Page 10 of Vera Wong's Guide to Snooping (on a Dead Man)

And so there is no choice but to wait patiently for Millie to return, and that is exactly what Vera will do. The next morning, she takes Emma to the park, where she tells off other children for various things, like not greeting their elders and for pronouncing theirRs asWs. “Sorrrrry,” Vera says. “Not sowie.”

The little boy looks at her with plain confusion on his face. “I said that.”

“No, you say, ‘Sowie.’ Just because you’re—how old are you? Three? Yes, you are old enough to enunciate.”

“What is enun-sit?”

Vera sighs. Clearly there is no hope for this one.

The next day she spends with Sana and two of her friends, both of whom are artists. They take her to San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, where she complains about the ridiculousness of modern art. “I can do that,” Vera says, pointing to a concrete canvas that has been painted completely black. “I do for big discount, only fifty thousand dollars, a steal. Call the museum manager.”

Sana merely laughs and squeezes Vera’s arm. “Oh, Vera. You’re so tetchy today.”

“I’m not tetchy!” Vera says tetchily.

“It’s true though,” Sana’s friend says. “I mean, anyone could do that black thing. The only problem is, we didn’t think to do it before this dude did.”

Her other friend adds, “And we’re not white men, so we can’t just hand in a completely black canvas and say it is symbolic of the hopelessness of life and be lauded as artistic geniuses.”

Vera can’t help but smile at that. She likes Sana’s friends, even if one of them has purple hair and the other one has an eyebrow piercing. After that, she herds them back to her tea shop, where she feeds them to bursting and sends them home with containers filled to the brim with food.

The third day, Vera wakes up just about ready to scream with frustration. She’s been grateful for the company the past couple of days, but Thomas’s death has been quietly eating away at her. As she opens up the tea shop, she slips her phone out and opens up her Images folder for the umpteenth time, zooming in so she canread his case file again even though she’s pretty much memorized it by now.

Thankfully, during the late afternoon lull, the door tinkles open and Vera looks up, and there she is.

“Millie!” she cries, hurrying out from behind the counter.

Millie freezes, as though not expecting such an excited greeting. She looks like she has half a mind to turn and run away, but then Vera says, “I find your friend!” and Millie gasps.

“Come in, sit down,” Vera says, switching to Mandarin. “I’ll make us some tea.”

Millie perches gingerly on the chair as Vera bustles around and starts brewing tea. She chooses to make chrysanthemum tea, which she sweetens with rock sugar and dates, for its soothing effect. Now that Millie is actually here, Vera finds herself embarrassingly nervous, so she makes small talk as she fusses with the tea. To her credit, Millie answers all of Vera’s inane questions with impressive patience, even though she must be bursting with curiosity about poor Thomas. Only after Vera pours the tea does she sit down with a sigh. She waits for Millie to take a sip of the soothing tea before she breaks the news.

“I’m so sorry, my dear girl, but I’m afraid I have bad news for you.”

Millie utters a small gasp, the teacup halting halfway from her mouth. “Is he…?”

“He is—well, there is no easy way to say this, but Thomas is dead.” Vera catches Millie’s hand before she can drop the teacup, guiding her hand gently until the cup is placed on the table.

“How?” Millie whispers.

In answer, Vera takes out her phone and shows Millie the pictures she took of Thomas’s file. She is thoughtful enough not toshow Millie Thomas’s dead body, just a photo of his face. “This is him, yes?”

“I—yes. How did you get these?”

“Ah, I cannot reveal my sources.” It’s a line Vera has heard numerous times onCSI, and she finds great pleasure in finally being able to say it herself.

Millie stares at the image of her dead friend. “He’s dead,” she mutters hollowly.

“I’m sorry, dear. And here it says, ‘Suspected suicide.’ Was he having a difficult time?”

Millie laughs, a choked, humorless sound. “Yes, I suppose you could say that. We all are, to be quite honest.”

Vera’s instincts prick up. Here is another young person in need, and what she needs is Vera. “Maybe you can talk to me, tell me why you’re having a hard time.”

“I can’t.” There is such finality to Millie’s tone that Vera knows better than to keep pressing.

Though she wants to, of course. It goes against her every instinct as a Chinese mother not to pry. But she has a feeling that if she does, she is bound to chase Millie away. So instead, she changes tack. “Is there a reason why the police think Thomas’s name is John?”

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