Page 20 of Sincerely, Secretary of Doom

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Violet tugged the door open, and an air-conditioned gust swept over them from inside.

They found a table and Zorah tossed her purse onto the seat. “I’m going to order. What do you want?” she asked.

“I’m good.” Violet didn’t mention that she’d eaten her way through half the food in their kitchen at home. She set her laptop on the table and filled the screen with a fresh document. She began typing immediately.

Zorah stood there and watched her for a moment. “What are you working on? An article about bad mealtime etiquette when you’re with a friend?”

“I told you I came here to work,” Violet said. “And it’s an article exposing a real-life villain. I’ll let you read it once I’m done.” She shifted in her chair, knowing every word could give Zorah a heart attack. Maybe Violet would wait until Zorah had a full stomach before she told her about the whole hostage thing.

Zorah sighed as she left for the front counter, and Violet took the opportunity to come up with a title for her article.

“The Master of Doom’s Haunted Mansion?” she mumbled to herself. “Creepy Cathedral Office of Death? Vampire Lair of a Thousand Wax Candles?” Nothing felt quite right, butMaster of Doomdid have a nice ring to it.

Zorah came back a few minutes later with a massive platter of salad and two donuts. She passed a chocolate donut to Violet, then started licking the icing off the top of hers.

“Is this article for The Scoop?” Zorah asked through icing-coated teeth as she sat down. She grabbed a loose lettuce leaf and stuffed it into her mouth.

“Your facts are great, but reading your articles is like reading a bad fiction novel. I’m sorry to tell you this, Violet, but you’re not going to make the cut.”Violet swallowed. Cedric’s opinion would haunt her until the day she died. She wasn’t sure she had the heart to tell Zorah what he’d said word for word.

“No. I’m going to start a blog. I’m going to track down real villains and expose them. I have a gut feeling it’s going to take off and be really popular in this city,” Violet said. She stole a look at Zorah’s salad.

Probably around fifteen more mouthfuls to go. Then she would tell Zorah.

“Do you think there’s any money in that?” Zorah asked, shovelling in another bite.

Fourteen more mouthfuls.

“It doesn’t matter. People need to know the truth, and I’m the only one who will tell it,” she said, thinking of Cedric’s hatred of her storytelling, and the blonde police officer’s betrayal.

Zorah stopped eating for a moment to stare.

Violet looked up from her computer screen at her aunt, then at the salad. At her aunt again. “Keep eating,” she invited. When Zorah didn’t immediately take another bite, Violet nudged the salad a little closer toward her. “Mmm. Looks yummy.”

Zorah dropped her fork to the table and folded her hands. “Something has gotten into you. Out with it. Tell me.”

Violet chewed on her lip. “I thought you were hungry.”

“I’m suddenly feeling very full.”

Everything Violet had been planning to say roared up into her throat and found purchase on the tip of her tongue. But she bit her mouth shut, unable to spit it out now that it was time. She pictured a scenario of Zorah losing her mind in public and talking too loud and everyone turning in their seats and looking at the already humiliated failed journalist a little too hard.

“I’ll tell you when we get home,” Violet decided, ready to kick herself for chickening out a third time. She focused back on her article. She had yet to pick a title, and not a single word had been written of the actual story yet.

Zorah did that thing where she half eye-rolled, half fluttered her lashes. She reluctantly went back to mercilessly inhaling her salad. The thirty-five-year-old woman was too focused on picking out the croutons to notice when Violet looked back up and studied her.

Zorah. The woman who had saved her life.

A full month was how long Violet had stayed in thecareof the most prestigious reporters in Toronto. She’d only been thirteen years old. At least, the doctors who appeared alongside her on the talk shows guessed she was probably around that age. Her purple chiffon dress had been washed by the production team, and she’d been told to wear it for all her TV interviews.The Girl in the Purple Dresshad been a hot topic for every news station. The nameless anomaly who woke up in a forest with no memories. The girl whose DNA had never promised she belonged to anyone on record.

One month. Violet had been ushered around by the city’s curiosity, taking interviews by both police and reporters and making waves in people’s hearts as Ontarians tried to piece together the history of the mysterious girl, at the protest of child services. That was how long it had taken for someone to show up and claim Violet as their own.

“Her name is Violet Miller, and I’m her aunt. I’ve been looking everywhere for her! Turn off your cameras before I sue you all!”Zorah’s voice had been so authoritative when she’d walked into the interview that day—interrupting it halfway through filming. At the time, Zorah had only been twenty-five. She’d been a thriving medical student who’d seen Violet on TV and had been outraged that a young girl was being put in the spotlight without any concern for her health.

Violet hadn’t been outraged by it though. She’d found a strange home in the news stations, had found a bit of magic in the storytelling of the reporters, and for a while, she’d enjoyed the interviews. People gave her their full attention. She got dolled up to be on camera. Those things had made her feel important. They’d taken away some of the sting when day after day went by, and no one showed up to claim Violet.

That day though, Zorah had pulled Violet out of the spotlight, and had brought her home to her one-bedroom student apartment. It was a different sort of home than the news stations had been. It brought different kinds of comforts. For the first time since Violet had woken up in the forest, she felt like she could breathe.

Zorah had taken Violet to a trusted doctor who ran more tests—in addition to the ones the doctors on TV had already run—and had gotten her iron supplements prescribed for anemia. Dr. Wendal was peculiar, but he claimed there was nothing physically wrong with Violet, though some evidence could have disappeared after a month.

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