Chapter Twelve #2
Collette is somewhere in the middle of the sea of students.
She walks gracefully and deliberately. When I was a kid, I had a cat that moved in a similar way.
It used to nap on the shelf where we kept the wineglasses, its long, slender body curled deliberately between the glasses without moving them so much as a centimeter out of place.
But I don’t tell Collette about my cat, or anything else about my childhood. I don’t tell her about what I do after she’s gone to bed.
She gives me a small smile as we get into the car.
“Why are you parked in the lot?” she asks me as I buckle my seat belt. “You usually pick me up in the line.”
“I was early, darling,” I tell her. “So I had a chat with Mrs. Blevins.”
In the rearview mirror, I see Collette wrinkle her nose. “Do I have to tutor Finnegan?”
“If you’re open-minded about it, you may just make a friend,” I tell her. “Look at me and Mrs. Blevins. I didn’t think we’d get along, but we have a lot in common.”
“Like what?” Collette asks.
“Well…we both like croissants.”
Collette rolls her eyes and stares out the window. That’s new. Who is this child? I switch gears and ask her, “How was school?”
“Fine.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“I got a ninety-seven on my book report for Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH. I said it was timeless, because teaching the rats to read and write isn’t all that different than using AI to create art.”
It is a clinical and yet impressive response that leaves me stunned. “That was only worth a ninety-seven?”
“I misspelled ‘genocide.’ ”
This time last year, Collette was decorating the back of the seats with unicorn stickers, the glitter from which has never fully vacuumed out of the upholstery.
She was bubbly and all too excited to tell me about her day.
Now she tiptoes around my questions, giving me just enough to have technically answered me.
We ride in silence for the rest of the way, and as I pull into the driveway, it occurs to me that Collette has spent eight hours away from me, and I have no idea what she’s done in that time, and she isn’t going to tell me.
She tells me that she’s going up to her bedroom to do her homework, and I tell her that she can come and ask for her iPad once she’s finished and I’ve checked it.
I hear the familiar clack of Waylen’s keyboard as I head up the stairs, and I find myself craving the sameness of it.
Waylen never changes, never does a single unpredictable thing.
Most days, this puts us at odds because it is our biggest difference.
But today, I find it oddly comforting. Before I open the door, I know I’ll see his familiar silver hair, his tense, hunched shoulders.
He’ll close the laptop screen, swivel in his chair, and say, “What’s up? ”
That’s exactly what happens. But the smile on his face is guarded. We haven’t been on the best terms since our disagreement. Well, string of disagreements, really.
I sit on the small couch by his desk. “Can we talk?”
There’s concern on his face. “Is everything all right?”
God, I hope this doesn’t blow up our marriage. We’re already on a tightrope. I decide to cut right to the chase. Waylen may hate my line of work, but he at least appreciates straightforwardness. “In two weeks, I have to go into the city. For work.”
“For design work?” he asks. “Or…work?”
I tug nervously at my hair. “A bit of both. There’s someone out there who needs a host for her event, and she’ll definitely have valuable information. The only thing is that it has to be on that exact date, and there’s no wiggle room.”
His eyes change. “What date?”
“December first.” The words are glue in my mouth. I dread the argument that’s coming. The days of awkward family dinners, Collette picking up on the tension and neither of us knowing what to tell her.
He’s still sitting in his computer chair. His eyes gaze downward, and there’s a long pause. Then he nods.
“I was doing a little snooping into this case. I hope you don’t mind. This billionaire you’re tracking down—he’s gotten himself into some sketchy shit, yeah?”
I’m so shocked that at first, I can’t think of a response. I was expecting a fight. A passive-aggressive huff as he turned back to his desk. A preplanned monologue about why I should give up on this and all future vigilante endeavors.
I was not prepared for Waylen to ask me questions. I didn’t anticipate the interest he shows me now.
“Tell me what you’re planning,” he says. “Tell me how you’re going to make him pay.”
It’s been years since he’s asked me about a case, and I find that I’m still eager to talk to him about it.
I tell him about Bertram’s dodgy love life, how I’m the only one who can make him fry for the murder of his missing fiancée.
How he’ll be exposed as a fraud and lose everything.
And the whole media machine will wonder who brought down one of the tech world’s most powerful men, but only Waylen will know it was me.
For just one moment, our diverging worlds meet. I want him to still love what we used to do together. He wants me to come home to him. It isn’t often that we get both.
“Promise me,” he says.
“What?” I ask.
“Promise that this is the last one. After this, you’ll quit.”
If I can’t solve this case, there are no stakes that the world will see. There will be no news outlets reporting my failure. Nobody in the world is expecting to hear about it, which is the case for most of the projects I take on. Even when I’ve succeeded, I’m never the one who takes credit.
I don’t answer him.
Waylen and I know the real stakes. All these years, Waylen has been waiting for me to let one slip through the cracks. He’s been waiting for me to finally meet the client I can’t help, and give up on the case I can’t solve. Because then, I’ll be all his.