The Flying Woman
The Flying Woman
An original superhero novel
I’ve written two superhero novels, and there will be a third, so I thought I’d share the beginning of the first one here.
While superheroes dominate the film, television, and comic book landscapes, the genre has made less of a dent in prose fiction. I took that as a challenge: How to adapt a genre created for visual mediums into a novel? I found the answer in one of the oldest staples of the genre—the secret identity.
A secret identity raises interesting questions about what’s beneath the polished, heroic exterior. In The Flying Woman, our protagonist, Miranda Thomas, needs to figure out how to grow into the role of a seemingly perfect superhero despite feeling nowhere near qualified. Having super-powers is wonderful, but the responsibility is terrifying.
Below are the first two and a half chapters (slightly less than what the Kindle preview shows on Amazon). But first, admire this cover (art and design by Justin Burks).
1.
Miranda Thomas liked pretending to be someone else. Her true self receded behind a persona she had spent innumerable hours crafting, rehearsing, and perfecting to the greatest possible extent. And her hard work paid off as she made her regional theatre debut in The Reluctant Guest.
They enjoyed her. Several dozen strangers laughed at all the right moments. Everyone returned to their seats after intermission. They cheered when the lights went down at the play’s conclusion. And audiences never lied. Miranda loved that about them.
She had graduated from Olympus University a mere three months earlier, and she was already doing her favorite thing in the world—as a professional. Her castmates were fun, the reviews were strong, and the nonprofit company owned a charming venue. This was not a poor start by any means.
Today’s matinee wasn’t quite finished. Miranda had one last moment on the stage, the only one as herself.
Warm light enveloping her, she crossed the polished floorboards of the Aeschylus Theater for her curtain call. The stage was smaller than most, and its house seated a mere eighty-eight on three sides. An intimate performance space, perfect for a four-person contemporary comedy. It minimized the barrier between actors and audience, filtering none of their reaction. Right now, it was Miranda’s stage.
Difficult to see the audience’s faces through the glare of the lights, but everyone saw her—a petite young woman with tremendous presence. Her eyes, large and vibrant, attracted all others. The applause sounded genuine, not merely polite. She knew the difference. Enthusiasm fortified each clap, and it all coalesced into an intoxicating fanfare. Some of those silhouettes rose from their seats. They didn’t have to. Miranda earned that.
One tiny concern lay at the back of her mind, however. She wasn’t positive they were truly seeing Miranda Thomas, the actress, rather than the humorously absent-minded host she had played for the previous two hours. They needed to recognize her and recognize that they wanted to keep seeing her in various roles in so many other plays, television shows, and movies. This production couldn’t be her pinnacle. If this was the pinnacle, then she failed, and odds were, she was going to fail at the only thing she ever wanted to do. But she couldn’t think about that now, certainly not while people were applauding her. Besides, she’d no doubt receive plenty of reminders about her long odds during dinner immediately afterward.
Miranda bowed, and a burst of cheers cleaved through the overall applause, cheers all coming from the same narrow source. She didn’t earn those. Her family gave them freely. Rest assured, they saw only Miranda—now and throughout the entire production. All that work, effort, and craftsmanship, and they perceived none of it. Until the curtain call, to avoid any distraction, she pretended they weren’t even there.
Not that she didn’t appreciate their attendance, of course. A cross-country trip from the East Coast to Olympus City wasn’t a simple jaunt, and the timing just about worked out. Parents Naomi and Vern had just wrapped up a major project for the small architectural firm they founded, owned, and operated. Older sister Bianca was starting her next semester of medical school in a few days, and little sister Peyton had a week before she embarked on her first day of high school. They all found the time to support Miranda’s first post-college production—and evaluate the overall status of her life.
They hadn’t done the latter yet. As soon as she finished changing, Miranda met them in the lobby, received copious hugs and congratulatory sentiments, and led them across the busy street to Ambrosia, the touristy yet tasty restaurant they had made reservations at.
As they filed into a curved booth situated beneath a mural of Ancient Greek paintings, her family continued raving about the play, and Miranda considered it in her best interests to keep them focused on this topic.
