2019.

The Finn Manor bowling alley had no ball return. That was because there weren’t any in the 1800s when the mansion was built. 

So, after rumbling down the shiny wooden lane, which had to have been refurbished several times over the past century or two, Gracie and Kevin’s balls had to be collected from the back and the pin reset by hand.

No electronic scorekeeping either — Kevin scratched their points onto a paper scorecard. On the fifth frame though, Gracie had enough. “Ok, you can stop that now,” she said after Kevin’s ball hit the gutter once again, costing him the spare. 

“Stop what?” said Kevin.

“You’re letting me win.” 

“Am I?”

“Your gutterballs are going too quickly into the gutter. You’re aiming for it.”

He walked to the back and began resetting the pins for her. “You know, I could just not be very good.”

“You live in a mansion with its own bowling alley, and the very first thing you invite me to do is play against you — this is not your first game.”

“Even so, I could just be really bad at this.”

“Nope. Not buying it.”

“How come?”

“The way you move,” she said. “Your — I don’t know — stance and whatnot. You know what you’re doing. And now I know what you’re doing. So, you can stop doing it.”

“Are you sure?”

Gracie readied her ball. “Look, it’s fine. I get it. You’re trying to be a nice host. Whatever. But I don’t need you to fake it for me. If we’re going to play, let’s play.”

“All right, then. Let’s play.” 

As of that frame, Gracie had him beat 63 to 35. They ended with her scoring 128 and Kevin winning with 131.

“Good game,” she said. “So, what else does this place have?”

What else Finn Manor had included many of the things that seem required for a mansion — a study where assorted curios shared shelf space with the books, a big open ballroom with a big old piano to host big fancy balls, long hallways opening into luxurious guest bedrooms, and a little sitting space by the stairs to gaze up at the stained glass windows and think about just how goddamn rich you are. 

Outside, there stood the statue of some naked guy holding a harp who was maybe supposed to be a Greek hero or somethin. Along fountains and rose bushes that would blossom in spring, stone walkways led out to a lawn ringed with trees climbing into the Titan hillside. 

Also, it had a graveyard — a “family plot,” Kevin called it  — tucked just off to the side of the lawn, shaded by trees still clinging to some of their autumn foliage. Above the door of a stone mausoleum, the name “Finn” had been carved. Around it stood dozens of headstones and a few small pieces of statuary.

“So, this is your family?” said Gracie.

“Not by blood. These are the Finns. When my father took control of Finn Industries, the manor came with it, and they came with the manor.”

“That’s… Okay, I’m sorry, but that really is super weird. You do know that, right? Like, not just that you have dead people in your backyard but dead people who you have zero connection with.”

“My father wanted to tie our name to a name that had been part of Titan City for as long as anyone could remember. That’s what he got.”

“You’re talking about him in past tense. He pass away too?”

“He has, yes.”

“Oh,” said Gracie. “So, um, is he also, you know, here?”

“No,” said Kevin. “He’s with my mother down at Poplar Hill.”

As far as Gracie was concerned, that didn’t make things any less weird. If anything, it made them weirder.

Then she noticed one of the graves had fresh earth, extremely fresh, by a headstone that read Edward Burton Finn (1931-2019). “But you’re still taking new additions? Finns still get buried here even though you own the place?”

Here, she saw Kevin’s face struggle. When he talked about his father’s death, Kevin reacted as blandly as if he were talking about the weather. But from how he looked when she mentioned this new grave, Gracie felt bad for asking. 

“Oh, hey, I’m sorry,” she said. Even though he hadn’t said anything. “Fresh dirt and fresh wounds, huh?”

“It’s okay. You didn’t know.” He turned to Edward’s grave. “Families are… complex. Eddie and I were close. At least, I wanted us to be. He was a good man, and I respected him a lot.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again. This part actually made a little more sense to her. She sure as hell wouldn’t want to keep her parents in her backyard after they passed away. It wasn’t too hard to imagine liking someone more than them and wanting them close, especially if you lived in the historic home of their ancestors.

After they made their way back up to the house, Kevin excused himself to go into town to be businesslike and do the business things that businessmen do. As for Gracie, since she had scheduled time off from work and school, she didn’t have anything to keep her occupied. So, she wandered the halls, coming up with names for the figures portrayed in its ancient portraits (“Sir Lord Kenneth Soggybutt, the Right Honorable Lady Winifred Dorkington, Freidrich Pimpledick Earl of Muttonchops…”).

