Pimpernel

by Sheralyn Pratt

  This was one of the perks of being a psychology major. Everyone she knew thought seeing a shrink was absolutely normal.

  “I’ll set up an appointment,” she said, unable to meet his eyes as she spoke because she knew it was a lie. Yes, she would love to see a therapist. But if a trained therapist saw her, they would see she was off her medication. They would catch the behavioral ticks and the odd conversational leaps. They would know something was off, which meant she couldn’t go. Not yet.

  That didn’t mean she couldn’t say the right words in the moment. “Talking to someone would be helpful.”

  Definitely one of the biggest understatement of her life. She’d give almost anything to be able to tell someone about the mousetrap that had just snapped down on her carefully cultivated life.

  “Good,” Professor Smith said, standing. “You look like you’re not sleeping, and I’m assuming that has nothing with you secretly being a wild frat girl.”

  She shook her head. “No. It’s just hard to sleep.”

  He smirked down at her. “Well, when you’re not in class anyway, right?”

  “Right,” she laughed, feeling her face flush in embarrassment. “I won’t let that happen again.”

  He nodded, then tapped a finger on her cell phone. “Good. And be sure to listen to your recording of the class. I think you’ll find the data Roger collected worth your time.”

  “Definitely,” she said, gathering her stuff and placing it all in the designated sections in her bag. “I’ll listen to it the moment I get home.”

  “Or sometime thereafter,” he said with an easy smile. “Taking a nap first wouldn’t hurt anything.”

  “Of course,” she agreed, suddenly desperate to get away from Professor Nice. He’d never talked to her before, and now he was suddenly a friend?

  For no reason whatsoever, the room now felt too small and more than a little oxygen deprived. Claire needed to get out.

  “Have a good weekend, Claire,” Professor Smith said from behind as she walked out.

  “You too, Professor,” she said, then headed for her car.

  Chapter 8

  Another day had passed with no progress for Jack. It was time to call Kali.

  Ever since Ren had brought up her name, Jack had known she was the perfect choice for the job. And Kali owed him—big time.

  Without Jack, there would be no Kali. He’d created Kali Fischer when he’d helped her old identity die just over a year ago. Kali and Ren’s original identities had died the same day, when Jack had turned them both into ghosts. He’d also invited both of them to work with him. Ren had accepted without hesitation because of the Margot connection, but Kali had asked for time to consider his offer.

  Jack was still waiting for a reply.

  Still, if anyone could see Claire for who she was, it was Kali. Whether she was onboard to join Jack’s crew or not, he knew Kali would pick up when he called.

  He didn’t even have to wait for two rings.

  “Jack,” Kali said in a cool tone that made it sound like she was ready for anything to come out of his mouth—good or bad.

  “Kali,” he replied. “It’s been a while.”

  “It has.” The woman wasn’t one to chatter.

  “I need something from you.”

  “Name it,” she said, her tone all business.

  “We’re working a situation, and I need to get your read on one of the players.”

  “Male or female?”

  “Female.”

  “Good or bad?”

  “Actions are bad, but we’re hoping her heart might be good,” Jack said.

  Kali was silent for a moment. “Is her intent hard to read because you’re attached?”

  Jack considered that before answering. “I don’t think so, but I guess I am hoping she’s somehow innocent. If you choose to help me, you’ll probably see what I mean. She’s young—a college kid—and there’s a fragility about her that makes it seem like a light knock would shatter her. I don’t think she’d do well in prison.”

  “I see.”

  Those words were always scary when they came out of Kali’s mouth because there was no way to discern what she was actually seeing.

  “What do you need from me?” she asked.

  “We have hundreds of hours of footage of her,” he said. “Plus, we have her financials, medical information, and all her historical information. The short description is she has a tested IQ of 176 and she’s currently getting a PhD in Experimental Psychology. She also medicates for OCD, although she stopped taking the pills fifteen days ago for reasons we haven’t figured out. Her game plan in seamless, and she doesn’t leave a single bread crumb of evidence behind. It’s actually quite impressive.”

