Free Gifted by H. A. Swain

company property.” Hang your wash out the POD window to dry—improper use of company property. Plant a patch of mint and basil in the dirt behind your building—improper use of company property. Paint your walls yellow to bring a little sunshine into your life—improper use of company property. And yes, those are all infractions Nonda has received. Not that she cares. We still sip fresh mint tea in our yellow POD while the laundry flaps in the breeze.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” I ask.
    â€œDon’t play dumb,” Medgers says then grabs my elbow and yanks me into the office.
    Inside, two women in fancy suits sit at the table. They motion for me to take a seat across from them. “I’m Private Detective Smythe,” the one with dark brown hair says and holds out her hand, which I cautiously shake. “And this is my associate, Detective Beauregarde.” The blonde nods then looks down at her screen, exposing black roots at her skull.
    Smythe smiles, not really all that friendly. “We’re here to investigate Project Calliope.”
    I blink. Then blink again. They wait. “Project Calliope?” I say slowly. They nod. My heart slows down and I ask, “What’s that?”
    Medgers snorts from her post slouched against the wall and gives me a nasty look.
    Beauregarde says, “Are you currently involved with Project Calliope?”
    â€œNot that I know of. Is that a Corp X thing?”
    â€œDo you recognize this person?” Smythe shows me a picture of a pretty woman in her early twenties with blond hair, gray-green eyes, and a funny turned-up nose. “She used to work here, seven or eight years ago maybe.”
    â€œI’m only sixteen,” I say. “I don’t know what was going on here that long ago.”
    â€œWhat do you know about Harold Chanson and Chanson Industries?” Smythe asks.
    â€œThe music guy?” I say.
    They nod.
    â€œHe’s married to Libellule and has a big arena in the City and he owns all music.” And will zap your brain if you cross him, I think to myself.
    Smythe and Beauregarde both chuckle. Then Smythe looks over her shoulder at Medgers. “Why is she here?” she asks, pointing to me.
    â€œAsk her about making music,” Medgers says. A trickle of cold sweat drips down under my arm but I keep my face placid.
    Smythe rolls her eyes as she turns back to me. “Do you make a lot of music?”
    â€œDo I?” I ask with as much innocence as I can muster. “Does singing to myself count?”
    Beauregarde sighs, miffed. “Do you have a band?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDoes anybody that you know?” she asks.
    â€œNobody that I know,” I say with complete honesty and a suppressed grin.
    â€œHave you ever played copyrighted music for which you were paid?” Smythe asks.
    â€œHonestly, ma’am…” I scoot way back in the chair so my feet don’t touch the floor. I might be sixteen, but I can look twelve if I try. “I wouldn’t know how to do something like that.”
    â€œHas Calliope Bontempi ever helped you put on a concert?”
    â€œI don’t know who that is,” I tell them.
    â€œThis is Calliope Bontempi,” Smythe says and shows me the pix of the green-eyed girl again.
    I shake my head. “Never met her.”
    â€œYou little liar,” Medgers hisses. “She was friends with your mother. They played music together!”
    â€œThat’s not true,” I say.
    â€œYes, it is,” she insists. “And after your mother got arrested, Calliope skipped town.”
    Every time my life intersects with Medgers, she kicks up my mom’s past trangressions like radioactive dust.
    â€œThat was years ago. I was a little kid. Then my father died,” I tell Smythe and Beauregarde. “I was only eleven.”
    Smythe cringes.
    â€œAnd she put on a show and people paid her,” Medgers adds.
    â€œIs