5. Sabrina
Sabrina
Iwoke early, exhausted and with a familiar sense of existential dread. My late-night research had led me down wild paths, but one fact remained, this town was fucked.
What the hell had I agreed to? Whatever it was, I was even more motivated to show Mayor Gabe and the town of Maplewood what I was capable of.
Attending the charming small-town bonfire last night had been pleasant, really.
I’d been in DC for a long time. Long enough that I’d forgotten that small towns were filled with real people.
Like Carrie Schwartz, my middle school English teacher, or Curtis, the mailman.
I’d connected with at least a dozen people, each one eager to support me in winning back the festival.
Which I was fairly certain was impossible.
But achieving impossible outcomes was kind of my thing.
Ear buds in, I headed out on my morning power walk. I had a lot to do and needed support immediately.
“Yes?” Meg answered over what sounded like shouting. Before I could respond, there was static on the line. Then, “Jackson, get your damn shoes.” With a growl, she muttered, “You called during school drop off,” which I assumed was directed toward me.
“Sorry.” I winced. “But it’s urgent. I’ll DoorDash you the artisan donuts you like if you do something for me this morning.”
“Stop poking your brother in the eye.”
I frowned. “Sorry, what?”
Meghan Fuller had once been one of the NSA’s best hackers. Now, as a mother of a litter of feral small children in her mid-forties, she was semi-retired, but she was always up for a challenge, and she’d gotten me out of some serious jams over the years.
“Get in the van,” she instructed. After a moment full of scuffling feet and then the beeping sound of the door, she said, “Thank you for your generous order of Girl Scout cookies.”
“Thanks, Auntie Sabrina,” her daughter shouted in the background.
“Always happy to support the next generation of leaders,” I quipped.
I’d bought a thousand boxes and donated them to a couple of DC food pantries. This was the currency of our friendship. I bought cookies and used my connections to get Bluey episodes before they aired in the States, and Meg hacked into government servers when I asked.
While she drove to the school and the two of us made small talk, I walked along the cobblestone walkways downtown, passing charming storefronts and friendly townsfolk, taking in every detail—the signs, the planters, and every crack in the sidewalk.
“Okay.” She exhaled once the kids had exited the van. “Hit me, I’ve got three hours before I have to come back to pick up Blair at preschool, and Jackson’s got an orthodontist appointment later.”
“Do your kids know that their chauffeur is one of the most lethal and formidable hackers on the planet?” I asked.
“Fuck no.” She barked out a laugh. “You okay? Weathering the scandal? I promise I hid things well.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that Bitsy fucking Bramble had found some of it. “Yes,” I replied. “But I need help with something else. My hometown.”
“Mapleville?”
“Maplewood,” I corrected. “We’ve run into some trouble with tourism. Dealing with bullshit from the statehouse. I need a few records run.”
I rattled off the names of the people I wanted dirt on, the years of tax records I’d require, and a few legal records searches.
“Done,” she said, as if every detail of every request had been mentally noted. It probably had. She was sharp. “But are you okay?”
I eyed the nail salon ahead, formulating a plan. “No,” I said honestly. “But I will be.”
As I walked through the door, my suspicions were confirmed. The interior was hot pink with black and white photography on the walls and an LED sign that read bad bitches get beautiful.
Megan Thee Stallion blared from the speakers, and at the far side of the space was a glittery coffee bar anchored by an Italian espresso machine.
Between the massage chairs and tables and the loud chatter that defined feminine spaces, I loved the place already.
I waved hello as I stepped inside, notes of vanilla lotion, acetone, and espresso hitting my olfactory receptors.
The nail salon was the definition of efficient chaos. My natural setting. Not a thing was out of place, yet the establishment was warm and welcoming.
A young woman with pink-tipped hair looked up from the nails of the client across from her and gave me a wary glace.
“Monroe,” she said. “Welcome.” Despite the greeting, her tone was flat.
Okay, then. No bother. I’d been confronted by far worse than a confident twentysomething wearing a man’s shirt tied like a crop top and covered in tattoos.
She pointed to a chair. “You here for nails or information?”
“Both,” I said, surveying the assembled cross section of the town.
An older woman with massively teased hair was getting a pedicure, musing quietly. “If the mayor loses this recall election, it will be anarchy.”
“Or maybe it’ll be the thing we need,” a middle-aged woman nearby said. She wore Carhartts and was getting rhinestones applied to her long pink nails.