  When Kali had no immediate response, Jack knew she was sufficiently intrigued. She was in.

  “I want to send you everything we have and get your read on her,” he said to bury the hook. “Who is she? What makes her tick? How is she pulling everything off? But most of all, it would be good to know if there’s a chance she’d be willing to join us in exchange for protection.”

  “I can do that,” she said, and Jack smiled. Kali said the words with the same confidence Jack would have if someone asked if he could pick a card out of a deck.

  “I know,” he said. “That’s why I called.”

  “I’ll message you a link so you can transfer what you have my way.”

  “That’ll work,” Jack said. “And Kali?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  A soft laugh came out of her. “Jack, if it weren’t for you I’d be in a grave. You pretty much don’t have to thank me for anything for the rest of your life. If you need it, and I can do it, consider it done.”

  “If that’s the case, you should come on board and let me pay you.”

  Dead air.

  “Kali?” Jack said.

  “Maybe,” she said. “Not yet, but maybe soon. I’ll let you know. In the meantime, I’ll do this.”

  “Copy that.”

  “And I just messaged you,” Kali said. “I’ll wait for your drop.”

  “Give me about two hours, and I’ll have it all to you.”

  “Sounds good,” Kali said, and the line went dead.

  Chapter 9

  Once again parked in the safety of her assigned parking space, Claire breathed a sigh of relief. Home at last. Well, not home per se. It was just an apartment. But it was safe.

  Locking her car doors behind her, Claire fought her old ritual of pressing the button to lock the doors three times.

  Like you did last night with the front door.

  Of all the compulsions her OCD gave her, the ritual of triple-checking everything was the most maddening. She had triple-checked all the time when she was younger, but the urge to start doing it again hadn’t returned until last night. Apparently, she was still sliding down the slope of medication leaving her body. She hadn’t hit rock bottom yet, which was pretty terrifying. And aggravating.

  She wasn’t a child anymore. She was an educated woman who understood what her brain was doing and why. So why couldn’t she think her way out of this? She was smart—a genius, even. She shouldn’t need a stupid pill in order to believe that she could do something right the first time. But, heaven help her, she did.

  As Claire walked away from her car, the anxiety pushing her to do everything in triplicate insisted she push the button on her keychain two more times—the need tightening like a vice around her chest when she refused. The only way to release the internal tension was to give the button two more pushes.

  Just do it. It’s not hurting anyone.

  So she did, breathing easy for the fraction of a second it took for her eyes to land on the overgrown grass surrounding her apartments, making her feel like she needed to take a shower to feel clean again.

  Irrational, she thought, even as her shower beckoned her.

  Three days, she reminded herself. Three days until I get to turn these compu
lsions off again.

  Forcing herself to keep walking until she reached the mailbox, Claire pulled out the day’s mail, arranging the envelopes in order of size as she flipped through them. Credit card offer, credit card offer, local mailer—

  “Hi there.”

  She almost screamed, but the sound came out as a stifled squeak as she turned to face the man behind the voice. At first, all she saw was a belt buckle, buttons, and vertical stripes. Blue stripe, white stripe, dark blue stripe, and repeat. Her mind mapped out the shirt, noting where the pattern lost symmetry at the seams until she was craning her neck to look up the nose of spider guy. His nostrils were clean, a bit of luck Claire never took for granted. Such was the curse of being short: what people had in their noses became your business whether you wanted it to be or not. So, for today, at least, spider guy was one point closer to balancing out the million points he lost by releasing a spider in her home the night before.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, a nervous smile plastered on his face. It was a fake smile, as evidenced by the lack of muscle engagement in the top half of his face. In a business negotiation or a poker game, Claire would know what that meant, but the rules always seemed so different in social situations. A fake smile could mean any number of things, and Claire was never quite sure which motive was in play.

