Disclaimer: Don't own anything. Although I wouldn't mind my own personal
piece of Seth's tattoo. Heh.
A/N: I realize I may have messed with a timeline here--From Dusk Till Dawn came out around the same time as Pulp Fiction, which is referred to here. I realize that the events in this story could not have happened after the release of the film, but in my universe, we're just going to go with it, okay?
Five: Revelation
Aunt Anette was at least in her late sixties, with tightly curled silver hair on her head, bright blue eyes, glasses perched on her nose, and dressed like someone desperately trying to look much younger. Then again, Xanny had never thought much of granny clothes, so she could take out the desperately. She wouldn't wear granny clothes when she got to her age, either.
Mr. Ferarre, who at some point in time had given her discreet permission to call him Marcos, as long as she didn't do it in mixed company, stood up from his seat at the table. "Aunt Anette," he said, "this is Alexandra Wallace, and her employer, Carl Whittaker."
But the woman's eyes were riveted on Xanny. "My God," she whispered, went completely white, and left the room.
They were left staring at each other across the table, then, awkwardly, Xanny sat back down.
"What was that about?" Carl asked, digging into his soup.
Marcos seemed perturbed-the first real emotion she'd seen him show all day. "I...don't know," he said. "But I imagine we'll find out. Please, enjoy lunch."
So they ate. Marcos kept casting his eyes toward the door, as if waiting for something-or someone-to appear, but when no one came and went except for the serving maid, he finally, turned to Xanny with a look of interest and said;
"Tell me about your family."
Xanny wasn't really used to being in such rich surroundings, and in spite of her thickness of skin, she was enjoying the finery. It was almost disappointing to be dragged back from this tiny little fantasy she was enjoying. "I don't have any," she said. "My mom took off when I was five, Dad was hardly around, I think he was a criminal, he finally got sent up and I was put into foster care. Got bounced around-I was a bad kid, I stole and lied every chance I got. I ran away when I was fourteen and lived on my own for a bit. Hooked up with guys here and there, until they weren't any use to me anymore, moved on. Finally I met Seth, and ran with him and his brother Ritchie for a while, and then something...happened."
"What happened?" Marcos asked, his tea half-way to his mouth.
She shrugged. "You ever watch Pulp Fiction? The scene where Travolta and Jackson almost get shot, but the bullets go through them into the wall? And Jackson says he has a moment of clarity?"
He cleared his throat. "I do believe I remember that scene, yes."
"It was sort of like that. I had an epiphany. We were in the middle of a big score-Seth took me out of the small-time cons I was playing and into bigger game, but it was more than I liked. We got our hands on a bunch of money, but the police managed to track us down."
"How?"
She hesitated. She didn't want to tell him it was because Ritchie was a psychopath who killed people for things he imagined they did, and left a very bloody trail for the police to follow. She didn't want him to worry about Augusta. "Bad luck, I guess. Happens to the best of us. Anyway, I wanted to turn myself in, and Seth was sort of upset with me. In the mess, I was arrested and they went free. I managed to plead down the charges and got a reduced sentence. And then Carl hired me after I was paroled. I've been clean ever since."
Marcos finally gave Carl something akin to a respectable look. "You hired a convicted felon?"
"Most detectives are just legalized criminals," Carl said with a half- shrug. "Besides, she's legit. I'm sure of it. It's hard to put much past me."
Marcos chuckled. "Well, I-"
Just then, Anette burst back into the room, holding a box. She came around and sat down at Xanny's side. "My God," she gasped. "All these years...I didn't ever think you'd turn up! My God!"
Xanny turned to her. "I'm sorry, but what the hell are you talking about?"
She opened a box. There was a birth certificate inside, with a set of prints, both of a baby, one of the feet and the other of the hands. On the birth certificate, in faded black ink, was a name. Alexandra Laraine Baxton. Aunt Anette pulled out the certificate.
"You have to be her," Anette said. "The girls were identical twins. You were only five days old when you were taken." She choked back tears. "Kidnapped."
Marcos stood up. Carl had frozen with his spoon half-way to his mouth, soup dribbling slowly back down into the bowl unnoticed. "Aunt Anette," Marcos said, his voice sharp, "I think perhaps you're jumping to conclusions-"
"I am not," Anette said. "You had a birthmark, Alexandra. On your lower back, a discolored blotch shaped like a heart."
Xanny's fork clattered to her plate. "How in the hell did you..."
"It is you!" Anette cried, throwing her arms around the stunned woman. "After all these years, you've finally come home!"
