Tuesday Mooney Wore Black. Kate Racculia

a man, in any context – Pete, her mail carrier; Alvin, her bus driver; Fancy Hobbit, the short, curly-haired, bowtie-wearing stranger she saw most days on her commute – both of her parents turned into giggly preteens. For as resolutely nontraditional as they both claimed to be, for all the talk of dream-divining and heart-following, and the gently radical dogma that had permeated her childhood (the fourth little pig lived off the grid, which is why the wolf never bothered him in the first place), when it came to the question of relationships, a conservative streak ran deep. They only wanted her to “fall in love,” to “be happy” – as if the only way she could possibly be happy was by securing an explicitly sexual romantic partnership – but she wasn’t looking for excuses to get their hopes up, particularly when their hopes were theirs and not her own. So she said:

      “Dorry and I figured out the clue. How could I not go for it?”

      Elision was the best kind of lying. You didn’t even have to lie, just selectively tell. She selectively told them about the editorials, the hideous hearts, the raven in Park Street. She told them about the clown mannequin.

      She did not tell them that it had, for a moment, worn the decaying face of Abby Hobbes.

      “Oh Moonie,” said her dad, who had never forgiven himself for hiring a clown for her third birthday. “I am so sorry.”

      Her phone buzzed against her ear.

      It was Dex: guess who’s on the front page of the metro.

      She felt her entire body try to sink into her mattress, desperate to become one with her bed.

      Gunnar galloped the length of the apartment and sprang onto her feet. Then he sat, deliberately thumping his tail, flattening the duvet, and stared at her.

      “The world is telling me I have to get up and get this over with,” she said. “I promise not to make too much more trouble.”

      “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” said her mother. “But be careful. You know you’re our favorite daughter.”

      “I’m your only daughter,” she said. They’d been reciting the same joke, like a benediction, ever since Tuesday was old enough to understand why it was supposed to be funny.

      “Moonie,” said her father, the brightness of his voice dimming. Tuesday pulled the duvet back over her head. There was never any question of telling them that she’d seen and heard Abby – never, ever would she do that – but she didn’t have to. Abby was always just below the surface.

      “Be careful,” he said, “only daughter.”

      An hour and change later, though only nominally more awake, Tuesday swung into her cubicle. She set the first of what would necessarily be many, many cups of coffee on her desk, and noticed someone had taped the front page of that morning’s Metro to her computer monitor. Under the headline TREASURE HUNTER IN THE HUB was a full-color photo of her