CHAPTER TWELVE
“Okay, the best way to approach self-defense is to lean into your existing strengths,” I say, stretching one logo-emblazoned arm across my chest. I’m wearing a very expensive activewear set that makes me look like a Fendi-sponsored Hunger Games tribute, as one does when one shops at Harrods.
Grant’s wearing track pants and a hoodie, as one does when one is Grant.
We’re kicking off this morning’s training in Lesley’s back garden, which is the closest thing he has to a home gym—despite having two home theaters, a walk-in closet just for blazers, and a room full of famous musicians’ instruments that he can’t play but won at auctions to spite other people.
According to him, the concept of working out is a scam invented by Big Treadmill.
He explained this last night, right before Lissa brought him his blood pressure medication and he devolved into grumbling.
“So,” I say to Grant. “What are your existing strengths?”
He swats at a gnat. “I wield a mean Oxford comma.”
“Hilarious. Do tell how this will help you in a life-and-death situation.”
“In that I will be getting stabbed, bleeding out, and dying in a clear and concise manner.”
“Grant.”
He lets out an exasperated breath. “I’ve done a couple of 10Ks. Is that what you’re looking for? How will that help me, except for running away?”
“Well, it’s not nothing,” I say, though I’m struggling to decide how to apply this.
He’s got some power in his limbs—I saw that when he was chasing the Pulverizer yesterday.
And from the glimpse I got of his arms when he was trying on overpriced T-shirts at Harrods, I would venture to guess he’s picked up more than a few heavy books in his life.
But I’m hoping for something with more whole-body coordination.
“What about as a kid?” I offer up. “Any sports or extracurriculars? Helpful hobbies?”
He hesitates for a moment. Blinks. “Nope.”
I narrow my eyes at him. He meets my gaze evenly, too evenly, until finally I crack a smile. “You have a super-embarrassing hobby, don’t you?”
He forces out a pfsshh sound and an overly defensive “No.” It’s all but a confirmation.
“What, Grant? What could be so bad? Is it ballet? Because ballet is really good for your coordination, you know. Lots of NFL players do it.”
“It isn’t ballet. Can we move on?”
“So it is something.” I eye him with amused suspicion, then gasp. “Oh my God, are you a furry?”
“A what?”
My mind is off on a joyride of possibilities. “Do you, like, have a china cabinet full of action figures that you say are collectors’ items but then when no one’s around you take them out and make them kiss each other?”
“No.” His brow is furrowed, but if I didn’t know better, I’d say he was fighting a smile.
“Extreme couponer. Fan club president. Boggle champion?”
“I am pretty good at Boggle,” he says under his breath.
“But not a champion. Hmm.” I tap my chin. “It’s something else. I’ll crack you yet, Grant Hoffman.”
For now, I settle for teaching him some basics: things like the importance of situational awareness, or how shouting something as simple as BACK OFF or STOP can help ward off an assailant.
I feel a little ridiculous parroting back what I’ve learned in my classes to him.
More like a kindergartner playing school on the weekend than a real teacher.
I show him a simple two-in-one maneuver for dodging a punch or a weapon, shoving the attacker’s hand aside while jabbing upward toward their face, and make him practice it on me over and over.
“Again,” I say when he steps back, shaking out his arms.
He grimaces, rolling his neck. “I think I’ve got it.”
“Sure, now that I’m your attacker. But it’s different if someone approaches you with serious intent to harm. You have to commit it to muscle memory. It’s not enough to practice until you can do it right; you have to go until you can’t do it wrong.” Again, plagiarizing Uri.
His face is steeped in skepticism. “We only have six days left of this.”
“I hate to break this to you, but that’s about five days, twenty-three hours, and fifty-nine minutes longer than it would take someone to kill you.”
“But nowhere near long enough to rewrite every instinct I have and make me some self-defense master.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” I gesture for him to get his arms back up. “You just get it in your body enough. Just enough so that when someone comes at you with a weapon, sure, maybe you’re shitting yourself. But you’re shitting yourself and pivoting the way you’ve practiced.”
I get him to agree to ten more before we break, and he’s doing pretty well—sure, his movements aren’t the sharpest, and his hand meets my forearm in more of a polite request not to stab him than a defiant demand.
But I can see how hard he’s trying, his brows knit in concentration.
Then on attempt number seven, he finally responds with more force—albeit in the wrong direction—and jabs me, hard, in the throat.
“Shit.” He cringes as I reel back, sputtering and coughing. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
I give him two thumbs up as I gasp for air. “Fine,” I choke. “I’m … get … water. Just … keep going.”
I wheeze over to the outdoor bar and pull a water bottle from the mini fridge. Grant reluctantly resumes practicing without an opponent, looking like he’s fighting a ghost. Despite the spasming of my windpipe—or, I guess, because of it—I’m mildly encouraged about his chances.