“I was surprised at how talented the whole cast was,” Naomi said while scanning the menu, which was written in a fancy calligraphy surrounded by ample white space to emphasize the fanciness. “We of course knew you’d be wonderful, but everyone was so funny.”
It was a professional production. Why was that a surprise? But Miranda decided to ignore the backhanded compliment. Just let her keep talking. And Naomi did.
“I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard.”
Miranda almost chuckled. “That would be a great review quote. You should write that up, and we’ll plaster it across all the posters.” She swept an arm across an imaginary billboard.
Naomi squinted at an item on the menu, then looked over her glasses as her daughter’s words finally registered. In part, at least. “Is there some website where audiences can leave feedback? I’d do it if you think it would help.”
“No, Mom. I’m kidding. But thank you.”
Miranda smirked and expected Bianca to be smirking also at their mother’s naivety, and they would share a silent laugh across the table as they had done countless times in their youth. But Bianca’s phone distracted her. Probably a text from her boyfriend. Whatever was on her phone elicited a fond smile.
Flashing a grin, Bianca patted Naomi’s shoulder as she put her phone away. “Don’t worry, Mom. We always pick with love.” The eldest Thomas girl looked like a barely older Miranda stretched out to accommodate an extra six inches of height—a bigger Miranda, like a funhouse mirror version.
A young waiter arrived to take their orders. Miranda could’ve sworn she had met him somewhere. Another actor? She might have seen him at the auditions for The Reluctant Guest. Poor guy.
Miranda didn’t even want to contemplate what she might be doing that very moment if she hadn’t gotten cast. She could have been serving the next table over, channeling the full force of her talents into convincing customers she wanted to be there and delighted in tending to their every Ambrosia-related need. Five days a week, maybe more, she would be coming to this same place, walking past those same replicas of Ancient Greek artifacts and artwork, internally mocking the establishment for trying to be a weird restaurant/museum hybrid, at least when she wasn’t struggling to tune out the obligatory screaming child. A tantrum was already in progress across the room, easily making itself heard despite the considerable competition from the neighboring table of brash loud-talkers. The sole bright spot would be that the European cuisines smelled delicious, but they would no doubt transition from tantalizing to revolting after piling into her nose day after day. She’d give it two weeks before no longer being able to eat moussaka or coq au vin without shuddering in disgust.
Miranda wrapped her arms tight around herself in response to a perceived temperature drop. Vern asked if she was cold and offered his sports coat. Fitted for his protruding belly, it could easily blanket Miranda several times over. She declined. She already felt small enough after noticing little Peyton had surpassed her in height since their last visit.
All meals decided upon, her family resumed complimenting various aspects of the production, as if that would lend validity to their obviously biased praise of Miranda’s performance. But she was happy to discuss the show for as long as they wanted. It was a safe topic that, once exhausted, would give way to a barrage of highly invasive questions. Those questions currently waited within a time bomb, one tactfully concealed so Miranda couldn’t see its timer. She could, however, keep twisting the exposed dial back to delay the inevitable explosion.
“Oh, hey, fun fact—the guy who wrote this play also writes for that TV show you all love, the one about the doctors.”
That led to a nice tangent that filled the remainder of their wait for the food. But Bianca grew quiet. She observed Miranda, something bugging her. Peyton was even less chatty, had been all night, and kept twirling her long hair around her fingers.
The waiter eventually returned with everyone’s meals, which for Peyton necessitated an inspection to gauge the edibility of its contents. She poked the pasta with her fork to make sure no unwanted elements lurked underneath. She moved lethargically, her eyes squinted. This distracted Miranda from her detailed explanation of the costume design process. What was up with the Little One?
Bianca, between bites, exploited the brief lull. “Has Brad seen the show yet? What did he think?”
Boom.
Brad was Miranda’s boyfriend until a few weeks ago. She hadn’t gotten around to informing her family about the break-up. In hindsight, it probably would have been better to share the news during a phone conversation, which she could have ended with the slightest vague excuse. She considered telling a little white lie to avoid prolonged discourse on the topic, but they were so nice to come all this way. And besides, Bianca’s tone suggested she had an educated guess about her sister’s relationship status. Bianca and her own boyfriend had been dating since their freshman year of college and would be getting engaged any second now, and somehow that elevated her to an expert on Miranda’s relationships.
