The Song Is You by Megan Abbott

about, but only thirdhand. I hear it was all an honest mix-up.”
    “I’ m sure.”
    Truth was, it had been a combination of hustle and luck. He hadn’t been sure the cop’s wife was lying (although he was pretty sure she was). Why should that stop him from passing along the story to a salivating reporter? It wasn’t his job to find out who was telling the truth. He knew what his job was.
    “So it turned out the cop’s wife had an ax to grind?” Hop shrugged. “That reporter should’ve checked his facts before condemning the guy. I’m sure you would have.”
    “You got that right, Mr. Hopkins,” she said, capping her pen. “I don’t fall so easy. Not even if you batted those long lashes at me all day long.”
    He took her for a bowl of chop suey at a small place around the corner. She smoked while she ate, digging for stringy pork. They sat on adjacent stools at the counter—”So I don’t have to look into those big blue eyes of yours,” she’d said.
    “Spangler. Yeah, I had the story for about a week,” she said, then lifted her eyes from her food and crooked her head toward Hop. ‘You must know more about it than me. She was with your studio, right?”
    “I wasn’t working for them then.”
    “That doesn’t answer my question. What do you want from me? What could I tell you that you couldn’t read in the papers?”
    Hop pushed his food away and rested his elbows on the counter, turning his head toward her.
    “Nothing. Maybe. I don’t know.” He was trying to be careful. To strike a balance. He wanted to find out if there were any leftover threads dangling from the case without pulling a few new ones loose in the process. He said, “A friend of mine who knew the girl came to see me. She was a little shook up.”
    “Why? That was almost two years ago.” She was getting more interested. He could tell by the way she lowered her fork from full
    keel.
    “I don’t know. She left before I could find out.”
    “So go ask her. Telephone her.”
    “She’s left. No forwarding number.”
    “Close friend, eh?” She wiped her lips with her napkin. “So why do
    you care?”
    Hop tried to decide if this Adair girl was attractive or not. He thought so when he first spotted her in the newsroom, breasts like
    hard little peaches against her tailored suit. Big cow eyes and a firm mouth. Legs that worked coming and going.
    But something in the way she spoke seemed like each word she uttered sent out a hundred-yard stretch between them. Or like she was behind a pane of glass. And not in a way that made him want to rap on it, asking for admittance.
    “The point is,” he said, resting his finger on the edge of her sleeve, “I can’t seem to puzzle out what got her so shook up. I figure if I find that out, maybe I can help her.” This wasn’t all true, but it was true enough. Maybe. Hop couldn’t untangle his motives. There was something about covering his own tracks—tracks he thought he’d long ago covered. And sure, there was something else. Something about Iolene’s accusations. And something, too, about the coltish fear in her eyes and the idea that maybe he—the fixer—could make it disappear.
    Frannie shook off his finger and speared herself a water chestnut. “Mr. Hopkins, I’d like to help—well, no, actually, I don’t care. But I couldn’t help even if I did. Read my stories. That’s all I know.”
    Something in the way she returned so intently to her congealed chop suey, which was among the worst he’d ever tasted, made him more sure of her interest. She had something. He wondered what it could be and how you’d get something like that out of a girl like that.
    “How would I get something out of a girl like you,” he said, taking a chance on the honest approach. “And note: I’m not batting my eyelashes.”
    She grinned, exposing a chipped tooth. Somehow, the sight of it stirred Hop and a few dozen yards fell away.
    “Let me think on some things, Mr. Hopkins.” She set her