“And that woman from the meeting last night. The consultant.” The older woman spat the word, as if it tasted bad. God, if she only knew. “With the thousand-dollar shoes.”
Based on her vibe, I’d bet my life she was a small-town realtor.
Honestly, I was eager to hear what she had to say about me. But if I continued listening in on a conversation not meant for me, that wouldn’t help me make nice with the community.
So I said, “Two thousand, actually,” making my presence known.
She turned and looked at me, her face turning scarlet.
The woman working on her nails, who my source had told me was Nina Dunne, arched a brow. “Finish your thought, Lisa,” she drawled. “You know I hate a cliffhanger.”
Lisa still looked mortified. “They were beautiful boots,” she mumbled.
“Thanks,” I replied. “And I swear I’m just here to help.” I held up my hands. “Oh, and deal with my raggedy cuticles. I heard this was the best place to get a manicure in the county.”
“State,” the nail tech muttered, wearing a fake smile.
Even after I’d announced myself, the recall was the talk of the place. So I sat quietly, scrolling on my phone while listening, filing away snippets of information.
“Bitsy had three clipboards.”
“She’s out of control.”
“But things are so bad. I heard the florist may have to close now that so many weddings have been canceled.”
“We can kiss any plans of restoring the cannon goodbye. There’s no way we’ll have the funds.”
Nina, the young woman who I’d ascertained as the owner of the salon, was at the center of it, in all her pink-haired, pierced-nose glory. Controlling the conversation and filtering when necessary, her attention flicking to me occasionally. She was in total command.
By the time I sat at her table and held my hands out, I had to ask. “Do you always run meetings while doing manicures?”
She shrugged, inspecting my nail beds, her hair falling on either side of her face. “Women talk more when their hands are busy.” She tilted her head, still studying my fingers. “And men talk most when they think no one is listening.”
Damn. Now I was interested.
“Gel?” she asked, gathering supplies.
I nodded. “Bleeding Heart Red please.” It was my signature color.
The room gradually emptied as we chatted, Nina happily answering questions I asked about her business, which included nails, brows, and lashes. It was obvious she was ambitious and had built this place from the ground up.
“You know everything that happens in this town,” I remarked when I was certain the timing was right.
Focus fixed on my cuticles, she nodded. “Yeah.”
I angled a few inches closer. “I’m putting together a committee, a team of sorts, to work on getting the Maple Festival back.”
She looked straight at me. Interested. Good. “I’m not sure it’s possible, but if anyone’s gonna save this town, it will be a woman.”
“I could use your help,” I said. I’d learned over the years that flattery combined with a clear, simple ask usually got me what I wanted.
“With what? Overthrowing the mayor because he scored higher than you did on a single test in high school?”
Her tone was cool, each word like a slap.
Inhaling, I willed the hurt away. “My personal vendettas have nothing to do with this,” I replied.
“You have the best intelligence network in Maplewood.” I held out my free hand, gesturing to her salon.
“You’re smart, ambitious, and discreet. I could go on about how great you are if you’d like, or you could just agree to help me.
I’ve spent the last hour listening to conversations about how small businesses are hurting. I want to help.”
Without a word, she went back to working on my nails. Coat after coat, I waited. It would do me no good to overplay my hand.
Customers came and went. One of the other nail techs swept the floor. Nina remained silent, though her mind was working. She was considering my offer.
After the last round under the light, she wiped each nail clean and started packing up her supplies.
“We should probably talk terms,” she said coolly.
A raised brow was my only external response. Inwardly, I was cheering. Whew. It looked like I hadn’t lost my touch. “I like a woman who gets right to the point.”
She glanced out the window, frowning. “My brother.” Her voice was casual, but the air in the room shifted. “He’s in jail. For a murder he didn’t commit.”
Ah. I’d heard about the arrest, though I hadn’t made the connection between the two of them. And the pain in her expression was like a physical blow. The weight of it in her posture was palpable.
“Caleb Dunne,” she said. “He confessed, but he didn’t do it. There is something big and dark going on.” She shifted, pushing her hair behind her ears. “Frankie, my sister, is fighting for him. But she fights with fists. I prefer strategy.”
I waited, giving her the space to get to where I knew she’d end up.
“I love this town, and I’ll do whatever I can to help.” She pressed her teeth into her bottom lip. “But.”
With a silent nod, I encouraged her to go on.