“I don’t know,” Miranda said.
“Has that boy not seen it?” Her father bristled at the very idea. “At a minimum, he should have been there opening night.”
Time to get it over with. “Don’t make a big deal about this, but we broke up. It’s fine, though!”
“Are you okay?” Naomi asked.
“It’s fine.” Miranda’s hands shot up into a defensive posture, which she didn’t realize until after the fact.
Vern wiped a speck of salad dressing off his goatee to ensure he asked his question with the requisite dignity and gravity. His eyes narrowed. “Are you okay?”
Because if Naomi’s emphasis on the word “okay” failed to uncover any problems, then surely the emphasis on “are” would succeed. Maybe next, Bianca could emphasize the “you,” just for kicks.
“I am still fine.” Miranda put on a ridiculously huge smile and pointed to it. “See?”
Naomi persisted. “I’d still like to know what happened. You two seemed to be getting along just fine at the graduation ceremony.”
“We were, and we’re still on friendly terms. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“I know what happened,” Bianca said, tapping the table and drawing attention back to herself. “You did what you always do. You latched onto a guy you figured would be fun for the short term, but who you knew wasn’t a keeper. The guy came with an expiration date, and you reached it.”
Miranda planned on taking a breath, focusing on her succulent lamb, and simply allowing everyone to keep talking until they purged the topic from their systems. Instead, she found herself speaking extra quickly.
“I do not do that. Sometimes things just don’t work out. You’re luckier than most.”
“It’s not luck.”
“Okay, so you’re better than most.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Do I look unhappy?” Miranda’s speech continued its acceleration, and her hands tried to assist, gesturing this way and that without a discernible game plan. “Do I look like I’m pining away for some great lost love? No, I’m fine. I’m focused on the show, and focused on making sure another show follows.”
She miscalculated. She opened the door for a new, potentially worse line of questioning—her most-likely-to-fail career.
His meal wasn’t half finished, but Vern set his utensils down and folded his hands as he leaned forward. “What are your plans if there’s not another show immediately after this?”
Naomi served the follow-up: “Is this show paying you enough to meet all your expenses? Rent is not cheap in this city. You could get the same square footage for three-quarters of the price back home. Maybe less. And oh, you could room with Alyssa. How fun would that be?”
Having not heard from her supposed best-friend-forever in nearly a month, Miranda wasn’t entirely sure. Yet another topic she preferred not to explore in this live group discussion.
Miranda wondered if she could stage a last-minute segue to steer everyone back toward discussing the show, but a ship this size could not easily turn.
Naomi went on about the city’s high tax rates. Vern offered multiple suggestions for part-time employment to “stop the bleeding,” as he put it. Naomi suggested that if Miranda married a well-to-do young man, he could support her and allow her to act without any urgency for a paycheck and “just for the fun of it,” and certainly Brad didn’t seem poised for a lucrative career, so perhaps there was a silver lining to Miranda’s heartbreak. Miranda reiterated that she was fine.
The conversation continued, but with Miranda firmly in the role of spectator. Bianca accused Naomi of suggesting her daughter become a “kept woman,” which Naomi refuted. Peyton studied a portrait of Athena—the kid was utterly transfixed, her expression blank.
Miranda zoned out briefly and missed the transition into worries about her physical safety in the big city—the big city she had already survived through four years of college.
“I should look up the crime statistics when we get back to the hotel,” Vern said. “Not every part of this city will be as safe as that campus was.”
This, at least, was an easy one.
Miranda stated the obvious. “Dad. This city has never been safer. Never.”
*****
The high sun surprised Miranda as they exited the restaurant. She could’ve sworn it was later, though she wasn’t sure whether to blame the matinee or the dinner conversation for that confusion. But she knew what she needed to do.
She linked an arm around Peyton’s, and they quickened their pace down the sidewalk.
“I’m showing her the huge bookstore right down the block,” Miranda shouted back. “You’ll see it.”
