I’m a mystery girl, Ned. I can’t help it. You know this is my calling. So I need you to step up, be a good boyfriend to me, and drop the tennis racket.
When I’m out solving mysteries and putting myself in danger, you’re playing tennis. Whenever I want to get in touch with you and update you about what the sign of the falcon really is, you’re too sweaty and exhausted from a match to listen to me. What about the secret in that mansion I told you I thought was haunted? It totally wasn’t haunted first of all, but that’s beside the point. I found out what the secret was! All by myself! But you’re just finding out about that now because YOU’RE TOO BUSY WITH YOUR TENNIS FOR ME.
What about when I had to travel all the way to that misty canyon? Or that carousel that I also thought was haunted but then it wasn’t? You never even wrote me a letter when I was away on those scary trips. Not a one. Ned Nickerson. I’m talking to you. Stop stretching.
COUNTLESS TIMES I have been in severe danger but you weren’t there for me. Actually, it’s exactly one hundred and seventy-five. ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-FIVE times I have discovered a terrible thing happening in the world, then someone asked me to solve it, and I was almost murdered. And not a once did you walk into a room to greet me in the aftermath not panting from tennis. I love that you like to be fit, I really do. But Bess and George don’t fill the gap for me that you can.
I’m just saying. Next time you’re warming up to go out on the court, remember that I was once locked in a brass-bound trunk.
Oh yeah, and I almost forgot to inform you. That showboat wasn’t haunted, either.