Chapter 7: Spellingg Bee — Part 2
Richard Chen's signature stared at me from the volunteer list, neat and precise and damning.
I'd been looking at it for three hours, cross-referencing it with the threatening letters I'd photographed at Patricia Chen's house. The handwriting matched — not just the style, but the specific way the letters tilted, the particular pressure on downstrokes, the consistent spacing that spoke of someone who took pride in their penmanship.
My back was screaming from sleeping in the Psych office chair. The coffee I'd made around 4 AM had gone cold hours ago. And somewhere in Santa Barbara, Emily Chen was hiding at a friend's house because her father — her biological father, the man who was supposed to protect her — had decided that stalking her was an acceptable response to losing a custody battle.
The spelling bee finals started in six hours.
[SHAWN VISION COOLDOWN: COMPLETE. MANUAL ACTIVATION AVAILABLE.]
I ignored the notification. Shawn Vision wouldn't tell me anything I didn't already know. Richard Chen was the stalker. The evidence pointed to him. The only question was how to end this in a way that protected Emily, satisfied the SBPD, and earned full XP instead of the meta-knowledge penalty.
The answer was obvious: theatrical performance. A psychic reveal so convincing that even Lassiter couldn't deny the results.
My phone buzzed. Gus.
"Tell me you didn't sleep at the office."
"I didn't sleep at the office."
"Shawn."
"I power-napped. Very efficient. Athletes do it."
"Athletes don't drink three-day-old coffee and solve crimes in their underwear."
"I'm wearing pants." I checked. "Mostly wearing pants. The important parts are covered."
Gus's sigh could have powered a small generator. "The spelling bee finals are at noon. What's the plan?"
The plan. The plan was to confront Richard Chen in front of two hundred people, deliver a psychic performance that would make the show's writers jealous, and hope that Lassiter didn't shoot me for showboating.
"Meet me at the venue at eleven. Bring backup coffee and your sense of dramatic timing."
"My sense of dramatic timing is fine. Yours is what worries me."
"Trust me, buddy."
I hung up before he could point out that trusting me had historically been a questionable decision.
The community center was transformed. Banners corrected — "CHAMPIONSHIP" now properly spelled — and the main hall packed with parents, teachers, and nervous children clutching vocabulary cards. The atmosphere was tense in a way that had nothing to do with spelling and everything to do with the patrol car I'd spotted outside.
Emily Chen was here. I'd checked with Patricia that morning — the finals were too important to miss, and the police presence made it "safe enough." Emily sat in the front row with her mother, a twelve-year-old trying very hard to look normal while her father lurked somewhere in this building with wire cutters and a grudge.
Gus found me near the registration table, two cups of coffee in hand and skepticism radiating from every pore.
"You look terrible."
"Thank you." I took the coffee. "When I start my psychic episode, I need you backstage."
"Phone duty?"
"Evidence confirmation." I outlined the plan quickly — the rigging, the wire cutters, the timing. "Chen is going to make a move during the competition. The sabotaged stage equipment, the escalating threats — he wants to ruin this event in front of everyone. When I confront him, you make sure we have the physical evidence locked down."
Gus's expression shifted from skepticism to something closer to focus. "You're putting me on the important job."
"I'm putting you on the job you're best at. I can do the dramatic nonsense in my sleep. You're the one who found the custody angle, the adhesive on the rigging, the timeline that made this case solvable."
[BCM UPDATE: 20/100. +2 FROM GENUINE ACKNOWLEDGMENT.]
"Fine." Gus straightened his tie — he'd worn business attire, some pharmaceutical sales instinct about looking professional in crowded venues. "But if this goes wrong—"
"It won't."
"If it does—"
"It won't, Gus." I met his eyes. "I've got this."
He didn't look convinced, but he headed for the backstage entrance anyway. I watched him go, then turned my attention to the crowd.
Richard Chen was here. I could feel it — not psychically, obviously, but through the particular mathematics of an obsessive stalker. He'd planted himself as a volunteer. He'd sabotaged the stage. He'd escalated his threats to include photographs of his daughter. There was no way he would miss the finale of his campaign.
[SHAWN VISION ACTIVATING — MANUAL TRIGGER]
Three highlights shimmered into existence. A volunteer near the sound equipment, adjusting cables with nervous energy. A woman in the third row clutching her purse like it contained something precious. And a man in maintenance coveralls walking toward the stage from the side entrance.
The coveralls had a logo from the community center — official enough to grant access anywhere. The man's posture was rigid, controlled, the walk of someone who knew exactly where he was going. His pocket bulged with something rectangular and heavy.
Richard Chen. I'd seen his driver's license photo in the background research. Same jaw, same hairline, same particular way of carrying himself like the world owed him something.
The competition was starting. A young boy spelled "pneumonia" correctly and received polite applause. Richard Chen moved closer to the stage.
"Showtime."
I walked toward him with the particular stride of someone having a revelation — stumbling slightly, touching my temple, making enough noise that heads turned. Performance. Everything was performance.