Lest the kids forget, their parents issued the usual reminders to have fun and be careful. Of course Peyton would have fun in a bookstore. She was always reading around the house, always in the middle of a few novels of assorted genres, always on the hunt for the next great one.
Peyton whispered, “Where are we really going?”
“To a huge bookstore. I’m not getting into any more trouble here.”
Miranda truly had expected the prospect of a bookstore to excite her, but Peyton’s fog didn’t lift. So Miranda employed a second tact—having fun with her growth spurt. Peyton had always seemed more on track to achieve Bianca’s height rather than succumb to the same short genes that left Miranda barely scraping past the five-foot mark. While not shocking, Miranda was never going to be prepared for it.
“So I see you’ve grown. That really wasn’t necessary. High schools don’t actually have any of those ‘You must be this tall to enter’ signs. You’re thinking roller coasters.”
Peyton laughed. She still sounded young and girly, and she remained awkwardly scrawny, unsure how to carry those narrow shoulders. All as it should be. Only so much growing up permitted.
The giggling petered out sooner than usual, though, and Peyton withdrew into her own head.
“This is a used bookstore, so everything’s super-cheap,” Miranda said. “And I know this is a short trip, but you’re still so many miles from home, so it counts as a vacation and Mom and Dad will get you a special vacation prize. Don’t forget to claim it.”
All she got in response was a mumbled “Yeah, okay.”
Miranda guided her through a gap in the oncoming pedestrian traffic and into Olympus’s premier seller of secondhand literature. Stacks upon stacks of potentially amazing discoveries awaited Peyton—and she still couldn’t care less.
Something was bothering her, and it wasn’t hard to guess what. “You’ll do great in high school. Now middle school, that was the hard part. If you can get through that, consider yourself unstoppable.”
“It’s just …” Peyton’s mouth hung open long enough for the words to perish. “It’s nothing.”
Clearly not. The sidewalk had a few benches, so Miranda escorted Peyton back outside.
“I want to hear all about this ‘nothing,’ ” Miranda said.
Peyton sat and then nodded. “So in high school, I’ll basically be preparing for college, right?”
“There is a lot of college prep, yes.”
“Then college is all about preparing for a career.”
“It does help with that.”
“And when you’re working, you’re preparing for retirement and your kids’ educations.”
Oh, yes—Miranda was supposed to be saving her oodles of excess income for retirement. She had intentionally forgotten, largely because those oodles were, in fact, nonexistent.
“What’s wrong?”
Hardly even blinking, Peyton gazed straight ahead at the vehicles crawling down the street, futilely honking their horns. She scrunched her face, carefully considering her response before she spoke it.
“This summer is the end of my childhood, and then everything is about preparing for something else. What if I’m so busy always preparing that it all stops being fun?”
Their parents would have handled this much better, Miranda realized. They, or even Bianca, would have dispensed suitable wisdom to alleviate Peyton’s anxieties about growing up. All Miranda managed to do was mutter the basic no, no, that would never happen, you’ll be fine, you’ll have a blast—did she actually just say “you’ll have a blast”?
It sounded pathetic and unconvincing, and guilt over her poor showing blocked her brain from producing anything better. But any advice would have involved mere guesswork, if not outright lies. What did Miranda know? She didn’t know what she’d be doing in four weeks when her play closed. Even her friendship with Alyssa—which was supposed to be her one enduring relationship from high school—no longer seemed a given.
She kept trying. She couldn’t look at Peyton’s melancholy face and not keep trying. So she started talking about how much fun she had in high school, then slowed down upon realizing she didn’t want Peyton to partake in all the same types of fun. All the worst examples kept pushing to the front of Miranda’s mind—that day she played hooky, her first party with alcohol, losing her virginity on the auditorium’s well-concealed catwalk. Where were the PG examples? They existed, they happened, but the memories chose that moment to go into hibernation.
“Everything will be fine,” Miranda said, knowing damn well how often she used “fine” to mean nothing of the sort. It reeked of insincerity—a sin for an actor.
Peyton rested her head on Miranda’s shoulder, so Miranda put an arm around her. They watched the traffic, occasionally glimpsing the pedestrians on the far side.
