BIANCA EVANS GAZED AT THE BLEACHED JAWS ABOVE THE FRONT DOOR of a rundown trailer in the middle of nowhere, an hour or so outside of Buffalo. She adjusted the floral scarf she used to secure her springy black curls from her face.
Shark?
Or something else?
At least it wasn’t another Confederate flag. Bianca had seen a few too many of those for her personal comfort, and in Western New York of all places. She looked at D’Andre, bemused.
“Trust me,” he said, before knocking. He held a camera over one shoulder, filming.
An unkempt man in a stained white tank top and baggy jeans opened the door. He had a craggy tanned face, stringy blond hair, and a lanky build. His faded blue eyes appeared sharp and intelligent behind a pair of surprisingly well-made wireframe glasses. A cigarette stuck out one side of his mouth.
“Stan Harris? My name’s D’Andre Jones. I spoke to you earlier on the phone.”
The man ushered them inside, setting his cigarette down in an ashtray on a coffee table. If he was bothered by the camera, he didn’t show it. He sat down on an old brown sofa. The trailer reeked of stale cigarette smoke, but it was otherwise clean, if a little dusty and sparsely furnished. Different colored thumbtacks marked different places on a large map of the United States on one wall. Framed photos of newspaper clippings—tabloids from the looks of it—decorated another.
Great. Another weirdo. Where does D’Andre find these people?
When Stan didn’t say anything, D’Andre continued. “We’re doing an investigative documentary on the Lafayette Foundation.” He inclined his head toward Bianca. “This is Bianca Evans. She has reason to believe the foundation is involved in human trafficking. One of my other sources said you might have pertinent information for us.”
Stan chuckled. “Oh, they’re involved in trafficking, alright. But it isn’t humans. Moira Lafayette? She’s not from around here, if you catch my meaning.” Another chuckle, this one ending in a wheeze.
Bianca pulled D’Andre aside while Stan hacked up a lung. “This is a waste of time,” she told him under her breath. “I’m trying to find information about my brother, and you’re out here looking for Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster or some stupid-ass crypto shit.”
“Cryptid,” D’Andre said. “Crypto’s a form of currency.”
Bianca rolled her eyes.
“You have to admit,” he continued, “things have been getting weird for a while now. We could be the ones to blow this whole story out of the water.”
“I don’t care about stories,” Bianca said. “Don’t you get it? I just want to find Brian.”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree,” Stan interjected after his coughing subsided. “Moira Lafayette doesn’t like attracting any negative attention. You find out who’s got a reason to implicate the Lafayette Foundation, maybe you’ll find your brother. Or maybe,” he added with less mirth, “you’ll be the next to go missing.”
“Is that a threat?” Bianca took a step toward him. D’Andre put a hand on her shoulder to stop her from going further.
“Consider it friendly advice,” Stan answered. “This thing going on? It’s bigger than me, you, and your brother. Go home, Bianca Evans. Go home before it swallows you whole.”
Bianca was still shaking when she sat back down in the passenger seat of the dark gray Honda Civic. She turned to glare at D’Andre when he got in the driver’s side.
“Did he scare you?” D’Andre asked.
“I’m not scared.” Bianca glared at him. “I’m angry.”
“He might have a point,” D’Andre said. “The last known location of your brother was shut down by the state a year after he left. Maybe we should track down one of the old employees. Maybe someone wanted to frame the Lafayette Foundation for Brian’s disappearance. Or maybe it was just a convenient scapegoat.”
“No,” Bianca said. “I want to go to Chateau Beaumont.”
“Tomorrow,” D’Andre said. “Promise.”
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"Crypto's a form of currency." Also, when spelt with a "K", it's the name of Superman's canine buddy.