“I don’t—”
“You should leave now.” It’s enough—she’s said enough, they’ve argued enough, and this is an impasse.
“Nomi—”
“Please just go.” She crosses her arms.
For a moment, she’s not sure if he’ll obey. She’s very careful not to look at the Smith & Wesson on the coffee table, no matter how her eyes pull toward it. But then Simon wets his lips and walks toward the hall. She holds position as he goes to the door, unlocks it, tugs it open—
He stops. “There’s a—”
“What?” Is this some sort of stupid last-word guy thing?
He looks back at her, frowning. “Someone has left a parcel at your door.”
Is this a joke? Nomi follows to where Simon is standing. Sees the cardboard box—about the size of a shoebox—that wasn’t there before, now sitting on the linoleum outside, and feels all her senses come alert.
“Get back.” Something about her face must command attention because he immediately backs away as she crouches down and examines the box. It’s plain, sealed with packing tape, and there’s no address marked anywhere, just her name on the top. “There’s a box cutter in the top drawer of my desk. Could you—”
“Got it,” he says, and jogs off.
Nomi leans forward, listens above the box. No ticking, whirring, hissing, or ratcheting sounds. Nothing at all, in fact. She gets down at floor level and examines the place where the box meets the linoleum: no wires she can see. There could be a pressure plate, but that seems complicated.
Simon returns with the box cutter, hesitates, looking between the blade and her outstretched hand. “Um, are you sure you’re—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” She rolls her eyes. “Just give it.”
He hands it to her, intelligence returning. “Does Lamonte or anyone in that crew seem like they’d rig up an explosive?”
“I’m not seeing any wires. There’s no sounds.” She winces. This is really not her area, and she’s feeling the lack. She puts the box cutter in her back pocket. “I’m going to pick it up.”
“Nomi—”
She picks up the box: Nothing explodes. She exhales through her teeth, brings the box inside.
Simon closes the door, follows her and the box to the kitchen. “Is it heavy?”
“It’s not heavy. It’s really light. No weight imbalance. I don’t know, maybe it’s full of spiders or something.” She waits for Simon to clear the beer bottles away before placing the box on the benchtop, retrieving the box cutter from her pocket. She snicks the blade out to slice the packing tape.
“Wait.” Simon gestures for the box cutter. “Let me open it.”
“Why?”
He looks impatient. “Because you’ve got people relying on you for the PI work you do, and you’ve got no more experience with explosives or spider-filled packages than me—just let me open it. You go in the bathroom and close the door.”
She’s not sure what’s prompting this, but he makes a salient point. Although if he gets his arms blown off because of her, she’ll feel really bad. “Simon—”
“Come on, give me the box cutter.”
Biting her lip, she hands it over. He shoos her until she retreats to the bathroom. She doesn’t close the door entirely, though.
She can hear the rustle as he opens the parcel. “What’s happening?”
“It’s filled with ... packing peanuts. Wait, there’s ... there’s another smaller box inside.”
“What?”
“It’s not heavy.” More rustling. “It isn’t ... Oh shit.”
