“It says ‘All mysteries solved,’ doesn’t it?” The woman behind the counter turns the phone to show it to me. She’s not wrong – that’s my video on the screen. That’s Alamensis of two months ago, flashing a forced smile while jerking through movement after movement of a poorly thought-out dance. What’s not in the video is the phone propped against an increasingly precarious pile of books, couched in the remains of shredded boxes as I tried to figure out a DIY tripod. What I also managed to cut out of the video is the moment when the phone fell, my desperate dive to save it, and the eventual shattering of the screen.

I fixed it, of course, but that’s not in the video either. What’s in the video is a tasteful screen that does indeed advertise “all mysteries solved.”

“Is this really a mystery, though? Like, I meant more lost objects or pets, or something like – “

She rolls her eyes and sets the phone down. Her hand gestures to the door. “Fine,” she says. “Get – “

Wait. No. I skip back.

The world whirls around me. Colours and shapes blend into one another as the world readjusts itself to a better reality, one where I’ve actually thought through words before I say them.

The world settles. Words formed on my tongue, some already spoken, but the rest just waiting to be decided.

“Is this – “ I said, then caught myself. “Your first time hiring someone like me?”

She sets the phone down on the bar, watching me over the wood countertop. She nods. “Obviously I’ve talked to more…professional people first,” she says, her eyes sliding up and down my body. My skin crawls where her eyes land on me. Nothing about this job is what I want to be doing, but a job is a job.

“But they wouldn’t take the job. So, you.”

“So, me.” I say, and nod.

“You gonna do it, then?”

It’s not a mystery. Nothing about what this woman is asking for is a mystery. What it is is a delusional business owner high on her own paranoia sniffing around for something new to get huffy about.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

I don’t say this. Obviously I don’t say this. I want to say it, and I could say it, but I’m not going to say this. Instead, I bring my hands together.

“Let me make sure I understand what you need,” I say. “You run this fine establishment, which employs a dozen people, ranging from waitstaff to cooks to a busboy. You pay them excellent wages, but you think that, despite this, they’re trying to organise a union.”

“I don’t think, I know,” she interrupts. I nod.

“Of course. You know,” I say. “And so you want me to solve the mystery of who is doing the organising and let you know who it is so you can put a stop to it. Do I have all that?”

She crosses her arms. I stare at her crossed arms, waiting for her to say something. She’s wearing this odd light blue shirt made of a fabric I can’t identify. Is it polyester? It’s probably polyester. It’s too tight against her elbows and too loose along her chest, and I don’t see how both things can be true at once.

“And I want to know by the end of the month,” she says. I nod. The end of the month is in five days. Of course she wants to know by then.

“By the end of the month.” I repeat it back to her. That shirt really is too tight on her arm. It can’t possibly be comfortable, but she’s insistent on wearing it anyway. Why, I wonder.

“Sure, I can do it.” I say this for myself as much as for her. This isn’t a mystery, not in any conventional sense of the word. What this is is a mini-industrial witch hunt, where the answer is less interesting than that someone gets burned at the stake at the end.

But rent is both high and due in five days, so what am I supposed to do? It’s not like there is a queue of other people lining up to have non-mysteries not-solved.

“My usual fee is €50 per hour – “ I watch her mouth start to move before I finish the sentence, and think fast. “- but I like you, and I think this will be an interesting case.”

I don’t, and it won’t be. She doesn’t need to know that.

“So instead, I’ll charge €15 per hour, but with a caveat.” It’s my turn to lean on the bar now, and I do so with gusto. “If you really want me to do a good job and get into the weeds with this, the others need to believe they can trust me. Hire me on for the week. I’ll wait tables, wash dishes, whatever it is you need me to do. Pay me for that plus the fifteen, and I’ll solve your mystery for you.”

She smiles, then holds out her hand. I meet her eyes as I shake. Hazel, I see, glinting in the dim light of the pub.

“Deal,” she says. “You’ll start tonight, washing dishes.”

I smile back, and drop my eyes. “I’ll do some investigating in the meantime,” I say. “See what I can find for you.”

“You’d better,” she says, and pulls her hand from mine. “I need to know who it is.”

“You’ve hired the best,” I say.

She hasn’t. She and I both know that. What she’s hired is me, and I am far from the best. But I will do my best, and that’s all anyone can ask of me, right?

“Until tonight, then,” I say. “I’ll send over the formal contract for you to sign.”

She grunts and turns away. I take that as my cue to do the same.

I turn, walking out of the pub and back out into the busy streets of the city beyond.