“What the hell was your degree in?” I asked, tossing a handful of silverware next to the plates I’d pulled out. “Psychology?”
Her expression shuttered. “Hey, Pot, here’s Kettle. You were doing the same thing when you wouldn’t give my Valium to me.”
I huffed. “Maybe I just didn’t want you to accidentally overdose.”
“It was in communications. I was a technical writer.” She eyed me coolly and I got the message. The conversation was over.
I recalled Twiggy telling me as much. She was accustomed to sifting through and interpreting data, then.
We sat at the table to eat, and for a while there was only the sound of our forks against the plates. She didn’t eat like most women. I found myself watching her, taking note of the no-nonsense, quick manner with which she ate. Aside from not shoveling the food in with massive bites, she ate with a focus almost masculine in aspect.
“Good?” I asked.
“Yep.”
I waited, but that was all.Yep.Shrugging, I finished my meal.
She finished at the same time and I glanced at the watch on my wrist. “Six minutes.” She lifted her brows in question. “Six minutes from the time you sat down until the time you finished eating.”
She gave a single slow blink, communicating an entire conversation with the gesture.
Your point is?
You got a problem with that?
So?
“Observant of you,” was all she said, rising to carry her plate to the sink.
“It’s impressive, is all. I’ve never seen a woman eat with such single-minded intent.”
She didn’t respond, but walked to the window and stared out at the snow. It had been falling all day, and coated everything with a thick blanket of white. The woods were slightly darker, an amorphous blob in the near distance. The lake, in the other direction, was an undisturbed expanse of nothing. I could feel her brooding behind me, hear it in her clipped response. It was fine. I didn’t expect her to be pleasant and conversational.
For a while I worked to clean the kitchen up on my own. Then she stepped behind me, picked up a plate and a towel, and began to dry. “Thank you,” I said with a sideways glance.
She grunted. Then, “It’s an army thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The way I eat. You learn to be efficient with your time and movement. I was only deployed a couple of times, but I learned fast when it was time to grub, you didn’t waste it.”
“You’re pretty bad ass, you know that?”
She rolled her eyes. “You’ve got me where you want me, Irish. No need to butter me up.”
“Maybe I’m just tired of you being pissed at me.”
A smirk brightened her face for a second and then was gone. The kitchen was clean, and so I opened the pantry once again and dug around until I found what I was looking for.
“Here.” I tossed Emery a small notebook with images of llamas on it. Silly looking thing.
“My journal.” She picked it up from her lap and gripped it tightly, knuckles white. “Did you read it?”
So whatever she did not want me to know was in that journal. “No.” Stupid of me, but I wanted her to tell me, herself. To trust me, in spite of the lies that had brought us here.
Maybe after tonight she would.
If she didn’t, I’d have to stop being such a relative nice guy.
It wasn’t even so much about having the intel I needed to decide whether or not she would leave here alive. I wasn’t going to kill her. Without hardly thinking about it, I’d made my decision. I knew that; she knew it, too. Now, it was about discovering what kind of shit I’d have to slog through to help her.
