Page 44 of How To Plot a Payback

I stop short. “You obviously, Lavender. If he was joking, he meant you.”

“I can see that now, of course,” she says, with an annoying lack of concern.

I take three more steps and stop again.

Turn. “You of all people shouldn’t go walking around assuming people would do anything out of the kindness of their hearts—” I throw up my hands. No. You’re doing it, Finn. “But of course it’s none of my business. Right. Well,” I say, quickening my pace as I raise the crate over a sidewalk rubbish bin. “I’m nearly at my car, so—”

“I guess I’ll have to take Bernie to work again—”

“I cannot recommend that less,” I say and stop impatiently at a light. Miles heels. And then, forced to try to push Lavender elsewhere, I say, “Where’s your car?”

“Oh.” She waves a hand vaguely as though she can’t be bothered to remember. “Somewhere up here.”

The Bernese Mountain Dog pup with the ridiculous on-the-nose name tries to lunge into oncoming traffic like the brilliant creature he is, and with a fair amount of struggle, she picks him up. His enormous puppy paws dangle limply at her side.

He looks like he’s entirely accustomed to this way of life. Expects nothing less.

“What’ll you be doing today?” Lavender asks, nodding to the cats. “Will someone pick them up?”

She really is going to come with me all the way to my car.

“No.”

The light turns and we cross.

A few moments later, a horn goes off as a bus rips by. Wisps of Lavender’s hair whip around her, then fall gently back into place. But of course they do.

Another car whizzes past, and my pulse speeds up when I see she’s practically falling off the curb, tottling along with that animal in her arms.

For the sake of lowering my own pulse rate, fine, I think, grinding my teeth.

And being extremely careful to avoid touching her, I move ahead to the curb and edge her over to the building side.

You would’ve thought I’d launched a cannon.

“Look at you!” she exclaims. “All this talk about people not doing things out of the kindness of their hearts. And yet what do we have here?”

She grins massively.

I don’t reply.

I don’t want to look at her.

I have just now determined that my goal for the rest of my life (which, fine, may prove quite challenging given my occupation) will be to never directly look at her again. She’s like looking at the sun. You think to yourself, Oh look! A radiant sun! And then burn your eyeballs to a crisp.

But even from my periphery, I can see she’s motioning with those large, innocent (allegedly) eyes, and an exultant smile has crested her lips, and it seems like I just can’t help sneaking the teeniest, tiniest glance to see what she’s referring to.

“You are that person. You do that thing,” she says a bit breathlessly. (No surprise she’s breathless, what with carrying a fully capable dog known for roaming exotic mountaintops and herding sheep in zero-degree weather.)

“I did nothing.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

I frown. Purse my lips. Look ahead.