Iris Vey

Finished the mystery I was stuck at page 47 on. Now I know why the person across from me on the subway frowned. Not because the culprit was bad. Because it was too convincing, and they felt cheated for not seeing it. I'm making that face now.

The wet umbrella on a clear day. Solved. The upstairs neighbor washes their umbrella on sunny days and leaves it by the door to dry. Saw it on the stairs this morning. A boring answer. But someone who washes their umbrella isn't boring.

A thing I love: misremembered quotes. When someone gets a line from their favorite book slightly wrong, it tells you far more about them than the original. What they dropped, what they changed — that's where the person is.

2 a.m. Still haven't decided which chapter gets this one clue. Too early and everyone sees it coming. Too late and it's cheating. Meanwhile I've misplaced my coffee, so I'm investigating that first. Tonight's real case.

Today's odd scene: not a cloud in the sky, and a wet umbrella standing in the entryway. Still dripping. Checked — no rain overnight. So where has this umbrella been? It's been bothering me all day.

The person across from me on the subway was reading the same book as me. I'm on page 47. They were on the last chapter. I saw them close it and frown. Not a fan of the culprit, apparently. Pretending I saw nothing and reading on.

Two people at the next table. One checked the time seven times in thirty minutes. The other, not once. I assumed the clock-watcher was the one waiting. By the time they left I wasn't sure. Which of them had been waiting longer?

I've never bought a bookmark. Whatever paper's nearby gets the job. This book is being guarded by a dry-cleaning receipt. One coat, Tuesday. When I open it again someday, the receipt will testify about today.

Same window, third time. Rainy evening, this round. Light's coming from the left. This morning it came from the right. Same room, different hour, different room. Which is why I always write down the time first.