But Miranda wasn’t content. She felt she was failing her little sister with every second she proved unable to offer the perfect advice, the perfect wisdom, the perfect reassurance, anything perfect. Peyton deserved no less than perfect.
Her concentration collapsed altogether when a large, haggard man snatched a lady’s purse across the street and dashed away, shoving people aside with his meaty arms.
He made it half a block before the equivalent of a giant camera flash blinded him, and the light congealed into a man.
Miranda tugged at Peyton, urging her to her feet. “Peyton! You’ll want to see this.”
Pedestrians on both sides of the street did, too, and the motorists ceased their honking, suddenly in no hurry. Many cell phones vacated pockets and purses. Everyone, whatever their background or current plans, stopped and watched the confrontation between the stupidly brazen purse-snatcher and the world’s first and only superhero—Fantastic Man.
As of a month ago, an actual superhero existed. Not some martial arts enthusiast with a costume and death wish, but rather a uniquely talented man who could manipulate light by thinking about it—a man who was able to convert his entire body into a bunch of photons, transforming himself into living light, and return to human form unscathed. No one knew who he was or how he came to be, but everyone knew he protected Olympus City.
Miranda and Peyton angled for the best view of that radiant blue-and-amber uniform, whose radiance wasn’t figurative. They couldn’t hear a thing over all the commotion, but for a moment they had an unobstructed line of sight to the most sparkling smile ever seen outside a toothpaste commercial, beneath a mask shaped like a hazy setting sun. Even with some distance, Miranda could read him—his posture impeccable, his yellow cape fluttering behind him, he projected the image of a man who would never allow anything to go wrong, not on his watch.
And that purse-snatcher knew it. Rubbing his stunned eyeballs, he hustled away, not even attempting a fight.
Fantastic Man dematerialized into light and reappeared once again in front of the purse-snatcher. The superhero was tall and muscular in his own right, but still smaller than this hulking thief, a fact neither seemed aware of. Fantastic Man thrust an arm forward and unleashed another flash to disorient his opponent, and he followed by sweeping his leg through the purse-snatcher’s, toppling him onto the pavement.
Two police officers cut through the crowd and handcuffed the criminal. Fantastic Man stuck around to shake their hands, his smile unrelenting. He returned the purse to its owner, who responded as if she had won the lottery, and the Beacon of Brightness waved at the cheering throngs surrounding him, then looked to the sky and disappeared in a brilliant flare.
Peyton was entranced. Her mouth hung open, and the grin looked permanent.
“That was the coolest thing ever,” she said.
Her previous worries were now the last thing on her mind. Where Miranda had failed, Fantastic Man saved the day.
2.
Greek gods lined the way to Mount Olympus—though these gods appeared in the form of meticulously maintained topiaries, and this Mount Olympus was a fat tower occupying a public park in the center of the city, standing taller than all else within a seven-mile radius.
Miranda hiked between looming bushes, down the long brick path that led straight to the elevator centered beneath the tower. As always, she found the nice old policeman, Officer Hoskins, patrolling the park with a friendly smile beneath his white mustache.
The overhead lights shaded and deepened his wrinkles as he nodded at her. “Welcome back, young lady. Enjoy yourself up there—but not too much, you hear?”
He said that every single time, and he chuckled at himself every time. But Miranda had to admire the old man’s relentlessly positive attitude. He may not have gone far in his career, but he seemed happy where he was. An enviable quality.
“Yes, sir. I’ll be sure to keep my ruckus to a minimum,” Miranda said, mirroring the smile.
And she entered the elevator, as usual, alone.
Her family had retired to their hotel, but she continued to brim with restless energy from another successful performance. Going to bed would have resulted in a long night of staring at the ceiling. Better to gaze at the stars from the city’s best vantage point, which was seldom busy this late, making it the perfect spot for quiet reflection and unwinding.
Sleeping would have been sensible. Monday was a day off from the play, but not from her side gig—acting in the background of a movie. She was going to be an extra. Extraneous. Expendable. But even that meager paycheck wasn’t expendable, not to her. In any case, Miranda had plenty of experience in the background and therefore could background-act on a minimum of sleep.
