Chapter 1
Sheep in Sheep’s Clothing
This story takes place before Again with Feeling.
In a movie, this would have been the establishing shot.
A close-up. Black and white. The gritty noir sensibilities used to establish the broken world that we, the audience, had entered.
It told us the stakes of the fictional universe we had entered—that this was a place where the worst crimes could be committed with impunity, where human life went unvalued, and a self-serving system kept corrupt men in power.
“Why are you staring at that empty plate?” Fox asked from the hallway.
“That empty plate?” I said.
Fox raised their eyebrows.
“That empty plate?” My pitch rose. “That empty plate is supposed to have cookies on it. My writing cookies. My reward for after I finish writing.”
“I thought they were your fuel to help you stay focused while you wrote. You ate most of a batch while you were, quote, ‘deep in revisions.’”
“They can be two things!” I drew a deep breath. “Who ate them? I’m not mad. I just want to punish them.”
“Is that right?” Fox asked.
“Was it you?”
“Is your eye twitching?”
“Fox!”
“It wasn’t me! Good Lord, Dash, you’re acting like a junkie.”
“But you know who took them.”
“Tell me more about this punishment.”
“Fox, I swear to God.”
They offered a crooked little smile. “The only person I’ve seen in here was dear old Deputy Delicious. He’d just gotten back from a run, and you know how that burns calories.”
The shock of this betrayal was so great that I barely noticed when Fox sauntered away. Bobby? My Bobby?
I knew that, logically, Bobby had to have some sort of flaw.
I mean, no one was perfect. I certainly wasn’t perfect.
And it wasn’t fair to assume that Bobby was perfect, even if he was strong and handsome and brave and patient and sometimes, when he was listening to music, he’d give me one of the earbuds so I could listen with him, and we could just listen, and it was like someone turned off the switches in my brain. And then turned on some new ones.
But a cookie thief?
I couldn’t believe it.
I wouldn’t believe it.
And yet…
He had told me that when he came back from his runs, he liked to get some carbohydrates.
He’d drink a glass of chocolate milk with protein powder, for example.
And even though Bobby didn’t have a sweet tooth like me, nobody could resist Indira’s baking.
And maybe, just maybe, Bobby had assumed that because he and I were, well, close, I wouldn’t mind if he helped himself to my writing cookies.
That was it. That had to be it.
And that was a simple fix. An easy problem to address. I’d just say, Bobby, you’re the most important person in my life—
Uh.
No.
How about, Bobby, you’re my best friend—
But that might sound a little, well, pathetic.
Bobby, you’re my friend—
Nailed it.
Bobby, you’re my friend, and I love having you live at Hemlock House, but I think it’s important that we respect each other’s property.
That was a very good start.
I had the vague sense that Bobby might make an issue of his sweatshirts that I occasionally borrowed.
But that was a different matter entirely.
They weren’t consumables, for one thing.
And even though Bobby was a little shorter than me, they still fit.
And they had that super soft feeling from being worn and washed millions of times.
And they smelled like his laundry detergent.
And I liked it when someone asked me about my sweatshirt from, say, Powell’s, and before I could answer, Bobby said, It’s mine; he stole it, like it was just part of who we were.
Working my way along the main floor, I hunted for Bobby. Not in the billiard room. Not in the living room. I passed through the dining room, through the butler’s pantry, into the kitchen. And then I stopped.
Bobby stood there, his face a mask of concentration as he read a recipe in a cookbook.
He wore one of those wonderful sweatshirts right now (Portland State), the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
One well-developed forearm held a mixing bowl close to his chest. In his other hand, he held a wooden spoon.
Listen, I know Bobby and I are just friends.
I’m not under any delusions. But I’m also not made of stone.
I mean, the man was standing in a kitchen.
He was wearing an apron printed with a Sasquatch silhouette.
He had flour smudged across the bridge of his nose.
I’m not saying I spontaneously got pregnant, standing there and staring at him. But it was a close thing.
Bobby, of course, was still Bobby.
“Keme ate your cookies,” he told me. “So, Indira offered to show me how to make them.”
I stood there and stared.
“Maybe don’t say anything to Keme,” Bobby said. “If you could. He’s had a rough day.”
He had flour on his forearms. And more on his hands. It dusted his knuckles.
“Dash?”
I actually had to swallow before I could say, “Uh huh.”
The door to the servants’ dining room opened, and Indira stepped into the kitchen. She took one look at me, and I got the feeling she was trying not to cover her eyes and shake her head.
“I have to go upstairs now,” I said and backed out of the kitchen.
As the door swung shut, Bobby’s voice carried out to me. “Is he all right? Maybe I should check on him.”
“Bobby, dear,” Indira said in a voice exhausted of patience. “Trust me: that would only make it worse.”