Lillyanne Plume's Arc

Chapter 8 of 22

Scott leaned in on his elbows. The strand of near-white hair fell across his brow. His silver eyes caught the bar light and held her there. "I have two hands," he said. "I move without legs. I show you the truth and I lie every day. What am I?" He smiled a little. Flirty. Watching her mouth, not her eyes. Lillyanne turned the words over. Two hands. No legs. Truth and lies. Her brain reached for the obvious shape and grabbed it. "A clock," she said. He sat back. The smile went flat. "No," he said. "No partner." "Wait—" "Go home." He stood, dropped bills on the bar, and walked out. She grabbed her coat and chased. The cold hit her in the teeth. He walked fast for a man with a bad heart. She half-ran beside him. "One more," she said. "Give me one more. Please." "That isn't how riddles work." "I came a long way. I have no one else. Marjorie said you were the only one who'd lived through it twice." He didn't slow. She kept talking. She said she'd pay. She said she'd do the dangerous parts. She said please again and hated the sound of it. He stopped at a tall iron gate set in a stone wall. A house sat back behind it, dark windows, one lamp burning over the door. He stepped through and pulled the gate shut. The lock clicked. "Go home, Lillyanne." He walked up the path and didn't look back. She stood at the bars until her fingers went numb. Then she found a motel two streets over with a buzzing sign and a stained carpet. She paid cash. She lay on top of the covers in her coat. Two hands. No legs. Shows the truth and lies every day. Not a clock. A clock doesn't lie. A clock is right or broken. What has two hands and lies— She sat up. A person lies. A person shows the truth and lies every day. Two hands. No legs, because legs don't matter to the trick. It wasn't a riddle about an object. She threw on her coat over the coat and ran. The street was empty. Her breath came out white. She found the gate, found the buzzer beside it, and pressed it. Pressed it again. Held it down. Pressed it in bursts until a light came on upstairs. His voice came through the speaker, rough with sleep. "I told you to go home." "A liar," she said. "A person. The answer is a person. You. Me. Whoever sits across the table. Two hands. No legs that matter. Shows the truth and lies every day." The speaker hissed. She waited. The lock clicked. The gate swung an inch inward on its own. "Come inside," he said. "Before you freeze."