%%%%%%%%%%
"Stupid mother fucker!" Seth growled, hitting the steering wheel. "I told you, Ritchie. I told you ten times not to let that bastard anywhere near our stash."
"And I didn't," Ritchie shot back, just as angrily. "It's not my fucking fault that he figured it out. What am I, a fucking guard dog? Lay the fuck off."
Augusta shrank into her seat, now in the back. They'd stopped at a small house-more like a shack-on the outskirts of one of the run-down towns they passed through, and the boys had gone in for something and apparently hadn't found it. When they emerged, they were yelling at each other, furious, although it was clear that Ritchie was more desperate for Seth to stop yelling at him than the other way around.
"I'm going to blow that bastard's head off into next week," Seth growled. "What's the name of that bar, again?"
"Harold's," Ritchie said, in the middle of loading his gun. "We'll take care of it, Seth. Nobody steals from us."
How long they drove, Augusta didn't know. Seth was so angry he kept jerking the wheel, swearing at whatever driver was stupid enough to get in their way, even if they weren't slowing them down. Finally they pulled into the lot of a place called "Harold's," which was in a busier end of town, but no so busy that the lot was full of cars. There were some low-hanging trees nearby, and Seth pulled behind their dangling branches.
"Ritchie, put the hostage in the trunk."
Augusta's head raised in indignation. Now she was "the hostage" again? "I don't want to go in the trunk," she said firmly.
"Right now, I don't really care what you want," Seth said, his voice even as he checked how many rounds he had in his own gun. "Trunk."
"Oh, come on, Seth, don't put me back in the trunk," she said, her voice half-pleading, half-pissed. "Let me come in."
He spun around in his seat, as if his torso had become detached from his legs. He pointed his gun dead in her face. "No fucking way," he said, dead calm.
She should have flinched. If she'd had a reasonable thought in her head, she would have flinched, cowed, done whatever he wanted. But the thought of that stinky, dark trunk. "I didn't pull any shit in the mini- mart. I even helped cover for you," she said calmly. "I don't want to go back in the trunk. I want to come in."
"Sweetheart," Seth said, his voice starting to belay his impatience, "do you know what we're going in there to do? Do you know what this place is?"
"I don't care, it's got to be better than that trunk."
"Seth, come on," Ritchie said quietly. "Knock her on the head, I'll open the trunk and we'll dump her inside."
Seth seemed to consider this option. She just stared at him, unblinking.
"Please? If I'm lying, Ritchie can cut me up into little pieces."
"The day I start fucking trusting my hostages..." Seth grumbled, but didn't finish. He pulled his gun away, got out of the car, walked around to the other side and nearly dragged Augusta out. With a firm grip on her arm, he guided her into the bar, Ritchie just ahead of them. They walked in, and Seth firmly pushed her into a set by the door.
"You just remember what you said," Seth said, leaning down and staring her very hard in the face.
She smirked. "Whyever would I want to run away? I'm having way to much fun."
He didn't change expression as he pulled back and stormed across the room toward the bar, Ritchie at his side.
"Asshole," she grumbled. "Both of you." Sliding back, she made herself as comfortable as the unyielding wooden seat would allow her, stretching out her legs-man, she hated cramped back seats-and folding her arms, glaring at anyone who dared look at her. At least they could have brought her a beer.
Seth went to the bar. She didn't hear the exchange, but the bartender, after considerable hesitation, directed the two men to a back room. Seth and Ritchie disappeared.
She stared after them. It was the first time they'd both been out of her sight since that awful time in the trunk. But then she heard some faint sounds, sounds that sent a chill through her, and she perked up, the tingle going through her spine and up into her head, making her hair stand on end. In a few seconds, Seth and Ritchie were coming out of the room, Seth carrying a backpack that looked like it had belonged to a teenager, dark maroon. His gun was concealed again, his other hand free, and as he passed by her, he reached down and grabbed her arm, pulling her up with him.
Just then, Ritchie spun around. "What the fuck?" he snarled.
Seth stopped in the dark foyer. The door was open. His grip on Augusta, which had been iron, suddenly slacked, and for the first time she saw the fleeting signs of panic in his usually confident face.
"Who the fuck said that?" Ritchie shouted into the room. There weren't a lot of people there-a spattering of locals, none of which looked like they were too far beyond conscious.
"What is it?" Seth snapped.
"Some prick just called us a couple of faggots," Ritchie said. "I wanna know who!"
