10. Thad
Iwatch as Helen bites her lip, remembering its soft plushness. Along with being incredibly unprofessional, kissing her was everything I’ve been imagining since I first saw her in one of her ridiculously oversized sweaters, smiling brightly at me over the counter as I handed over an Agatha Christie novel. It was just something that didn’t look too girly or literary I picked at random off the shelf, but she seemed so enthusiastic about it that I thought it might come in handy as a conversation piece down the line. So I waited the appropriate number of days—how long did it take to read a book, anyway, two or three days?—and went back for another Christie novel, then another, then another.
Except for a few cursory pages when I needed to pretend to be engrossed in my reading, like when I followed her to dinner with her two friends, I’ve never actually read any of the books. Believe me, I do enough reading in my line of work—public records, paper trails, social media pages of whoever I’m following—that reading for fun doesn’t sound particularly appealing to do more of when I’m trying to unwind. I like the classic movie channel with the old film noirs, which you can watch in basically any run-down motel—a real perk in my line of work. Guys in trench coats and fedoras, knockout dames who don’t take shit from anyone, cool one-liners, and bad guys who aren’t all bad and good guys who aren’t all good.
But Helen looked so crestfallen when I admitted the truth that I almost wish I had read at least one of the books. Which is stupid, because I know she’s just playing a game to distract me from finding Dean—only, what the hell kind of game is it? I assumed with the whole wine-spilling trick that she was going to seduce me. It isn’t normally the type of thing I let myself fall for—not anymore—but apparently I have an untapped thing for the whole sexy-librarian schtick. The combo of the shy smiles and blushes with those sultry lips and that knockout body that’s all boobs and ass is potent stuff. I wasn’t going to let myself actually sleep with her, but I didn’t see any harm in fooling around. I figured she was the one calling the shots, so it wasn’t taking advantage.
But for someone who’s trying to play the femme fatale and seduce me into a stupor, the giggling was a weird move. Maybe it was meant to confuse me? If that’s the case, it worked like a charm. Still, as a method to make me succumb to her womanly wiles, it was an odd choice. The giggling didn’t seem forced, either—if anything, it read like she couldn’t quite get control of herself. Maybe she hasn’t really done this kind of thing before. I find that hard to believe with all the hip swaying and lip biting and the whole sleeve-slipping-down-the-shoulder thing, but it’s possible she’s new at this kind of game.
The thought makes me feel unexpectedly tender toward her, like I want to give her completely unsolicited and nosy advice to stay away from this whole scene. Find some nice, boring accountant to marry and let Dean fend for himself.
Then came the actual text from Dean, and any thoughts of warning Helen to stay out of it fled. Actual contact from Dean, the guy who has proven so unexpectedly elusive he is nicknamed “The Ghost” among me and my contacts. And he wants to call Helen.
The phone starts ringing a few moments after the text chimed, and for a moment, both Helen and I just stare at it. She starts to answer but I catch her arm. “Okay. Here’s what you’re gonna do. Answer it, try to sound like you just want to have a normal catch-up conversation, try to work in something about where he is now. Don’t let him know I’m here with you.”
Helen stares at me wide-eyed, deer-in-the-headlights terror on her face. “I’m not good at lying.”
Sure. I do my best to refrain from giving her a skeptical look. “You’ll be fine.”
Taking in a bracing breath, Helen answers the phone. “Dean, hey.” She listens for a moment, brow furrowing. “Yeah, okay.” She covers the receiver, doing an exaggerated stage whisper. “He wants me to put him on speaker.”
That’s…odd. Something uneasy prickles in my gut. “Okay…”
She does so, setting the phone down on the counter. “You’re on speaker, Dean.”
Dean’s voice comes over the speaker, a little crackly, like maybe he has bad reception or is calling from a pay phone. “Whoever’s there with my sister, I wanna talk to you.”
I shoot Helen a sharp, accusing look. I can’t believe I fell for her act for even a second. “You warned him.”
Helen looks genuinely flabbergasted, though I no longer give my perception of her that much weight. She’s a better actress than I anticipated. “How could I have? All I said to him was ‘Dean, hey.’”
Fair point. And I had the phone while she changed, and the rest of the time we were together, so I don’t quite know how she managed it, but I’m sure she did somehow. I don’t know how I keep falling for this bullshit, but I clearly need to stop being so trusting.
“Helen didn’t tip me off, asshole. I’m just not an idiot. When my sister who never texts me wants to get in contact, I can put two and two together.”
Helen looks a little guilty at being called out like this. “I text you, sometimes. We coordinated Mom’s Christmas gift a few months ago.”
