I checked my watch. Forty-seven minutes late. I was either being ghosted, or my donor had been eaten by wild pigs.
I was rooting for the pigs.
I was just pulling out my phone to scroll through my inbox for the tenth time when I caught a flash of coral from the corner of my eye. A woman—maybe late forties, early fifties—was walking straight toward me like I held the answers to her questions.
“Rex Beaumont?” she asked in a hopeful tone.
I blinked. “Huh, no. I’m actually waiting for Rex, though.”
“Oh! So, he’s real—not a fictitious character.” She dropped into the chair across from me like we were old friends.
“Well, that’s certainly debatable.” I stirred my coffee without looking at it. “What makes someone real? Who decides what’s real and what’s not?”
Her expression told me I’d spiked her interest. “Aw.The Velveteen Rabbit.”
“The who?”
Now, I’d disappointed her. “I thought you were quoting Margery William’s children’s book,The Velveteen Rabbit.” A wave of sadness washed through her eyes. “It was my daughter’s favorite book.”
“Should I read it?”
“Absolutely. Everyone should.”
I picked up my drink and considered taking a sip. I did not. “And everyone should show up on time, even if you’re a rascally, old billionaire.”
“Do you know Mr. Beaumont?”
“He’s a business acquaintance.”
She nodded at my coffee cup. “Judging by your expression and the puddle formerly known as your iced coffee, I’m guessing we’ve both been stood up.”
“Sounds like it,” I said, still trying to process the situation. “Who... are you?”
“Renee Thompson.” She extended a hand, and I shook it automatically, noting her firm grip and sand-dusted fingers. “Photographer-slash-cryptid chaser. And you?”
“Jon Barnes. NGO guy. Questionably credible NGO guy, apparently.”
“What’s an NGO guy?”
“Sorry. Non-Governmental Organization. Non-profit organizations that operate independently from government. I work for Evergreen Initiatives, heard of it? We fund sustainable farms.” I didn’t tell her that I’d just learned we may have actually been funding someone’s beach house and a jet ski namedWet Willy,and that I booked a last-minute flight to the most remote part of the Bahamas just to see if we’ve actually planted anything besides rumors.
I stirred my ice. “What about you? What’s your business with Beaumont?”
Her face lit up in a way that made me nervous.
“I’m going to find the Chickcharney in North Andros,” she said.
I stared at her. “Is that a person?”
“It’s a creature,” she said, very seriously. “Fluffy. Owl-adjacent. May or may not have glowing eyes and vendettas. And I’m going to be the first to photograph it.”
“Uh-huh,” I said slowly, nodding like I totally understood. “For science?”
“For fun,” she said.
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. She said the wordfunas if it was also a rare, mythical creature that she had to capture.
She took a sip of her coffee, watching me likeIwas the one chasing mythological birds.