"Ritchie, come on, we need to go. I don't care what anybody says about us and neither should you."
"Fuck that Seth, if you'd heard it you'd be cracking skulls together," Ritchie said with a brief turn of his head. "Who the fuck said it!!" He seemed to zone in on a middle-aged man, sitting at the bar, who looked particularly drunk and defiant. "You said it, didn't you, you old fuck!?"
"Ritchie," Seth said, but before he could stop him, Ritchie had kicked the barstool out from under the man and sent him crashing to the floor. Seth didn't realize it, but he had let go of Augusta.
She looked toward the door. Sure, she could run, but where would she go? And she had given her word, and a promise. No way was she going to risk Ritchie getting the chance to cut her up into little pieces. That guy was a fucking psycho.
Seth had stepped back into the bar to pull Ritchie back, who was kicking the breath out of the guy on the floor, right in the softness of his stomach. "That looks good enough to me, man," Seth said amiably, guiding Ritchie away. "Don't think he'll be shooting off his mouth anytime soon."
"Not without any fucking teeth!" Ritchie finished with a kick to the jaw. He spun around and marched out, walking right past Augusta and out into the parking lot.
Seth stopped in the doorway, looking at Augusta, as if surprised to see her. He gestured with his hand, and she stepped outside. Ritchie was having a fit in the lot.
"I heard him Seth, I fucking heard him, I swear to God!" he was saying as he kicked his way to the car.
"I believe you, Ritchie," Seth said as he opened the back door for Augusta. He set the bag of money on the seat beside her and closed the door.
"You're not just saying that, are you, Seth?" Ritchie said, calming enough to yank open the passenger door. "You do believe me?"
"I said I did, Ritchie," Seth said, getting in. "Now come on, let's go before they see the mess we made in the back room."
"I hate it when people call me names, Seth," Ritchie said. "He's just lucky he didn't call me crazy. I would have killed him if he'd called me crazy."
"I know, Ritchie. I know."
%%%%%%%%%%
It was unbelievable. Like something out of Investigative Reports, or Unsolved Mysteries.
"We should check her prints, to be sure," Marcos suggested. "Make sure they match."
"Sure, sure, whatever," Anette said, sighing through her tears. "My God, we looked for you for years. We even paid to have a story run about you on Unsolved Mysteries. Finally, when your parents died, the search was given up. Augusta has no memory of you at all. I figured you were lost to us, so I let it go, as well. But now you're here!" She hugged her, fiercely. "Now you're home!"
Xanny looked over Anette's shoulder toward Carl, who was gawking. She could practically see the wheels in his mind turning, trying to figure out the situation, seeing if there was any money in it for him. Carl was a good man at heart, but he was all too fond of the almighty-dollar.
"Wait a minute," Xanny said, giving Anette a gentle push away. "This is very... very sudden. And you're being awfully trusting that I'm for real and not just a scam. How do you know I'm this Alexandra? Mr. Ferarre is right, we need to do a fingerprint check."
"Fine, fine, whatever you want," Anette said, wiping her nose with an embroidered handkerchief. "Whenever you want. Marcos?" she looked to him, expectantly.
It was Carl who spoke up. "I can make a few calls. We should be able to arrange it for sometime this afternoon."
As if not having realized the man was in the room, Anette turned to him, "Are you the one who brought our little girl back home?"
"This is my boss, uh..." Oh hell, she didn't want to call her Aunt, maybe she'd be okay with Miss. "Miss Anette. This is Carl. You met him before, didn't you?"
"Oh yes," Anette said, shaking his hand. "Alexandra works for you?"
"Yeah," Carl said, starting to regain his foothold in the situation. "But if what you're saying is right, and Xanny here-"
"Xanny?" Anette echoed, confused.
"Xanny is what everyone calls me," Xanny explained.
"That's so strange! Why not Alex or Alexa? Or even Andra, if you don't like the beginning. Xanny? That's very...odd."
"I like it," Xanny said. "Listen, I think we need to deal with the first crisis first. Your niece, Miss Anette, she's been kidnapped by a very dangerous criminal. A criminal that I, unfortunately, know personally. That's why we came here, to offer our services in helping to find them and return Augusta home."
"You know these criminals?" The older woman seemed shocked into repulsion. "How in the world do you know them?"
"Because I used to be one of them," Xanny said, with an edge to her voice. "Please, Miss Anette, you're going to have to sit and listen for a while. If I am this missing twin, I haven't had the prettiest life, and you might not be so happy to have found me, once you know where I've been."