“Come on, sis. Any text from you after nine p.m. is a huge red flag. Aren’t you usually in bed by now?”
The blush climbing up Helen’s cheeks confirms this to be true. She darts a quick glance at me, then looks away. “I stay out after that sometimes.”
This whole thing is confusing. Have they coordinated some kind of brother-sister game to make me think Helen is some spinster who sits at home on Friday nights knitting? Either she really doesn’t know anything about where Dean is, or they’re trying just a little too hard to throw me off the scent.
But the blush. A person can’t fake that, can they?
“So who are you?” Now Dean is speaking to me. “FBI? Or one of Cadorna’s guys?”
It’s my turn to feel a little embarrassed. I resist the urge to look at Helen. “Um. Bounty hunter.”
“Jesus Christ. Whoops—uh, sorry, Helen.” Why is Dean apologizing to Helen for saying that? Before I can ponder it too much, the younger man continues, “Look, you’re in way over your head, man. Leave this to the big dogs. And leave my sister out of it.”
I’m going to lose him if I don’t act quick. “That’s pretty rich advice coming from you, Dean. I’m not the one who’s in over my head. Jumping bond is the least of your worries, from what I’ve heard.”
Helen gasps, her face paling. “What?” She looks at the phone, aghast. “Dean, what have you gotten into?”
Dean goes on as if he hasn’t heard either of us: “Look, asshole, my sister’s a nice girl. She doesn’t need to get mixed up in this.”
Helen goes from horrified to affronted. “I’m older than you. Don’t act like I’m some innocent who can’t understand that you’re in serious trouble.”
Dean’s voice turns petulant, the way only a sibling’s can. “You might technically be older, but you’re younger in the ways of the world?—”
Helen rolls her eyes. “That is such bullarky?—”
Bullarky? What is she, thirteen? As if realizing her blunder, Helen corrects herself: “Bullshit.” But it sounds weird coming out of her mouth, like someone trying to pronounce a word in a foreign language who hasn’t quite gotten the accent right.
Dean laughs, not nicely. “It’s not a bad thing, Hel, but some of us were living out in the real world while you were hiding behind Jesus in that convent.”
What…?
I blink at Helen, whose face has gone tomato red. If I needed any confirmation that Dean is speaking literally, not metaphorically, I guess I have it. Helen was in a convent? “Like a nun or something?” I hear myself asking out loud, furrowing my brow at her quizzically.
Was I just making out with a nun?
It doesn’t fit with the whole sexy-librarian vibe. But it does put her giggling fit into new perspective. Oh, God. The realization falls down on me like a cold deluge. She was nervous because she’s not used to kissing people. Maybe has never kissed anyone. Same with the wine spilling. Everything I took as a seduction tactic was actually just ineptitude.
I stare at her, perplexed. I’ve been so focused on finding Dean that I figured Helen was just a means to getting to her brother. Turns out, she’s maybe even more of a mystery. Just who is this woman, anyway?
Whatever is on my face makes Helen look away, unable to make eye contact. Over the speaker, Dean continues, “Yeah, like a nun. She’s a good girl, not mixed up in any of this, so let’s keep it that way.”
“Fine,” I agree. “Tell me where you are, and we can meet up, make a plan?—”
But Dean’s already hung up.
For a moment, silence stretches out between us. Helen stares at the ground, refusing to look up, so I take the opportunity to study her. I made so many assumptions about her, most of them not very good. On the one hand, I wouldn’t have minded playing hardboiled detective to her femme fatale; on the other, I’m honestly relieved she isn’t some kind of master manipulator, and that the sunny, sweet thing isn’t an act. There are no mind games. She’s a good person—and an inexperienced one who doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing. This isn’t some film noir, I’m just a douchebag who tried to cop a feel on a nun (ex-nun?) because I thought she was leading me on a merry chase.
Dean is right. She really shouldn’t be involved in any of this.
I clear my throat. “Guess that’s a dead end. Sorry I wasted your time.”
Helen reacts like the words were a hit, turning her face away from me, but not before I see her electric-blue eyes flooding with tears. Shit. I take an instinctive step toward her, surprising myself, before holding myself back. What would be the point? She probably should think I’m an asshole, for her sake. I wasn’t exaggerating before when I said Dean was in a lot of trouble, and there’s no need to drag her into it, especially now that it’s obvious she doesn’t know anything.
Still feeling like a piece of shit, I back toward the door. “Thanks,” I say. Then realizing how stupid that sounds, I figure it’s better to just leave. So I do.