chapter fifty-four

I dropped George in the parking garage; his adrenaline rush had long worn off and he was yawning and blinking. I knew he’d hit at least one Starbucks and Caribou Coffee on his way home, so I wasn’t worried about him dozing off. One of these days I would show up here

(maybe)

and see he’d mastered the coffee IV, and all that black gold could go surging straight into his bloodstream. A terrible thing, a wonderful thing.

I went inside to take care of some personal business; there were things to do before I could go face Patrick. I found a small empty conference room, took out my phone, and got to work.

I had calls waiting; that wasn’t a surprise. The other thing was. Three calls, and a video from Shiro? When had she recorded a video? She’d never done that before. I looked at the time and realized those were my missing six minutes. So she had left me a message right after Michaela had dropped her bomb, but before George and I had gotten Zimmerman and found Tracy and Jeremy.

I yawned and wished I was with George (something I almost never wished) to grab my own cup of coffee. It had been a busy day before we encountered Zimmerman, and by now news that Sussudio had been arrested (or, as the reporters had to put it, “the main suspect in the mysterious deaths of blah-blah-blah”) was out. So finding I had calls from Cathie, Patrick (two from Patrick), and Max Gallo wasn’t a surprise. The actual voice mails were, but for different reasons.

Cathie: “What’s up with you and my brother? Something weird’s going on. Yes, even for you. You say that all the time, y’know. Call me.”

Patrick: “Oh my God, please be okay. I saw on the news—okay, are you okay? Call me, okay? Look, I think this is a sign that you should definitely take some time off and just focus on yourself. And you’d get to spend more time with Pearl! Let’s talk about it when you get home. Please don’t be dead!”

Max: “Wow, you got him! Jesus, is there anything you can’t do? It’d be annoying if you weren’t so cute. Listen, if it’s not classified, would you please call me and tell me about it? I’m sure you kicked ass all over the place, but I’d love the actual deets and I’ve got some questions about his pathology. I bet one or both of his parents gave themselves The Big Sleep. God, so many questions. Maybe I can take you out for a cup of coffee? Not a date. Just to talk. I can’t believe you got him already! Congrats and I knew you’d get that fuck-o.”

Patrick: “Oh, I almost forgot, Pearl didn’t stealth poop today. I think. It’s a big house. Okay, ’bye.”

My phone chirped and I saw it was Cathie trying me again. Ah! A tinge of normalcy in the oddest weekend ever. I was as delighted as my fatigue would allow, and delighted to talk about anything besides serial murder, BOFFO’s nonexistence, or Max Gallo’s mesmerizing eyes.

“What’s going on with you and my brother?”

Anything besides that. Oh, hell, I’d just heard her voice mail; I should have been expecting it. But the habit of my friend was strong: she spoke the truth, always and unequivocally, without thinking twice, because if you think about what it’s okay to talk about, you’re not best friends anymore. We’d met at the mental hospital—Cathie had been an enthusiastic cutter—and knew each other before we had training bras. The truth rule had worked for a long time.

“I don’t know, Cath, and it’s driving me nuts. This is nothing against Patrick at all. He’s wonderful.”

“And I got the weirdest voice mail from George. ‘If you haven’t noticed, your idiot pal is switching and decompensating all over the place and it’s driving me up a goddamned tree, so be warned and also, what are you wearing right now? Don’t forget you want to paint my car, and I’m willing to be there, too. Do you have butt-crack black in your palette?’ Like that.”

I shuddered and apologized, for the thousandth time, for my partner.

“Never mind him, but I’m still painting the car. I’m not going near his butt crack, though. Are you really switching back and forth that fast? It’s you and Shiro and you and Shiro, right? And Adrienne hardly comes out at all?”

Of course she would have noticed. I should have realized she would. “Yeah. It’s weird but not scary. It’s not even so much that we’re switching; it’s more like the barriers between us are getting softer. Like they were brick and now they’re smoke. Something. Shit, I don’t know. A lot’s happened in not much time.”

There was a long pause, and when Cathie spoke it was with an odd tentativeness I hadn’t heard often from her. She used that tone when she was realizing truth and speaking truth at the same time, no matter whom the truth could hurt.

“I’ve noticed lots of good changes in you. And I’d love to attribute them to my brother. But I think it’s more accurate to attribute them to you. I don’t think it’s as corny as falling in love. Maybe it’s deciding to please yourself first. Maybe … that’s what you should be doing more of. You put everything and everyone before yourself, Cadence, and you always have. It’s why you’re easy to love. But I think it’s also held you back for a long time. I think the changes are good. I think you need to keep doing what you’re doing. Regardless of the, uh, collateral damage.”

I blew out the breath I’d been holding, my knees gone so abruptly weak with relief I would have fallen if I weren’t in a chair. I could barely face the thought of breaking up with Patrick; knowing I would hurt my best friend had been an added torture. It wouldn’t have stopped me or changed my course, but it had been dreadful to think about. But Cathie thought I should. She was on my side. And I was foolish to think there was anywhere else she would be.

“That’s … thanks, Cathie. I know what it cost, saying that. I’m not sure why you did, but I’m grateful.”

I could hear her sad smile. “You know the rule. Unequivocal truth. Because if you stop to think about what it’s okay to talk about, you’re not best friends anymore.”

“I’ll … okay. I’ll call you later, all right?”

“Yeah. You’ve got pesky murder paperwork to do, huh?”

I had no idea. What paperwork did fake FBI agents have to fill out after they made a citizen’s arrest on a real killer and shot up his house but didn’t hurt anyone? “Sure.”

“I saw on the news that you got him. The Little Canada cops are getting the credit, though. Little hosers!”

“The important thing is, evil was stymied and his poster collection was ruined.”

“What?”

“’Bye.”