Chevie sipped her coffee, which had the consistency of mud and tasted like cough syrup. “I feel there should be more, you know. We’ve gone through hell, and now I’m just gonna walk away?”

“We will always be close, Chevie. I know the secret of your tattoo, remember?”

Chevie patted her own shoulder. “My tattoo? Yeah, well. I’m afraid I got sold a turkey on that one.”

“Sold a turkey?” said Riley, frowning.

“A crock. A bowl of bull. A heap of lies.”

“Your father lied to you? And you lied to me?”

“Afraid so, but I’m telling you the truth now, on account of all the bonding we’re doing. Dad loved telling that story, but the whole Chevron thing came about because my father had a falling out with the owner of the local Texaco.”

“Tex-a-co?”

“Yeah. A fueling station for automobiles. So, just to annoy this guy, and because of his beer problem, he gets a tattoo and then calls his firstborn Chevron, which is a competing gas station.”

Riley pushed his tankard away with the tip of one finger. “So, no noble warrior?”

“No. And I based my whole life on that story, got the tattoo, told anyone who would listen, became an agent. Last year I meet the Texaco guy, who is broken up that my pop died, and he tells me the truth. I am named after a gas station.”

“Wow,” said Riley, who had heard the word used in the future and liked it.

“Wow? That’s it, huh? No magical wisdom from the Great Riley?”

“We have both built our lives on lies,” said Riley. “I was not abandoned to slum cannibals, and your ancestors were not great warriors; but the lies did their work, and we are who we are. I think you are the youngest agent in your police force for good reason. Perhaps in spite of the name Chevron.”

Chevie smiled. “Yeah, okay, Riley. That’s not bad. I’m gonna go with that.”

They abandoned the cab and walked to the house on Half Moon Street. Bob Winkle was doing his utmost to decipher the limited facts he had been given.

“So, princess. You plan to enter this house and stay there for a hundred years?”

Chevie patted his shoulder. “Something like that, Winkle. I would say See you around, but it’s probably not going to happen.”

“So we should kiss now?”

“Of course,” said Chevie and gave him a peck on the cheek that he would have to be content with.

“Next year I will be fifteen,” said Bob Winkle, emboldened by the kiss. “We could be married. I could make fair chink off a battling Injun maid at the fairgrounds.”

“Tempting as that offer is, I think I’ll pass.”