The elevator car lifted off, embarking on its two-thousand-foot climb.
Her ears popped, and white noise was Miranda’s only soundtrack as the car slid up the rails. Only external soundtrack, rather.
Involuntarily, she dwelled on Bianca’s analysis of her love life. Miranda attempted to disprove the conclusion that she was somehow a saboteur of her own relationships, deliberately choosing the wrong guys. In the case of Brad, he had wanted to move in together. She didn’t. So they were clearly incompatible at this stage in their lives. Miranda didn’t consciously mean to attract a guy who would prematurely want to live together. The very notion was preposterous. But could she have, unconsciously?
The elevator settled and doors opened, granting passage to a steady, cool wind. The observation deck was, as expected, empty. Several times the square footage of her apartment, a sizable perimeter of railing—all hers for now. But she picked the same spot as always, which offered her a view over numerous skyscrapers, down the bridge connecting this island city to the rest of California, and to the distant Santa Monica skyline. Miranda intended much of her career to take place not far beyond. That was the direction of her future—she hoped.
She leaned on the bar, gazing down at the city through the protective grate. At this distance, the cars looked like fireflies that forgot how to fly, forcing them to conform to the city’s preplanned grid.
Plenty of lights still on across Olympus, even at this hour. She noticed one unusually bright spot in the far north corner, in the otherwise dim suburbs. The glare spilled up from a street but stayed confined to a tight radius, its intensity never fluctuating. Miranda suspected it was the handiwork of a film crew. Probably the movie she’d be working on tomorrow. She wanted to be working there now. She had auditioned for one of the bit parts. Didn’t get it. So many others didn’t either.
She knew her dream was not unique. Every day, she encountered other young women pursuing the same career. Only a small percentage could achieve somewhat steady work, and only an infinitesimal percentage of that group could catapult to Miranda’s ultimate goal—the A-list, the most talented, most bankable, most adored. Miranda was one of a gazillion—yet another over-ambitious and under-employed actress. But then she remembered the applause she received that afternoon, its delicious enthusiasm enveloping her …
Miranda redirected her eyes to the starlight, and she thought of Peyton’s excitement at seeing Fantastic Man. The kid could focus on nothing else the rest of the evening. At the first opportunity, Peyton took to her phone and scoured the internet for any and all tidbits. While lacking in depth, the tidbits were plentiful. Fantastic Man, though less than forthcoming on personal details, was not camera-shy. News and amateur websites alike provided ample coverage of the man who should have been impossible. Peyton had found an escape from her worries. But Miranda couldn’t escape the dread of her inevitable failure to become a star, no matter what altitude she reached. Reality refused to untether her.
She had set the bar so high for herself she’d never be able to reach it, but she refused to lower it an inch. She tightened her grip on the railing. Her chest constricted, she couldn’t breathe, goosebumps sprouted across her shivering arms as the wind picked up …
“Miranda? Are you okay?”
The voice was familiar. A distinctive baritone. Once she ensured her eyes were dry, she summoned a huge smile and spun around—and she saw Ken Shield, an old friend from high school.
“I’m wonderful. Hey!” She rushed over to give him a quick hug. “Oh my God, how long has it been? A year? Two?”
“Three.”
“Three! Well, that’s just wrong.”
Sure, they went to rival colleges on opposite sides of this island city, but they shared that hometown bond. Not that Miranda considered herself bonded with most of the people she went to school with back in Meadowville. She couldn’t care less if she never saw ninety-five percent of them again. But Ken qualified for the other five percent that was worth seeing once a year or so—certainly sooner than three whole years.
Miranda swept her wind-blown hair from her face. “I see we’re both terrible at sleeping.”
Giving a small shoulder shrug and a soft, lopsided smile, Ken said, “Hasn’t been my strong suit lately.”
“But in our defense, we’re insomniacs with exquisite taste in late-night hangout spots.”
“We’re not without our talents.” Ken’s humble face exuded warmth and sincerity. “So how’s life as an actress?”