A/N: I realize I may have messed with a timeline here--From Dusk Till Dawn came out around the same time as Pulp Fiction, which is referred to here. I realize that the events in this story could not have happened after the release of the film, but in my universe, we're just going to go with it, okay?
Five: Revelation
Aunt Anette was at least in her late sixties, with tightly curled silver hair on her head, bright blue eyes, glasses perched on her nose, and dressed like someone desperately trying to look much younger. Then again, Xanny had never thought much of granny clothes, so she could take out the desperately. She wouldn't wear granny clothes when she got to her age, either.
Mr. Ferarre, who at some point in time had given her discreet permission to call him Marcos, as long as she didn't do it in mixed company, stood up from his seat at the table. "Aunt Anette," he said, "this is Alexandra Wallace, and her employer, Carl Whittaker."
But the woman's eyes were riveted on Xanny. "My God," she whispered, went completely white, and left the room.
They were left staring at each other across the table, then, awkwardly, Xanny sat back down.
"What was that about?" Carl asked, digging into his soup.
Marcos seemed perturbed-the first real emotion she'd seen him show all day. "I...don't know," he said. "But I imagine we'll find out. Please, enjoy lunch."
So they ate. Marcos kept casting his eyes toward the door, as if waiting for something-or someone-to appear, but when no one came and went except for the serving maid, he finally, turned to Xanny with a look of interest and said;
"Tell me about your family."
Xanny wasn't really used to being in such rich surroundings, and in spite of her thickness of skin, she was enjoying the finery. It was almost disappointing to be dragged back from this tiny little fantasy she was enjoying. "I don't have any," she said. "My mom took off when I was five, Dad was hardly around, I think he was a criminal, he finally got sent up and I was put into foster care. Got bounced around-I was a bad kid, I stole and lied every chance I got. I ran away when I was fourteen and lived on my own for a bit. Hooked up with guys here and there, until they weren't any use to me anymore, moved on. Finally I met Seth, and ran with him and his brother Ritchie for a while, and then something...happened."
"What happened?" Marcos asked, his tea half-way to his mouth.
She shrugged. "You ever watch Pulp Fiction? The scene where Travolta and Jackson almost get shot, but the bullets go through them into the wall? And Jackson says he has a moment of clarity?"
He cleared his throat. "I do believe I remember that scene, yes."
"It was sort of like that. I had an epiphany. We were in the middle of a big score-Seth took me out of the small-time cons I was playing and into bigger game, but it was more than I liked. We got our hands on a bunch of money, but the police managed to track us down."
"How?"
She hesitated. She didn't want to tell him it was because Ritchie was a psychopath who killed people for things he imagined they did, and left a very bloody trail for the police to follow. She didn't want him to worry about Augusta. "Bad luck, I guess. Happens to the best of us. Anyway, I wanted to turn myself in, and Seth was sort of upset with me. In the mess, I was arrested and they went free. I managed to plead down the charges and got a reduced sentence. And then Carl hired me after I was paroled. I've been clean ever since."
Marcos finally gave Carl something akin to a respectable look. "You hired a convicted felon?"
"Most detectives are just legalized criminals," Carl said with a half- shrug. "Besides, she's legit. I'm sure of it. It's hard to put much past me."
Marcos chuckled. "Well, I-"
Just then, Anette burst back into the room, holding a box. She came around and sat down at Xanny's side. "My God," she gasped. "All these years...I didn't ever think you'd turn up! My God!"
Xanny turned to her. "I'm sorry, but what the hell are you talking about?"
She opened a box. There was a birth certificate inside, with a set of prints, both of a baby, one of the feet and the other of the hands. On the birth certificate, in faded black ink, was a name. Alexandra Laraine Baxton. Aunt Anette pulled out the certificate.
"You have to be her," Anette said. "The girls were identical twins. You were only five days old when you were taken." She choked back tears. "Kidnapped."
Marcos stood up. Carl had frozen with his spoon half-way to his mouth, soup dribbling slowly back down into the bowl unnoticed. "Aunt Anette," Marcos said, his voice sharp, "I think perhaps you're jumping to conclusions-"
"I am not," Anette said. "You had a birthmark, Alexandra. On your lower back, a discolored blotch shaped like a heart."
Xanny's fork clattered to her plate. "How in the hell did you..."
"It is you!" Anette cried, throwing her arms around the stunned woman. "After all these years, you've finally come home!"