  “It’s fine,” she said as politely as possible. “I didn’t see you there.”

  Her brain screamed to make her excuses and leave, but as she stepped away she couldn’t help but notice the tell-tale signs of nervousness on his face. He wanted to say something, and based on the fact that his eyes had just done a lateral glance to the side, he’d probably rehearsed it. If she ran, he’d probably just hunt her down again later. Might as well let him get it out of the way now.

  Spider guy’s face blushed lightly when he blurted, “You have no idea how sorry I am about last night.”

  She and Daniel had stayed up for hours sterilizing surfaces until they passed the standards for commercial-grade kitchens. Even so, she’d still chloroxed the counters before making food that morning. All she had to do was think of Voldemort to feel like she needed to start cleaning the apartment from top to bottom again. She’d only allowed herself to do the counters, though. Three times.

  Spider guy didn’t need to know that.

  “It’s fine,” she said with a bright smile. “Totally fine. I’m just glad you got your…” Pet? Friend? Home security? What was the right term for a tarantula? “…Voldemort back.”

  He shook his head. “Yeah. I seriously have no idea how she got out. The habitat is so secure. It’s weird.”

  All things Claire didn’t want to hear. “Well, whatever happened, I’m glad it was resolved without any casualties. All’s well that ends well.”

  He dropped eye contact, his hands coming up to fidget at her eye level since she was a full fourteen inches shorter. “I was thinking that I should take you out to an apology dinner. You know, to say I’m sorry for the whole fiasco.”

  Claire’s heart triple-timed in her chest, panicking at the thought. A date? Now? Off her meds? That was a catastrophe waiting to happen. “Oh, that’s not necessary.”

  “Your choice,” he added quickly. “We could go out or stay in, or whatever. I just don’t want to be the weird spider guy who lives down the hall forever, you know?”

  “Oh, that ship has sailed,” a lilting lisp said from behind Claire.

  She’d know Daniel’s voice anywhere, and felt a wave of relief at his arrival. He stepped in next to her and plucked the mail out of her hands, pulling out the envelopes addressed to him as he added, “You will always be the weird spider guy, honey. Just like you’ll always see cute sailor boxer briefs every time you look at me. First impressions stick in the mind.”

  Their neighbor looked truly distraught at the thought even as he forced another smile Claire’s direction. “I cook. I’m really good at it, actually. Maybe I could make you something—make you dinner?”

  “Wait. Make her dinner? Just her?” Daniel scoffed. “Honey, she was only there for the tail end of the drama. If you owe anyone dinner, it’s me. A perfect sandwich ended up in the trash after your eight-legged wonder decided to channel the spirit a paratrooper and ambush my night.”

  The neighbor looked at Claire helplessly. This was not going as he imagined, that much was clear. But he wasn’t giving up. “I make great Italian, and would be happy to make something on a night when you’re both home.”

  “Tomorrow works for me,” Daniel chirped, turning his attention back to the envelopes.

  “How about you?” the neighbor said. “Does that work for you?”

  Claire wanted to say no and run, but a dinner with Daniel along as a buffer might be the best outcome she could hope for.

  “Sounds great!” she said with just a little too much cheer. “Tomorrow. Do you want me to make a salad?”

  “No need,” he said. “I’ve got it covered.”

  “Okay,” she said, even as decided she would definitely make a salad. If he made anything with a sauce on it, she wouldn’t be able to eat it. “Feel free to cook at our place.” Where things are clean. “That way you don’t have to carry stuff over when it’s done.”

  “And come over as early as five,” Daniel said, sending her a sideways glance. “Claire won’t be home until seven, but you can just have things ready when she walks in.”

  Claire had no idea what Daniel was talking about. Tomorrow was Saturday and she had exactly zero plans. None. She was about to say as much when Daniel blinked innocently in her direction as if willing her to double check her words before speaking them.

  Did she want to spend two hours cooking with—wait, she didn’t even know his name yet. Her mother would be appalled at her manners. But that didn’t change the answer to the question.