Miranda could’ve discussed her show, but she didn’t trust herself to stop there, not when Ken had always been such a patient listener. She worried she’d sound ungrateful or like she was too good for regional theatre. She was acting professionally and yet wasn’t satisfied—the nerve of her.
So she swatted the question away. “Oh, I don’t want to bore you with all that.”
“You wouldn’t—”
“It’s really not all that glamorous.”
“Never thought it would be.”
She lightly touched his thin arm—a small gesture to tug him away from his line of questioning and toward her own. “So you’re teaching now, right? How is that? Everything you always dreamed? Or I guess the school year hasn’t started. But you student-teached. Taught.” She winced. “Student-taught. It’s very late.”
Ken wandered to the railing. He leaned on the sturdy bar, his posture slacking. Miranda followed, and standing beside him, she tracked his gaze to the city streets beyond the tower’s dark moat of grass and sparse trees.
“Actually,” he said, not blinking, not looking at her, not smiling, “I dropped out of my school’s licensure program.”
Miranda studied his profile. So sullen. But he was always so sure about this path, as sure as she was about her own. How did he descend from certainty to quitting? Miranda could never picture herself quitting.
She blurted out her question. “Wasn’t that all you ever wanted to do?”
His head drifted down until he had fixed his gaze on the railing’s rust. “I wasn’t feeling like the right fit for it, and for a job that important, you better be the right fit.” Ken brushed his thumb against a paint chip in the process of flaking off. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”
Miranda needed to offer reassuring words, but they proved as elusive as they had with Peyton. She had gotten lucky with that conversation. If Fantastic Man hadn’t shown up, what would she have said?
Ken continued, “I want to make sure I do something useful—but not something I’d screw up.”
Then she realized—she didn’t need Fantastic Man’s presence to use him.
“Here’s how I look at it,” she said, making it up as she went. “If a man can turn himself into a beam of light, then surely we can turn ourselves into successful human beings.”
The sullenness melted away as Ken absorbed her statement, and he let out a quick grunt, his standard mode of laughter. Miranda wanted to pat herself on the back for a job well done.
“That is very crazy,” he said.
“I know, right? Tell you what—I’ll promise to do amazing things if you promise to do amazing things. No excuses when anything’s possible.” Miranda extended a hand. “Deal?”
He nodded, and they shook on it. “Deal. I’ll see you on the big screen, and you’ll see me doing … something of value.”
“But you will figure it out,” she said.
“I will figure it out.”
His smile was fully restored—Miranda did that, and doing so bolstered her own, locking them in a smiling loop.
But Ken broke her out of it. “Hey, how’s Alyssa doing? What’s she up to?”
Miranda swiftly recovered from the unwelcome reminder, and she had no trouble supplying the basic, surface-level summary: Yes, Alyssa was still pursuing certification to become a dental hygienist. No, Miranda wasn’t sure what the appeal of such a career was, but hey, job security was a thing for some people. And yes, Alyssa still lived near the old hometown. Ken told her to pass along a “hello” from him. Miranda didn’t tell him that she expected to forget by the time Alyssa finally got around to returning a call or text.
From there, they drifted into conversation about their college days and life in Olympus. And when Miranda learned that he, too, was planning on sticking around the city for the foreseeable future, she developed an idea.
“You know, we should get together for coffee one day,” Miranda said. “Sometime sooner than three years. We’ve got a lot of time to make up for.”
Caught off guard, Ken’s eyes widened and he tensed, like he wasn’t sure what was going on exactly.
Miranda feared she had miscalculated, but Ken was a genuinely nice guy—not one of those “nice guys” who expected some magnificent reward for the extraordinary feat of not being a blatant jerk. No, he was a good-hearted, honest soul. And, present uncertainties aside, he was responsible. Miranda had no doubt he’d figure out a rewarding, worthwhile career. His looks, though not of leading-man caliber, weren’t bad by any means. He was tall and lean, had a nice solid chin devoid of any cleft, and his dark hair hadn’t thinned any.
And Miranda had asked him out. No real build-up. No historical basis from their mutually friendly past. She blindsided the poor guy. Blindsided herself. Was this what she actually wanted?