%%%%%%%%%%
"Stupid mother fucker!" Seth growled, hitting the steering wheel. "I told you, Ritchie. I told you ten times not to let that bastard anywhere near our stash."
"And I didn't," Ritchie shot back, just as angrily. "It's not my fucking fault that he figured it out. What am I, a fucking guard dog? Lay the fuck off."
Augusta shrank into her seat, now in the back. They'd stopped at a small house-more like a shack-on the outskirts of one of the run-down towns they passed through, and the boys had gone in for something and apparently hadn't found it. When they emerged, they were yelling at each other, furious, although it was clear that Ritchie was more desperate for Seth to stop yelling at him than the other way around.
"I'm going to blow that bastard's head off into next week," Seth growled. "What's the name of that bar, again?"
"Harold's," Ritchie said, in the middle of loading his gun. "We'll take care of it, Seth. Nobody steals from us."
How long they drove, Augusta didn't know. Seth was so angry he kept jerking the wheel, swearing at whatever driver was stupid enough to get in their way, even if they weren't slowing them down. Finally they pulled into the lot of a place called "Harold's," which was in a busier end of town, but no so busy that the lot was full of cars. There were some low-hanging trees nearby, and Seth pulled behind their dangling branches.
"Ritchie, put the hostage in the trunk."
Augusta's head raised in indignation. Now she was "the hostage" again? "I don't want to go in the trunk," she said firmly.
"Right now, I don't really care what you want," Seth said, his voice even as he checked how many rounds he had in his own gun. "Trunk."
"Oh, come on, Seth, don't put me back in the trunk," she said, her voice half-pleading, half-pissed. "Let me come in."
He spun around in his seat, as if his torso had become detached from his legs. He pointed his gun dead in her face. "No fucking way," he said, dead calm.
She should have flinched. If she'd had a reasonable thought in her head, she would have flinched, cowed, done whatever he wanted. But the thought of that stinky, dark trunk. "I didn't pull any shit in the mini- mart. I even helped cover for you," she said calmly. "I don't want to go back in the trunk. I want to come in."
"Sweetheart," Seth said, his voice starting to belay his impatience, "do you know what we're going in there to do? Do you know what this place is?"
"I don't care, it's got to be better than that trunk."
"Seth, come on," Ritchie said quietly. "Knock her on the head, I'll open the trunk and we'll dump her inside."
Seth seemed to consider this option. She just stared at him, unblinking.
"Please? If I'm lying, Ritchie can cut me up into little pieces."
"The day I start fucking trusting my hostages..." Seth grumbled, but didn't finish. He pulled his gun away, got out of the car, walked around to the other side and nearly dragged Augusta out. With a firm grip on her arm, he guided her into the bar, Ritchie just ahead of them. They walked in, and Seth firmly pushed her into a set by the door.
"You just remember what you said," Seth said, leaning down and staring her very hard in the face.
She smirked. "Whyever would I want to run away? I'm having way to much fun."
He didn't change expression as he pulled back and stormed across the room toward the bar, Ritchie at his side.
"Asshole," she grumbled. "Both of you." Sliding back, she made herself as comfortable as the unyielding wooden seat would allow her, stretching out her legs-man, she hated cramped back seats-and folding her arms, glaring at anyone who dared look at her. At least they could have brought her a beer.
Seth went to the bar. She didn't hear the exchange, but the bartender, after considerable hesitation, directed the two men to a back room. Seth and Ritchie disappeared.
She stared after them. It was the first time they'd both been out of her sight since that awful time in the trunk. But then she heard some faint sounds, sounds that sent a chill through her, and she perked up, the tingle going through her spine and up into her head, making her hair stand on end. In a few seconds, Seth and Ritchie were coming out of the room, Seth carrying a backpack that looked like it had belonged to a teenager, dark maroon. His gun was concealed again, his other hand free, and as he passed by her, he reached down and grabbed her arm, pulling her up with him.
Just then, Ritchie spun around. "What the fuck?" he snarled.
Seth stopped in the dark foyer. The door was open. His grip on Augusta, which had been iron, suddenly slacked, and for the first time she saw the fleeting signs of panic in his usually confident face.
"Who the fuck said that?" Ritchie shouted into the room. There weren't a lot of people there-a spattering of locals, none of which looked like they were too far beyond conscious.
"What is it?" Seth snapped.
"Some prick just called us a couple of faggots," Ritchie said. "I wanna know who!"
"Ritchie, come on, we need to go. I don't care what anybody says about us and neither should you."
