We entered the lobby and were immediately enveloped in cool air conditioning and a soft flowery scent. A dull mechanical hum filled the air, along with hushed tones that somehow made me think of a library. We crossed the polished hardwood floor to a pair of mid-century modern looking check-in desks, made of wood and stone with lots of curved edges and stylish pretension. They stood just to the right of a floor-to-ceiling art piece done in 3D ridges and swirls in stark white. It was pretty, in an abstract way, but it looked sharp enough to puncture skin if you got too close. We skirted around it and approached the clerk at the closest desk.
His suit looked starched and his light hair was sleeked back too sharply, making me think he'd gone a little too heavy with the gel that morning. He looked up and smiled, causing little lines to crinkle the skin at the corners of his eyes. "Welcome to the San Jose Marriott. How may I help you?"
"Hi," Chase said, taking the lead this time. "We're looking for Phoebe Lyons. Could you tell us where we could find her?"
"Is she a guest here?" the man asked, pleasant smile still in place.
Chase looked to me. I shrugged. Clipboards hadn't been that specific. "Uh, she's conducting corporate meetings."
"Oh?" The man's eyebrows rose as he looked from one to the other of us, taking in Chase's disembodied horse head T-shirt, Sailor Moon, and my grubby street look.
"We're interns," Sam jumped in quickly. "Working at the convention next door."
"Right." He smiled again, but it was slightly less pleasant.
"Uh, anyway, can you tell us which room Phoebe might be in?" I asked.
But he shook his sleek head, his hair not moving an inch. "Sorry. We can't give out that kind of information. Our guests have an expectation of privacy, you know."
"Oh." I heard the disappointment in my own voice. "Thanks anyway," I mumbled as we stepped away.
Chase nudged me in the arm and pointed across the lobby to a conversation area, where some low, modern looking chairs and stone tables sat.
"Let's hang out here a bit," he suggested.
"Why?" Sam asked, following us.
"The guy at the Peak booth said she had meetings until after lunch," Chase said. "She'll be heading back to the con then. So, we'll just wait until she does."
"And ambush her!" Sam said, a light in her eyes.
"And talk to her," I decided. That sounded a lot less likely to get us thrown out of the Marriott. I could still see the clerk eyeing us warily.
Sam shrugged and sat on one of the black chairs. I sank down beside her with a squeak of stiff leather. Chase took one across from us, looking almost too tall for it as he crossed one ankle over his knee.
Sam pulled out her phone and almost immediately resumed her text conversation with Kyle. I was about to pull my own out and browse some funny memes to pass the time, when it buzzed from my pocket.
I extracted it, seeing an incoming call from Mom lighting my screen. I hesitated a moment, glancing around the hushed lobby. But I knew not picking up could likely inspire her to send out a search party, so I swiped to take the call and answered in a quiet voice.
"Mom?" I said, the rise of a question in my voice.
"Where are you?" she demanded.
I froze, feeling my stomach clench as my eyes whipped around me. "Uh, at the convention?" There was that questioning lift again.
"Are you sure?" she pressed.
For a moment I feared she'd installed some sort of GPS tracking on my phone, but then she added, "Because David has been looking for you and hasn't seen you all day."
David. Detective Raley.
"I've been at the con," I reassured her. Which was true. I had been at the con. I technically wasn't there now, but the less I technically lied, the better.
"Is Sam with you?" she asked, some of the urgency in her voice starting to fade.
"Yes." I nodded emphatically, even though I knew she couldn't see me. "Chase is too."
"The boy from the school paper?" Mom clarified. She'd met him once when he'd been my date to the homecoming dance—purely for professional reasons and not in a romantic capacity. I think. Probably. But I'd strategically not mentioned him much since then, as I didn't want her to get the wrong impression. Especially since I wasn't quite sure yet myself what the right impression would be.
"Yeah, that's him," I said, standing and taking my conversation to the relative privacy of the other side of the room. I paused in front of the poky-looking art piece. "I told you, we're working on a story about the convention."
"You know, I don't feel like I know anything about him."
"Who?"
"Chase. Your guy."
"Mom! He's a guy. Not my guy," I said, keeping my voice down so the guy in question didn't hear me. "Why would you want to know stuff about him?"
"Well, you spend a lot of time with him."
"For the paper," I clarified.
"He seems nice."
"I guess so…" I hedged, not sure where she was going with this.
"You should invite him over for dinner."
"What?" I choked on the word. "No. I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why not?"
So many reasons. But I settled on "Chase isn't really a meet-the-parents kind of guy."
"Well why not?" Mom asked again, and I could hear a little note of defensiveness
