Dad was right. Marriage should’ve waited. Tears well because I love Sebastian so much it hurts. What would I do without him? Go back to DC and work for the FBI? Find a job with the NYPD?
No! Sam without Suds is not an option. Wrung out from lack of sleep and worry, I sob quietly, so he can’t hear. Pity is the last thing I need or want. We should be comforting each other, not fighting.
Damn, when did he lose interest? We were fine until the virus. Did he fall for typhoid Darleen, the actress who fired him? Maybe, but I doubt it. She was a serious bitch.
I notice the date on the bottom of my computer screen and moan. Oh, sure. It figures I’m premenstrual. Maybe, and just maybe, I’m overreacting. However, if he dares accuse me of being hormonal, I will cut him at the knees. I’ve ever had days where shit bothers me more than others but I’m not being irrational. Am I?
My life sucks.
Behind the door, my mature and even-tempered partner washes dishes so he can bang the pots and pans. Clearly, we’ve been cooped up too long and need a little time out. I’d suggest makeup sex… except for the fact his cock no longer is interested.
And there you have it. My thoughts circle three-hundred-and-sixty-degrees to where I’m hiding out in the reception area and he’s throwing things in the kitchen. This quarantine is going to drive us to drink, except we’ve run out of booze.
“Fuck!” Ignoring my deteriorating personal life, I open the word document containing my notes on the cold case file. If a certain male was to ask, I can prove I’m being productive, not pouting.
“Mew, mew, mew, mew, mew…” About an hour later, Catrina scratches at the door and Suds lets her out.
Before shutting the door, he puppy-dog eyes me and nods with a deep frown. My God, sometimes he’s worse than Slate. I’m supposed to guess what his sad-sack look is saying? He owes me an apology and for all womankind, I am holding out until I get one. I didn’t do anything wrong. He was being a total Suds-hole.
Yeah. Good adjective. Nailed it.
Not ready to give in, I recall where I left off. Two people, for sure, have died online. The first happened almost a year before the pandemic. The second was about the time the mayor declared a quarantine. I wonder if there’s more and spend some time researching.
Damn. I can’t believe how many practical jokers think pretending to kill someone is funny. After an hour with no progress, I call Jason hoping Dr. Jones has figured out how to speed him up.
The avatar’s new man-bun and a beard surprise me and it takes me a moment to recover. “New look?”
“Yes. Do you like it?”
“It’s… ah… nice.” In truth, the more human the AI unit appears, the more he creeps me out.
Digital green eyes stare out of the screen, no doubt attempting to mind-meld through the network. “You are lying. Why?”
“I didn’t want to make you feel bad.”This isn’t awkward in the least.
“I have no feelings. You are illogical and confusing.” His comment hits too close to home.
“So I’ve been told. Thanks for reminding me.”
The avatar switches back to his previous, geekier self. “I will research this phenomenon further but please, in the future, do not lie, Samantha Sutcliff.”
Sutcliff, not Russo. Was that a threat? I’m not surprised it found out I got married but very few are privy to the fact I changed my last name.Good God. I need to have a talk with Dr. Jones. I’ll bet she has no idea her Jason intends to take over the world.
Now, in wait mode, the avatar blinks more like a computer program which reminds me why I called. “Can you playback the video where Janet Stowe, the author, was murdered?”
“Give me a moment.” Jason types, then a window pops open.
In it, a gray-haired woman smiles as she reads through half-glasses balanced on the tip of her nose. In the middle of a sentence, fingers clasp around her pearls, she screams, and the image disappears.
My heart thumps as an idea takes form. “Can you play the NYPD video, cold case number z-dash-one-five-two?”
I wait until the hands come into view before shouting. “Stop. Can you tell if the gloved hands in both videos belong to the same person?”
“I cannot be certain but it is probable.”
Holy shit.“How probable?”
“Approximately two million, three hundred thousand to one.”