"Fuck that Seth, if you'd heard it you'd be cracking skulls together," Ritchie said with a brief turn of his head. "Who the fuck said it!!" He seemed to zone in on a middle-aged man, sitting at the bar, who looked particularly drunk and defiant. "You said it, didn't you, you old fuck!?"
"Ritchie," Seth said, but before he could stop him, Ritchie had kicked the barstool out from under the man and sent him crashing to the floor. Seth didn't realize it, but he had let go of Augusta.
She looked toward the door. Sure, she could run, but where would she go? And she had given her word, and a promise. No way was she going to risk Ritchie getting the chance to cut her up into little pieces. That guy was a fucking psycho.
Seth had stepped back into the bar to pull Ritchie back, who was kicking the breath out of the guy on the floor, right in the softness of his stomach. "That looks good enough to me, man," Seth said amiably, guiding Ritchie away. "Don't think he'll be shooting off his mouth anytime soon."
"Not without any fucking teeth!" Ritchie finished with a kick to the jaw. He spun around and marched out, walking right past Augusta and out into the parking lot.
Seth stopped in the doorway, looking at Augusta, as if surprised to see her. He gestured with his hand, and she stepped outside. Ritchie was having a fit in the lot.
"I heard him Seth, I fucking heard him, I swear to God!" he was saying as he kicked his way to the car.
"I believe you, Ritchie," Seth said as he opened the back door for Augusta. He set the bag of money on the seat beside her and closed the door.
"You're not just saying that, are you, Seth?" Ritchie said, calming enough to yank open the passenger door. "You do believe me?"
"I said I did, Ritchie," Seth said, getting in. "Now come on, let's go before they see the mess we made in the back room."
"I hate it when people call me names, Seth," Ritchie said. "He's just lucky he didn't call me crazy. I would have killed him if he'd called me crazy."
"I know, Ritchie. I know."
%%%%%%%%%%
It was unbelievable. Like something out of Investigative Reports, or Unsolved Mysteries.
"We should check her prints, to be sure," Marcos suggested. "Make sure they match."
"Sure, sure, whatever," Anette said, sighing through her tears. "My God, we looked for you for years. We even paid to have a story run about you on Unsolved Mysteries. Finally, when your parents died, the search was given up. Augusta has no memory of you at all. I figured you were lost to us, so I let it go, as well. But now you're here!" She hugged her, fiercely. "Now you're home!"
Xanny looked over Anette's shoulder toward Carl, who was gawking. She could practically see the wheels in his mind turning, trying to figure out the situation, seeing if there was any money in it for him. Carl was a good man at heart, but he was all too fond of the almighty-dollar.
"Wait a minute," Xanny said, giving Anette a gentle push away. "This is very... very sudden. And you're being awfully trusting that I'm for real and not just a scam. How do you know I'm this Alexandra? Mr. Ferarre is right, we need to do a fingerprint check."
"Fine, fine, whatever you want," Anette said, wiping her nose with an embroidered handkerchief. "Whenever you want. Marcos?" she looked to him, expectantly.
It was Carl who spoke up. "I can make a few calls. We should be able to arrange it for sometime this afternoon."
As if not having realized the man was in the room, Anette turned to him, "Are you the one who brought our little girl back home?"
"This is my boss, uh..." Oh hell, she didn't want to call her Aunt, maybe she'd be okay with Miss. "Miss Anette. This is Carl. You met him before, didn't you?"
"Oh yes," Anette said, shaking his hand. "Alexandra works for you?"
"Yeah," Carl said, starting to regain his foothold in the situation. "But if what you're saying is right, and Xanny here-"
"Xanny?" Anette echoed, confused.
"Xanny is what everyone calls me," Xanny explained.
"That's so strange! Why not Alex or Alexa? Or even Andra, if you don't like the beginning. Xanny? That's very...odd."
"I like it," Xanny said. "Listen, I think we need to deal with the first crisis first. Your niece, Miss Anette, she's been kidnapped by a very dangerous criminal. A criminal that I, unfortunately, know personally. That's why we came here, to offer our services in helping to find them and return Augusta home."
"You know these criminals?" The older woman seemed shocked into repulsion. "How in the world do you know them?"
"Because I used to be one of them," Xanny said, with an edge to her voice. "Please, Miss Anette, you're going to have to sit and listen for a while. If I am this missing twin, I haven't had the prettiest life, and you might not be so happy to have found me, once you know where I've been."