There’s a quiet groan, and I look toward the house to see Lissa emerging gingerly from the shadows. It’s overcast, but she’s wearing huge blackout shades and shielding her eyes.
I swallow my water, calming my throat enough to speak. “Fun night?”
She groans again. “I am not allowed to mix tequila and Dance Dance Revolution anymore. Remind me of that.”
She grabs a water and chugs half of it before giving me an apologetic wince. “Sorry yesterday didn’t work out.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “We both are. It was not our finest moment.”
Lissa waves a nonchalant hand, half a dozen gold rings catching the morning light. “That’s how it goes, babes. You win some, you lose some. And you know what they say: losing without getting pulverized is still winning.”
I nod. “They do say that a lot.”
Across the garden, Grant is still busy twisting and jabbing, twisting and jabbing. Lissa nods toward him. “What’s this?”
“Just some training,” I say. “Figured it couldn’t hurt to step up our game.”
Grant looks our way between maneuvers, and Lissa waggles her fingers at him in greeting.
“Looking good, Grant!” She leans over to me, dropping her voice to add a suggestive “And how.”
I look at her in surprise, then back to him. He looks like a human GIF, locked indefinitely in repetitive motion. But she’s not wrong. He’s getting the hang of this—his movements are sharp and focused, his stance grounded. I feel a swell of pride at having taught him.
Lissa’s now peering at him over her sunglasses. With a grin and a finger fluttering between me and Grant, she asks, “Are you two …?”
It takes me a second to register her meaning, and I respond with a little more vehemence than is probably necessary or fair to Grant.
“Oh, God, no. Also, we just met.” I look back toward Grant, and startle a bit when our eyes connect.
He holds my gaze just a moment too long before returning to his task, making me wonder if he overheard.
Lissa shrugs. “I’ve gone from strangers to fiancés to exes in less time. Granted, that was just twice in Ibiza.” She downs the rest of her water.
We’re interrupted by a loud bang from the house, followed by a chorus of “Dickhead, dickhead, dickhead.”
Out storms Lesley—although his version of storming is really just a stompier version of his usual swagger.
But his posture is tense, his hand strangling a newspaper.
Stopping in the center of the patio, he puts on his reading glasses, snaps the paper open, and reads, “‘Man Found Dead Identified As’”—his mouth twists with disgust—“‘Rickshaw Ripper.’”
Grant has stopped his practice, and all three of us listen to Lesley in stricken silence.
It’s him, the killer who slipped through our fingers not twenty-four hours ago—in pieces in a dumpster, with a different cheeky little nickname.
Lesley frowns as he reads about the discovery and how DNA testing tied him to the pedicab murders.
“DNA testing?” Grant the Skeptic chimes in. “Wouldn’t that take longer? And it’s in the paper already?”
“Take it up with Anna,” I mutter.
It starts to click: Grant and I aren’t the only ones who failed yesterday. The Pulverizer also failed, and now he’s been murdered. Punishment, perhaps, for an assignment gone wrong? A chill passes through me like a ghost as I realize how close we must have been to Mr. Page.
But this doesn’t seem to be at the forefront of Lesley’s concern. He speaks with particular contempt as he reads about the person who IDed the body: Detective Inspector Walter Akinyemi.
Lesley crumples the paper and goes to punt it with a blue crocodile Chelsea boot but misses completely.
Lissa shakes her head. “Of course it had to be Wally,” she says with deep sympathy.
“And the Rickshaw Ripper? He’s the Pedicab Pulverizer,” gripes Lesley. “There’s already been a Ripper, or haven’t they heard?”
“Who’s Wally?” Grant asks.
Lesley and Lissa answer simultaneously.
“My nemesis.” “His nemesis.”
A snort of amusement escapes me, earning frowns from the two of them.
“Sorry,” I say. “I forgot that people have actual nemeses in this …” Genre. “Business.”
Lesley lets out a humorless laugh. “Just wait till you collect a few.”
He summarizes his acquaintance with Wally succinctly, so much so that I suspect there’s a lot he’s leaving out.
They cooperated, once upon a time. There was an incident.
Wally blamed Lesley, they turned against each other, and they’ve been locked in a cold war of crime-solving one-upmanship ever since—the official police detective versus the freewheeling off-the-books sleuth.
“Bottom line,” says Lesley, “he got one. We’ll get the rest of these scoundrels, or my name isn’t Lesley Michael Burns and also sometimes Banksy.”
“You are not Banksy,” Grant says.
“Speaking of scoundrels,” says Lissa, nudging Lesley, “I believe you have some good news to share?”
Lesley’s demeanor shifts from nonchalant angst to nonchalant satisfaction.
“Right. That.” He fixes us with an all too familiar grin, which produces a beleaguered sigh from Grant. “Ready your fishing lines, my friends. We’ve got a live one.”