She had no answer. But the thought of him declining, with any excuse, froze her, and the encroaching ice squeezed her every internal organ.
After a couple seconds’ consideration, though, Ken relaxed and agreed, pulling off a casual air of Sure, why not? “Yeah, that’d be nice,” he said.
Miranda masked her tension, dissipating it through light laughter as they fumbled with their phones and exchanged numbers. He promised to call sometime in the next couple of days.
Like a proper gentleman, he offered to walk her to the subway, but she declined, insisting that he not cut his Mount Olympus time short on her account.
“Are you sure?” he said. “It would be no trouble.”
“I’m pretty sure I can get to the subway without a bodyguard.” Miranda tossed a parting smirk at him. “But I’ll be seeing you, Ken.”
And she intended to do so—sometime after he started missing her.
3.
As she descended in the elevator, Miranda considered what she just did. She had never felt any physical attraction toward Ken Shield. But, on an intellectual level, she acknowledged that he possessed many fine qualities. He wasn’t right for a brief, passionate fling. A guy like him qualified as long-term boyfriend material. And Bianca was wrong that Miranda avoided long-term boyfriends—never mind that the longest of her numerous relationships lasted five months, back in high school …
But yeah, Ken seemed like a decent option. What was the harm in a couple of dates?
The elevator carriage settled, and Miranda expected to find Officer Hoskins somewhere along the well-lit path, ever vigilant as he stood guard over the park. But once the door opened, she saw only a long, vacant stretch of brick surrounded by topiaries and impenetrable darkness. The park did span several acres around the tower. Perhaps something demanded Hoskins’s attention.
Miranda kept her phone in hand as she began her brisk walk, reminding herself that this was one of the safer parts of town. Still, her parents had issued many warnings about the dangers a city held after dark, and her mind replayed the greatest hits. Miranda felt her ears expanding to catch even the faintest rustling of leaves.
She heard something else. Not leaves or wind or any scurrying critter. Nothing from nature. Nothing natural.
A moan. It was coming from somewhere behind those bushes. Miranda’s senses all dialed up to maximum.
She decided to ignore it and stay on the path, stay under the lights. Keep her eyes on her phone and check the hell out of those text messages. Or pretend to while secretly poised to dial 9-1-1 if the need arose—a need like someone leaping out and strangling her.
Whatever it was, Officer Hoskins was probably already on it. That explained his absence. But what if he was the one moaning?
“I’m hurt,” the moaning person called out from the darkness, her voice hoarse.
It was definitely a woman’s voice, not the policeman’s. And he wasn’t around to respond to the cry for help.
This could have been a trap—some creepy man lurking, sheathed in the dark, ready to throw the first unsuspecting good citizen into a black van. And if not, well, really, what could Miranda do to help? Aside from the simple task of dialing 9-1-1.
It would be the right thing to do, in case someone was suffering. Miranda could make the call and run away.
“Help. Please.”
Miranda wanted to keep walking until she exited the park, but her feet refused to budge and she cringed. She remained physically capable of forward momentum, just not mentally.
Her stomach folded in on itself, threatening to incite debilitating queasiness unless she did the right thing. If she walked away, she’d spend days or weeks dwelling on whatever she walked away from, constantly checking the news for any hints about what the hell this was. All food would lose its appeal, and she would look back on the concept of sleep with nostalgic fondness.
She considered running back up to Ken, but he was nearly half a mile above the ground. And someone right here might be hurt.
Miranda dialed the digits 9-1-1 and positioned her thumb over the “call” icon. Without hitting it just yet, she advanced toward the source of the moaning and commanded herself not to dissolve into a shivering mess of nerves. She did not heed herself. Her shaking thumb almost jabbed “call” by accident.
Didn’t happen, though. A flash of light cut through the park for just a second, and she stopped. Where did it come from? Not the park’s lighting system. Was it … Fantastic Man? Was she about to meet Fantastic Man? This seemed more like something he should handle, not her.
“That was me,” the woman said, each word scraping against Miranda’s ears. So scratchy and parched. She wasn’t far, maybe only a few feet into the darkness. “Want to make sure I … have your attention.”
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