Chapter 9 #2
“What about them?”
“Your pupils are dilated,” I pointed out.
“And?”
I shrugged. “I guess it’s a little odd, considering it’s so bright in here.”
“There are other reasons for dilated pupils, you know,” Rose said.
“Prescription and recreational drugs,” I said.
“Do I need to pee in a cup for you?”
“Hard pass, plus you broke my cup.”
Rose laughed. “For your information, Mr. Smarty Pants, the pupils can also dilate when the brain releases feel-good hormones and neurotransmitters like oxytocin and dopamine.”
“Very true,” I said, thinking about it. “Does that mean you’re feeling good right now?”
She shrugged with a hint of a satisfied smile. “You’re taking care of me. And I like that.”
“Interesting,” I said. “So, now your pupils are dilated and you’re blushing. What does that mean, scientifically speaking?”
“It means I shouldn’t have said that out loud. Also, you need to quit being so observant.”
“Fair enough,” I said with a chuckle, then finished wrapping the bandage around her finger. “All set. Try to keep it dry for the rest of the day, or I’ll have to amputate it and use it as fish bait.”
Rose shook her head, almost looking amused. “Have you always been so corny?”
I shrugged. “It’s a bit I’ve been working on as I get older. What do you think?”
“It’s an acquired taste.” She chuckled and flexed her hand, testing the bandage. “So, really, I’m going to feel guilty if I don’t start working. This bug we’re supposed to hunt down. Ready to finally get started?”
Right. The bug. The actual reason she was here. Work. Professional collaboration between two colleagues who definitely weren’t having weird moments over first aid procedures.
I stood and gestured toward the workstation she’d used the day before. “You’ll be working in the same place.” I wrote the login on a Post-it note and handed it to her. “You already know exactly what you’re looking for, so have at it. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Sounds good,” Rose said, moving to the workstation and settling into the chair with visible relief at having something concrete to focus on.
I forced myself to focus on the budget reports I’d been neglecting for the past three days. Numbers, spreadsheets, funding allocations—all important, all requiring attention, all significantly less interesting than watching Rose. I mean, watching Rose work.
I glanced over at her, then mentally scolded myself and got back to my spreadsheet. Five minutes later, I glanced again.
Then again, ten minutes later.
This was getting ridiculous.
I did some mental math, estimating how long it would take a reasonably skilled programmer to identify and fix this bug. Given the complexity of the issue, a competent developer would probably need—conservatively—twenty-four hours. Maybe thirty-six if they ran into unexpected complications.
Rose had a high IQ, no doubt, so I did not know what to expect.
Four hours later, I glanced over at her again.
She suddenly pushed back from her desk and stretched.
Then she walked toward me.
I was confident she hadn’t finished, but was just stretching.
“It’s about time you took a break,” I said. “Grab yourself a cup of coffee in the break room.”
“Sorry—I thought it was time for dinner,” she said simply. “Aren’t you getting ready to close the library?”
“True—I don’t know what I was thinking. You’re coming in tomorrow, right?”
“Bright and early,” she said.
“Good. You can continue working on the bug then.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Rose said. “I’m done.”
I stared at her. “I’m sorry, what?”
“It’s fixed.” She shrugged with studied nonchalance. “Test it if you don’t believe me.”
I chuckled. “Even if I believed you, I would still test it.” I abandoned my budget reports and crossed to her workstation. “Okay, show me what you’ve got.”
Rose pulled up the search interface. “Give me the title of a book, something you know wasn’t showing up in the system.”
I thought about it for a second …
“To Kill a Mockingbird,” I answered. “We have three copies, but the database search was only returning one—sometimes zero.”
Rose typed in the title and pressed enter.
Three results populated immediately, complete with accurate availability status and shelf locations.
I ran another search.
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.
“All copies accounted for,” I said, blinking at the results.
I ran a few more searches, and every query returned complete, accurate results. No missing entries. No random gaps. The bug had vanished as if it had never existed.
“How did you—” I shook my head in disbelief. “That should have taken at least a full day, maybe longer.”
“I’m fast,” Rose said with a hint of amusement.
“Fast doesn’t cover it,” I said.
Eleanor appeared beside us so quietly that we both startled. She had her coat on and her purse slung over her shoulder, keys already in hand.
“I hate to interrupt what looks like a fascinating conversation, but I’m closing up and I’m absolutely starving,” she said. “Please tell me you two are ready for bratwurst.”
“Definitely ready,” I said.
“Starving,” Rose agreed.
“Perfect!” Eleanor beamed.
We locked down the workstations, and I did a quick sweep of my desk to make sure nothing sensitive was left out. Rose headed to the coat rack near the entrance and pulled down her jacket, fumbling slightly as she tried to shrug it on while simultaneously reaching for her purse.
She unzipped her purse and rummaged inside, pulling out a tube of lip balm. As she did, the bag tilted toward me, its contents partially visible in the overhead light.
My eyes caught something immediately.
A USB drive. High-quality, the kind with a metal casing and actual storage capacity, not the cheap promotional giveaways companies handed out at conferences.
“You carry a flash drive with you on vacation?” I asked before I could stop myself.
Rose paused mid-application, her eyes flicking down to her purse, then back to me. The lip balm hovered near her mouth.
“Oh. Yeah. Why not?” She finished applying the balm, dropped it back into her purse, and closed it with a decisive zip.
“Seems old-school,” I observed. “Everyone lives in the cloud these days. I mean, everything I do is digital, really. I’ve got one pen at my desk, a purple one, and I have never used it.”
“I have plenty of things in the cloud, but I heard internet access isn’t always reliable in the mountains. I was just playing it safe. This way, I have everything I need regardless of connectivity.”
What exactly would she need?
“You must have some valuable files on that thing,” I said, hoping it did not sound like I was prying, even though I was.
“Not really.” Rose stood, slinging her purse securely over her shoulder this time.
So much for extracting information out of her …
Eleanor had moved to the front door, jingling her keys impatiently. “Are we going to eat bratwurst and drink beer, or are you two going to discuss everything in Rose’s purse?”
“Coming!” I called out with a chuckle.
We joined Eleanor outside, and she locked the door behind us. The chilly evening air hit like a slap—carrying the scent of wood smoke and pine. Leavenworth glowed with warm, festive luminescence that turned the streets into something magical.
Couples walked hand-in-hand between shops.
Children pressed their faces against bakery windows, mesmerized by gingerbread displays.
A group of carolers sang “Silent Night” on the steps of the gazebo, their voices rising in perfect harmony.
Tourists stopped to listen, phones out, capturing the moment.
Eleanor breathed in deeply, her face radiant. “This is my favorite time of year. There’s something special about Leavenworth at Christmas that just restores your faith in humanity, you know?”
“It’s beautiful,” Rose agreed with what seemed like genuine wonder. “Like the world paused the drama and became magical for a while.”
They walked ahead of me, their conversation drifting into childhood memories of Christmas mornings and favorite holiday traditions.
But my mind kept circling back.
The USB drive.
Why would someone with Rose’s technical expertise—someone who’d just shown an almost frightening level of coding ability—carry a physical flash drive in her purse during a one-month leave of absence from work? It made no sense.
People at her skill level lived in the cloud, worked in virtual environments, and accessed everything remotely. Physical storage was for people who still didn’t trust technology or those who disliked change with a passion. As fascinating as Rose was, something about her didn’t add up.
And people like me—people with brains that never stopped analyzing, never stopped questioning, never stopped searching for answers—couldn’t let that go. It wasn’t in our nature.
As we entered München Haus, the question nagged at me, persistent, and for the moment, unanswerable:
What are you hiding, Rose Thompson?