, I think, maybe you would get some.
I use my phone camera and work as quickly as I can.
First up is the official police statement, which says that the car was a four-year-old minivan that weighed 4,430 pounds.
Its rear door flew off when it hit the guardrail, an impact that also made a baseball-sized hole in the engine.
The minivan tumbled down the side of the cliff after it caught on fire, then exploded and broke into three large pieces.
Mr. Levine had been driving, Mrs. Levine was in the passenger seat, and my mom was in the back.
Despite the explosion, the bodies were intact.
I set the report aside and stop cold at the next paper.
Thick red typing marks the next paper, NOTICE OF NEW EVIDENCE—someone had uncovered a red cigarette lighter 200 meters from the car’s main body.
Fingerprints had been wiped off, just like Dark Static had said.
The forensics officer scrawled a note on it: Found by Golden Ace. How had Dark Static discovered this?
“There’s evidence from Golden Ace?” I ask Officer Kyle.