chapter twenty-five

My face was wet and I was shivering. And … in the baker’s house? I looked around, bewildered. I was in the kitchen, leaning against the island (we hadn’t bought barstools yet … or a kitchen table). I was still in my coat and shoes. Boxes were everywhere—stacked in threes on the blond wood floor, scattered across the counter behind me, even stacked on the stovetop. The room smelled like baked goods and packing tape.

And a small dog … I looked down and Pearl was huddled around my ankles, black tail wagging, looking up at me with anxious eyes.

“Don’t look at me,” I told her. “I’ve got no idea what’s going on.”

I heard galloping footsteps and “Found ’em!” Then Patrick was running into the kitchen with a big navy-blue towel. “Here y’are, hon.” He whipped it around me like a cape, then blotted me—I wasn’t quite sure why; it wasn’t snowing, and my clothes weren’t wet—and then started rubbing my arms. “It’s okay. I’m here and you’re in our house and it’s warm now. You’re gonna get warm now.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, hon, I was gonna ask you the same thing. I heard a car pull up—Emma Jan give you a ride?—and then you were running down the sidewalk. Adrienne was, I mean. And Dawg ran out after her. I got both of you back here and then went looking for some towels.”

His face was full of tender concern, and when I thought about how badly I’d wanted to kiss Max, I burst into fresh tears. And I was too much of a coward to tell him the truth, so I said the first thing that popped into my head: “BOFFO lost its funding.”

His rubbing slowed. Pearl crowded closer; between the two of them I dared not move. “It did?”

“Yeah. Michaela told George and me and Emma Jan, but it’s a secret from everybody else for now.”

“Oh, hon…”

“I know,” I said in my new, pathetic, watery voice.

“But that’s great!”

I was so surprised that a few seconds passed before I could speak. He probably thought it was the onset of hypothermia, because he increased his rubbing and blotting. Meanwhile Pearl must have decided I was going to live, because she went to her blanket in the corner and curled up, content to watch and yawn and get droopy-eyed. “What’d you just say?”

“Cadence, now you can leave. You can get a different job and be safe.”

“Leave?” Be safe? Who ever was, really?

“Yeah, thank God.”

“Be safe?” Gads, I was sounding more moronic than usual, just parroting his words. I was having trouble grasping what his obvious delight meant, and not just for my future job prospects.

“You’ve been almost killed how many times since we’ve known each other? You just got out of the hospital after being shot! And let’s face it, letting crazy people—not you, honey, the people you have to work with— Okay, I’m sorry, but if arming sociopaths like George is BOFFO’s gift to the City of Minneapolis, it’s time you got the hell out of there.”

“I don’t— What? What?”

He read my amazement, and misinterpreted it. “Listen, it’s not on you. You’re great. I know you work hard. And not just with your psychiatrist on getting better. I know you’re always trying to pull bad guys off the street. You don’t owe BOFFO anything. You don’t owe Michaela anything. You sure as shit don’t owe George Pinkman anything. You can leave with a clear conscience.”

“I don’t— Patrick—” My pleasant smiling baker was suddenly someone else. Who’d know about that sort of thing better than I? Suddenly the kitchen seemed as wide and long as a football field, with him on one end and me on the other. He looked very small to me now. I didn’t understand it. “Patrick, I don’t not quit because I’m afraid it’ll bother my conscience.” I was having trouble understanding how someone who loved me/us and wanted to make a home with me/us could not understand this fundamental thing about me/us. Even Adrienne couldn’t pass someone in trouble without helping, and she was fucking psychotic.

(!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

Fargin’ psychotic, is what I meant.

“No, fucking is what I meant.” I realized I’d said that out loud the second I saw Patrick flinch. “I’m having some trouble keeping my thoughts to myself this week. Um, out of context that might sound bad.”

“Out of context it sounded cr—” He closed his mouth before he could say crazy, like I’d be offended or something.

Offended? Why would I be? I was completely, thoroughly, utterly crazy. Did he think I didn’t know? Did he think I’d somehow not noticed in twenty-five years that more than one person lived in my body and that was not normal? Did he think I’d say something like, That’s OUR word! You can’t use OUR word unless you’re taking psychotropics!

“I am devastated at the thought of BOFFO shutting down,” I said slowly and distinctly. “I love my work and I love BOFFO and George is a wretch but we make a good team, or at least a not terrible team. Besides, what would I do instead?”

“That’s the thing, you wouldn’t have to do anything.”

“I wouldn’t?”

“No! That’s the great part! Look, I make plenty of money. It’s not a secret; you know about my dark past as Aunt Jane. With no BOFFO, you can focus one hundred percent on your therapy! You can get better!”

I stepped back, and he assumed I was warm so he stopped with the blotting and rubbing. I actually stepped back because I was afraid that in my new, ugly, Moving Day mood I’d take the towel away and strangle him with it. “You think working for BOFFO keeps me a multiple? You think without BOFFO I could be one whole person instead of a skin full of pieces?”

“Well, how will you know if you don’t give it a try?” Patrick was reason itself. “This is your chance to find out. You’re looking at this the wrong way, hon. This is a huge opportunity for you! You’ve spent your whole life living with people who had to be locked away from the world for their own protection … and you went from that to BOFFO.”

“I’m almost positive I snuck college in there somewhere.”

He waved away the U of M (Go, Gophers!) and continued with terrifying earnestness. “You’ve never had a family—not since your folks killed each other—”

(over geese)

“—when you were so little. You’ve never felt like you’ve had a true home. You’ve always had to work hard.” His color was high; in his intensity his cheeks were flushed nearly as dark a red as his hair. His hands were gripping mine so hard they were growing numb. “This is your chance to take a break from all that and focus on yourself. You don’t have to walk into another office to earn a living ever again if you don’t want to.”

I pulled my hands out of his. “But I do want to, Patrick. I’m going to help Michaela save BOFFO however I can. If she can’t, I’ll find something else in law enforcement. I’m an FBI agent; there’s usually crime happening somewhere.” I took a breath and hissed it out. “And I don’t need you to fix me.”

“Are you sure? Do all of you agree?”

That one stung. I glared at him and walked out of the kitchen, up the shiny stairs (I loved the blond wood floors; only the bedrooms had carpet), and down the long hall, past the master bedroom to what we’d decided would be my room. We were living together, but not yet sleeping together. In fact, I’d never slept with anyone. (Shiro had, that slut, but I honestly had no idea about Adrienne. I shuddered to think.)

Shiro and Adrienne’s (alleged) sex life aside, while I hadn’t considered jettisoning my virginity on Moving Day, I hadn’t imagined we’d go to our beds angry. Or that Pearl would sleep in his bed (Shiro would not be pleased).

But we did. And Pearl did. And Moving Day was over.