She had no reason to question why those particular wizards didn’t call themselves witches (perhaps they too had looked into the etymology of the words and knew the gender-neutral history). Anyway, that wasn’t the most noteworthy part of his declaration.
She scrambled off his lap, alarm making her clumsy. “You said they wouldn’t be able to track you here!”
“Not with magic. If they make inquiries, however, they could stumble upon the fact that a college less than thirty miles from their encounter with me employs an Alexander Hartgrave, and that would be that.”
She groaned, and not in the pleasant way of the past few minutes. “For Pete’s sake, why didn’t you make up a fake name? Isn’t that the first order of business for a person on the run?”
“Oh yes,” he muttered, retrieving his cell phone from a pocket and glancing at it. “You try getting a white-collar job with no green card or Social Security number. I happen to have a tech-worker visa, and I was damn well going to use it.”
She hadn’t thought of it that way. She supposed persons on the run didn’t typically use academia as their bolt-hole. Besides, he must have thought he’d be safe if he kept himself invisible online.
Wait ...
“The Ashburn profile,” she said, gripping his arms.
“Gone,” he said.
“No, I mean the search-engine caches! The wizards will find you the minute they search for your name—”
“Also gone.” He looked pleased with himself.
Handy thing, computer skills. So: His future seemed to hinge on there being no reason for the Sisters Grimm to think of calling the university and asking for him. Not dreadful odds, but not great, considering its proximity to Clear Lake.
“Well,” she said, slipping a hand into his, “what are we going to do?”
“We?”
She frowned at him. “Of course ‘we.’ Even if you refuse to blame me for causing this crisis, you saved my life.”
“So? You saved mine afterward.”
“By that measure, you saved mine twice! I repay my debts.”
His smile was faint, but it was a smile. “Except for dinner.”
“Oh yeah? I’ll rectify thatrightnow.” She paused long enough to notice he still looked a bit off. “Um ... maybe I should get takeout while you rest.”
“No.” He got to his feet with care. “Let’s go to Willi’s.”
. . . . .
“You’re late,” someone called out as they entered Mexican Foo.
It sounded like Bernie. ItwasBernie. He was sitting at a table with Willi, his back to the door, broad-brimmed fedora at a jaunty angle on his head.
“Let’s hurry up and eat so we can—oh,” he said, catching sight of her as he turned in his chair. “Uh—hello, Em.”
The whole exchange was odd. As odd as Hartgrave having Bernie’s phone number. Wait ...
“She knows,” Hartgrave said to the men.
“No,” she gasped, unable to believe what this signified even though she’d already been most of the way there. “BernieandWilli?”
“She knows some of it,” Hartgrave amended, collapsing in a chair.
She turned on Bernie. “Why didn’t youtellme?” Then she gestured to Hartgrave and added, “Never mind—I know why.”
The English professor rolled his eyes. “Exactly. Speaking of which”—he poked Hartgrave—“what brings on this change of heart?”
