Free Weakest Lynx by Fiona Quinn

Manny called as he headed around back with Justin.
    I missed not having my own kitchen since the fire. It had been sad, sad, sad to me that the one here in Angel’s and my house didn’t even come close to functioning. I loved to cook; it served as therapy for me. So much of my education had happened around the stove, under the watchful eyes of my Kitchen Grandmothers—I missed the warmth and goodness and connectedness.
    Master Wang’s wife, Snow Bird, was the one who decided I needed the Kitchen Grandmothers. She worried my lack of “women’s skills” would make it hard for me to find an honorable husband. She knew my mother’s illness—that had left her bedridden since I was twelve—kept Mom from teaching me what Snow Bird thought of as a lady’s education.
    Snow Bird grew up in a traditional Chinese home. In her mind, Oriental-wife skills were not culturally suited to the American man. And while she wanted to teach me some things—like sewing and cooking—she thought I would benefit from a broader spectrum of knowledge. So Snow Bird chose, amongst her friends at the apartment building, five grandmothers who were willing to take me under their wings. I’d help them with their day-to-day tasks, and in return I’d learn from them as I went along.
    Each grandmother chose a day of the workweek; and on her day, she would teach me everything she thought I should know. Angel’s Great-Aunt Rosa was one of my Kitchen Grandmothers. That was how I met Angel the night of the apartment fire.
    Abuela Rosa chose Friday nights as her night to teach me. From her I learned Spanish and how to dance. I remembered how naughty I felt when I first tried to move that way, tempting the boys with swaying hips and coquettish eyes.
    On Thursdays, I spoke kitchen Italian with Nona Sophia. While her pots were bubbling and steaming, Nona would take out the art books. We’d sit at the table talking about paintings and artists. Nona cherished art from all over the world, but the pieces of her beloved Tuscany brought tears to her eyes.
    My Kitchen Grandmothers gave me a cornucopia of culture and language—spice and ability. And while the whole concept of “wifely skills” was old-fashioned to the point of medieval, I enjoyed learning about all of the different cultures and ways of being and doing. And Mom was thrilled.
    “This will give your life such wonderful flavor,” Mom had said.
    She was right. I adored my Kitchen Grandmothers. I loved how they enfolded me into their family life—sharing their skills and knowledge. I had been cooking that way from the time I turned twelve until the fire. I wanted my traditions back.
    Thoughts of Abuela Rosa and Angel bubbled up homesick, bereft feelings. Instead of walking down a sentimental path, what I needed to do was stay focused on my next move to capture Stalker and on the two things I meant to hand over to Dave this evening. One of these was last night’s poem. I paused with a box balanced in my hand, getting a better grip, then I threw it over the railing and into the bin. The poem was same old, same old. It actually made me a little worried that I would come to think of this pervasive dread as my natural state. Get another poem, hand it off to Dave. Get complacent. Become a statistic. I hadn’t come up with a strategy for the best way to balance my panic and anxiety with the need to get on with life.
    I walked back to the next bag. This one held pinecones. DIY project? I slung it over the rail, pausing to scan the street. Black cat. Red Toyota turning left, woman driver. Windblown soda can.
    The second thing I might hand over was the Iniquus list. But should I? Even thinking about it made me feel disloyal to Spyder. Almost traitorous. The list—all of the players I could recall from the Iniquus files I worked on with Spyder. Classified files. High security files. Three years of files.
    Though I started training with Spyder when I turned thirteen, I didn’t actually puzzle a real case