But the yawning void of not-knowing that surrounded her legal future was still there, reaching out its tendril from the back of her mind, no matter how she tried to turn away. She needed something she could do, action she could take. Then she smelled something cooking.

Following the scent led her to the kitchen, which sat right between the long-tabled dining hall and big open ballroom. There was space in there to fit a team of cooks, but at the moment it only held the guy who had the car keys from Stephen the night before.

He stood in front of the stove, working a frying pan that was kicking up a whole lot of meaty smoke. And as he did, he sang to himself, softly, “Ain’t too proud to beg, and you know it… Please, don’t leave me, girl…”

Clearly he didn’t hear Gracie approach, not that she’d been trying to sneak up on him. Probably she could have stayed there watching for a while. But before Gracie could decide how to announce herself, he transferred something from the pan to the plate beside him, caught sight of her in the doorway, and nearly dropped the spatula in surprise. 

“Motherf-!” he blurted out, then stopped himself and took a moment to regain composure. “Hi.”

“Hi,” said Gracie. 

“Grace, right?”

“Gracie,” she corrected. “I forgot your name. Sorry.”

“Danny. Danny Cole.”

“Cool. Hey, Danny. That smells good.”

“Fried bologna,” he said and started assembling a sandwich.

“Not what I was expecting.”

“Why not?”

“Because this kitchen is attached to a ballroom. I didn’t figure bologna to be big on the menu for whatever charity galas get hosted here.”

“We’re full of surprises. Want one?”

“I’m good,” she said.

Danny smirked, “I didn’t ask if you were good. I asked if you wanted one.”

“Well then, allow me to politely decline your offer to fix me a sandwich.”

“What you are declining, politely, is my offer to leave out the stuff for you to fix yourself a sandwich.”

“What a gentleman.”

He took a big bite and said through a mouthful of it, “That’s me.”

Gracie smiled. “You live here too?”

“Room and board,” said Danny, swallowing. “Part of the package.”

“Sweet deal. You and Kevin and Stephen here — cozy little bachelor paradise you got going on.” She watched him put away bread and mayonnaise and American cheese. “So, both your roommates tell me they got help from a certain someone in a mask and now they want to pay that back.”

“Yep.”

“That apply to you too? Did you… meet a man at midnight?”

Danny shut the refrigerator door and turned to look her over, not like he did the night before, not the way a guy checks you out to decide if he’s interested. This was more like how a woman considered where  a man is safe to walk home with — a threat assessment. 

It felt strange to her to be on the receiving end. And as he walked past her, he said nothing one way or the other, just chewed his fried bologna and kept going. Seemed the jury was still out, giving her one more unanswered question to add to the list.

There was one place, though, that had all kinds of answers, often wrong answers, but it couldn’t be faulted for being thin on information. Back in her bedroom, Gracie pulled out her phone and started seeing what else she could find out about her benefactor online.

Kevin Snyder’s social media postings were way too polished, clearly something his PR team took care of. A few of the older pictures seemed fun and personal, like swimming with models off the coast of Greece and hanging out with actors on the set of the Viva Las Vegas remake. He had been featured on magazine covers and posted ads for public speaking events. There were also publicity photos from humanitarian work in foreign countries. 

Occasionally, a supposedly inspirational image would appear on his feed. One had a dog wearing sunglasses at the wheel of a classic convertible. The words above him read, “Your motive will drive you toward your goal. That’s why it’s called motor-vation.” The majority of Kevin’s business wisdom appeared to be pun based.

None of it appeared to have any kind of connection with Titan City’s Scarlet Stranger. Gracie was almost surprised Kevin hadn’t posted a selfie with him among his various other famous friends, but it did occur to her that, while most people thought of the Crimson Wraith as a hero, he was, literal, a criminal, a vigilante operating outside of the justice system, taking law into his own hands. 

Getting chummy with the Crimson Wraith might have looked bad for the CEO of Snyder-Finn. It could even make him a target. After all, once you accept that heroes are a real part of your world and not just something in Saturday morning cartoons, you have to accept there must be villains as well.