"I'm getting something," I announced to no one in particular, loud enough to carry. "Something about... this building. This event. A presence that shouldn't be here."
Richard Chen froze. His hand moved toward his pocket.
"A man driven by loss," I continued, closing the distance. "Not hate — loss. He lost something precious, and he's convinced himself that the only way to get it back is to destroy everything else."
The crowd was watching now. Parents pulling children closer. Volunteers exchanging confused glances. Lassiter and Juliet, alerted by the commotion, pushing through from the main entrance.
"The letters." I was five feet from Chen now, close enough to see the sweat on his forehead. "The photograph. The sabotaged rigging that was supposed to collapse during the finals, ruining the event his ex-wife spent months organizing."
Chen's hand came out of his pocket. Wire cutters. The same tool I'd predicted in my report.
"Richard Chen." I touched my temple one final time, closing my eyes for maximum dramatic effect. "The spirits show me your name."
"You don't know anything!" Chen's voice cracked. "You don't know what she took from me!"
"I know you signed up as a volunteer two days before the first threatening letter." I opened my eyes. "I know your handwriting matches the threats. I know you tampered with the stage rigging using skills from your electrical work background. And I know your daughter is watching you right now, and this isn't the memory you want her to have."
Chen turned. Emily was standing at the front row, twelve years old, watching her father hold wire cutters and confess to terrorizing her mother.
The fight went out of him all at once. The wire cutters clattered to the floor. Lassiter was there in seconds, cuffing Chen with the particular efficiency of a man who'd been waiting for an excuse to arrest someone.
"Richard Chen, you're under arrest for criminal threatening, stalking, and property damage." Lassiter's voice was professional, but I caught the slight satisfaction underneath. A collar he could explain to the press. A case closed cleanly.
[CASE COMPLETE: SPELLINGG BEE THREATS][XP EARNED: 87 — FULL CREDIT. DEDUCTION EARNED THROUGH INVESTIGATION.][SYSTEM LEVEL UP: 1 → 2][NEW FEATURE UNLOCKED: ACHIEVEMENT LOG (PARTIAL)]
The notification cascade nearly made me stumble for real. Level 2. I'd actually done it — solved a case without meta-knowledge shortcuts, earned full experience, and hit a genuine milestone.
Gus emerged from backstage holding a clear evidence bag with pieces of cut rigging wire. He'd found the physical proof while I was doing my theatrical nonsense. The case was airtight.
"That was..." Gus stopped beside me, watching Lassiter escort Chen out of the building. "That was actually impressive."
"We," I corrected. "That was we."
His expression softened. The BCM probably ticked up another point, though I was too flooded with level-up notifications to check.
Patricia Chen rushed to Emily, gathering her daughter in an embrace that looked like it might never end. The spelling bee organizers announced a brief recess to "address technical difficulties." The crowd buzzed with the particular energy of people who'd just witnessed something they didn't entirely understand.
And across the venue, Juliet O'Hara was writing in her notebook.
I caught her eye. She offered a professional smile that revealed absolutely nothing, then snapped the notebook closed and followed Lassiter out.
[NEW THREAD DETECTED: JULIET O'HARA — OBSERVATION INITIATED][WARNING: HIGH ANALYTICAL CAPABILITY. RECOMMEND CAUTION.]
The system's assessment matched my own sinking feeling. She'd seen the performance. She'd seen it work. And now she was taking notes.
The parking lot was emptying when Gus found me leaning against the Blueberry.
"So." He jingled his keys. "Same time next week?"
I looked at him. The trial period was over. One case, he'd said. Prove it works, and we'd discuss continuing.
"You're staying?"
"I'm staying." He unlocked the car. "Someone has to make sure you don't get yourself killed doing the dramatic hand-to-temple thing in front of actual criminals."
"It's a proven technique."
"It's asking to get punched." He paused, hand on the door. "But it works. I don't know how, I don't understand the psychic stuff, but it works. And the cases are... more interesting than pharmaceutical sales."
[BCM UPDATE: 22/100. PARTNERSHIP STATUS: COMMITTED.][BUDDY COVENANT: ACTIVE. SOLO PERFORMANCE CAP REMAINS UNTIL BCM 26+.]
Twenty-two points. Four more until I unlocked whatever duo abilities the system had locked behind the friendship threshold.
"Gus." I waited until he looked at me. "For what it's worth — you cracked this case. The parent interviews, the custody timeline, the evidence backstage. I did the show. You did the work."
Something complicated crossed his face. Recognition, maybe. The particular vulnerability of being seen.
"You know that's right," he said finally, and climbed into the Blueberry.
I watched him drive away, then checked my phone.
One new voicemail. Henry Spencer's number.
"We need to talk about what you're doing with the police, kid."
My stomach dropped. Of course. Of course the one person I'd been avoiding would choose today to make contact.
The motorcycle was parked three spaces over. I had approximately twenty-four hours before Henry demanded an in-person explanation, based on his patterns from the show. Twenty-four hours to figure out how to pretend to be the son of a man who'd trained that son for nearly three decades.
No pressure.
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