Page 51 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

“Sometimes I take Charlie out when the dog walker isn’t available, and that dog yanks so hard, my shoulder hurts for days.” She cocks her head. “You okay?”

I cringe. “Sorry, it’s been a weird week.” Everything she said was, in fact, totally normal, becauseshe’sa totally normal person who does not get herself embroiled in murderous conspiracies. “I am, indeed, doing some dogsitting, and it’s a good theory. But the pain is,” I throw some air quotes, “?‘radiating down my arm’ and WebMD says—”

“Dr. Google is a slippery slope, Mo,” says Tasha. “Trust me, I’ve been there. Better just to resist the urge.”

“Well...”

She peers at me through those dark-rimmed glasses, sees that I’m unconvinced, and smiles. “Youhavehad a stressful week. How about this: I’ve got to get back to the office—elections are around the corner, projects are really stacking up, and I want to get ahead of the week. But after I’m done, let’s grab a drink? Unwind a little?”

“Oh,” I say, and my entire vocabulary abandons me. “Oh.”

“Is that a yes?”

“That sounds—” My voice cracks. Oh god, I am an eleven-year-old boy. In so many ways. “That sounds definitely. Very great.”

Good lord.

“Cool,” she says. “How about Dickie’s?”

Dickie’s Tavern. The matchbook!

“My fave,” I say, rubbing my stomach like a cartoon. Seriously, I need flirting lessons or something. Do they have those at the park district?

Tasha takes off, and I watch her walk away until I realize it’ll be weird if she turns around and catches me ogling, so I go back inside, waving my phone triumphantly at Jessie. “Checking in for my appointment, right on time.”

She sighs. “Have a seat.”

One $25 co-pay later, and I am officially heart-attack-free. Tasha was right: strained muscle with a side order of spasms. I tell the doc that Advil’s not going to cut it this time, but when he suggests the alternative would be several very expensive rounds of some kind of off-brand Botox injections at a real hospital, I decide that Advil will be fine.

On the walk home, I obsess over tonight. Is this going to be a date, or are we just new friends unwinding over a beer? A couple of days ago, I would have been fully committed to the friend camp, but now that Chris is seeing somebody else, why can’t I?

Maybe this whole life explosion won’t turn out so terribly after all?

I’m rolling this revelation around in my head as I get home, check the mail, and then head into the stairwell. Roy’s door opens and for a second, I’m surprised that he’s already home—until I see that it’s not him.

It’s sort of like an alternate universe version of him.

Essentially Roy, but with faded orangish hair from a bad dye job.

“Sheila, I presume?” I ask the wizened old lady standing in front of me.

“Hello, dear,” she coos. “You must be No.”

“Mo,” I correct her.

She frowns and pats the pockets of her flowered apron in distress, like she’s trying to remember where she put something. “I was so sure Roy’s note said that your name was No.”

“It’s okay,” I say reassuringly. She’s so cute and grandmotherly, I already want to hug her and make her proud of me. “You call me whatever you want.”

She beams up at me, her eyes twinkling. “You’re such a dear. Just a moment, I have some fresh cookies.”

With that, she disappears into the apartment, presumably to get me some fresh cookies. Why can’t this lady be my landlord?

She returns a minute later with a bunch of cookies on a massive cooling rack. “Take as many as you like,” she says cheerily.

“Oh, Sheila, you shouldn’t have,” I say, as I grab two cookies and take a big bite of one. It’s amazing—oatmeal and warm chocolate, and the slight hint of spices I can’t place. “Wowzers.”

She winks at me. “That’s my mother’s recipe.”