  “Seven works for me,” she said, hoping her smile didn’t look too guilty.

  “Okay,” spider guy said. “I can make that work. I’ll bring everything over around five to get started.”

  “My day just keeps getting better and better,” Daniel said, before fanning himself with a Discover Card envelope. “I’m pre-approved by Discover and I get to have a cute boy cook me dinner tomorrow.”

  “A straight guy,” the neighbor clarified.

  Daniel shrugged. “Cute is cute, Nick.”

  Claire almost laughed—almost. The relief at hearing the guy’s name was the only thing that stopped her.

  “Yeah, Nick,” she added. “Again, you really don’t need to make us dinner—”

  “I want to,” he said over her. “It’s the least I can do.”

  Daniel rested his hand on her shoulder. “It really is the least he can do, hon.”

  Nick was nodding with such hope in his eyes that it seemed there was only one thing left to say. “Okay. See you tomorrow night.”

  “Okay,” Nick breathed. “Tomorrow then.”

  Daniel raised a finger, his eyes giving Nick a not-so-discreet once over. “Oh, and the dress code is no khakis, no sandals.”

  “Uh…okay,” Nick said.

  Daniel spun on his heel, starting back toward their apartment door and Claire was quick to follow his lead. Brahms played from Daniel’s bedroom when they walked through the front door and she wondered what he was working on.

  “Thank you,” she whispered the moment they were behind their apartment door.

  “Of course, roomie,” he said, handing over her mail. “If we don’t watch over each other, who will?” He smirked. “Besides, he really is cute.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t want to date him, Daniel.”

  “Of course you don’t,” he said with a melodramatic sigh. “You are pathologically single. All these fine, straight men all around you, and you don’t even look twice.” He clucked his tongue at her, head wagging. “Be honest, Claire, when was the last time you let a fine young man take you out on a date?”

  Outside of dates her mother had set up for her? It had
been a lifetime since Claire’s last date. Literally. Not that no one ever asked. They did. Claire was just…particular.

  Daniel walked over to the shredder next to the trash can and shredded all his mail, including the pre-approved Discover card notification. “If it takes that long to think of the answer, it’s not a good answer. You need to start living a little!”

  “I’d rather focus on school.”

  He looked her over before letting out a resigned sigh. “You’d rather pine for Professor Hottie.” Daniel walked to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water, his eyes daring her to disagree with him. “He was your sun, your moon, and your stars and you’re still pining for him. Don’t deny it.”

  Claire felt her face blush and hoped it wasn’t going too red. “He was just my professor.”

  Daniel popped the top on the water, wiggling his eyebrows. “A professor who makes house calls is more than a professor.”

  “We were always professional,” Claire argued, certain her face was fully red now.

  “Mm-hmm,” he purred, lips pursed playfully. “Not by your choice, you weren’t. We talked about this the night he was arrested, remember? No need to deny it. You have a crush on teacher—old teacher. How old is he? Like, forty?”

  “ I don’t care about age,” she said. “He’s intelligent and circumspect and safe—”

  “And a felon,” Daniel finished for her.

  “Allegedly.”

  “Well, let’s cross our fingers and hope he’s guilty at this point,” Daniel said, throwing his lid into the recycling. “So far being a felon sounds like the most interesting thing about him.” He pulled a face. “Safe? Circumspect? Do yourself a favor and never repeat those words in Professor Hottie’s presence, okay? You make him sound like a human Ambien.”

  Claire thought about that, recalling how even on the best of days her brain still acted like it was sprinting a marathon. It was a rare person who didn’t aggravate that dynamic, but rather set her mind at ease and allowed her to be comfortable in any given moment—kind of like how she felt living with Daniel. Five minutes ago she’d been sitting behind her steering wheel herding mental cats and trying to convince herself that the world was not as chaotic as it seemed. Now she was having a conversation—just one—with no obsessing on the side.