Deja Who (Insighter #1)(10)

Thank God.





FIVE


“Brought you more of that chicken.” Leah held out the bag, and Cat set aside the newspaper and took it with the delicate greed of her namesake.

“Thanks. Tough one?”

Cat had recognized the detectives at once; fortunately, Chart #6116 had been easier to fool. “Not really.”

“S’why you take all those judo lessons, right? Sometimes they don’t like what you tell ’em.”

“Mm-hmm.” Judo, no. Aikido and Eskrima, yes. She carried an expandable baton in her purse and a balisong in her bra, which was fine, since on a good day she was maybe a thirty-four B. All that in this lifetime’s attempt to avoid being murdered again. Eskrima had been the easy one; in one of her former lives she’d been expert. Relearning hadn’t been akin to relearning to bike-ride, but still, she’d been able to shave a couple of years off her training.

Enh. Old habits. No need to burden Cat with any of it.

“So check this,” Cat began, nodding at the newspaper neatly folded beside her on the bench. “They got enough votes to move the graveyard.”

“Yeah, I know, and a day before you did.”

“Don’t start,” Cat warned.

“Nobody reads newspapers made from paper anymore. It’s so much quicker, more accurate, and better for the environment to just—”

“Oh, Jesus spare me from a grumpy eco-terrorist.”

“I am not! Well, yes, I’m grumpy, but the rest of it isn’t true. And you know the library lets you have online access whenever you want—”

“Do not get me started on libraries!”

Ah. Shit. That was a definite lapse on Leah’s part. It was never good to bring up anyone’s wildly passionate/destructive love/hate relationship, especially one as tempestuous as Cat’s with libraries. “Sorry. Sorry.”

“And it isn’t about getting news.” At Leah’s pointed silence, Cat elaborated. “It’s not entirely about getting news. Newspaper is good for so much stuff! Insulation, windows—”

“Windows?”

“Yeah, it gets your windows wicked clean.”

“Do you have windows? Somewhere?”

“You can use it for kitty litter, you can stick a sheet on your windshield and it won’t get all iced up . . .”

“You don’t have a car.”

“And if you do the same thing in summer your car doesn’t get so hot.”

“You don’t have a car.”

“Eventually, of course, it’s great for compost.”

Leah blinked and considered her response. Finally: “You don’t have a compost pile.”

“Who said it was for my compost pile?”

“You’re like those people who clip coupons for cat food even though you don’t have a cat.”

“Yeah, but everyone else does. Seems like it, anyway. And when they need a coupon, I’ll be ready.” She took a long look at Leah’s expression and added, “Maybe we should let the newspaper war go for a few more days.”

“I’m on board.”

“Subject change?”

“Agreed. It’s so sad,” Leah said, looking into her sack. “I pack my own lunch, but I keep hoping to be surprised. But no. It’s exactly what I packed for myself. I don’t even like carrots.”

“Not even a love note,” Cat teased.

“No.” Leah unfolded the note she’d left for herself: don’t forget to get more milk and keep a sharp eye out for your killer and also your ass looks huge in those shorts. She looked down at herself. “I’m right. It does.”

“Does not.”

“No boobs, too much ass.”

“Nope.” Cat had shamelessly read over her shoulder, and not for the first time. Cat was ten years older, twenty pounds heavier, and almost a foot taller. “You don’t have an ass to look bad. You’ve got nothin’ going on back there.”

“Plaid. What was I thinking? Rodney Dangerfield and circus clowns, they can pull off plaid Bermudas. Sometimes I wish my mystery man would hurry up and kill me again already.”

“Yeah. Speaking of.” Cat peeked into the lunch bag, smiled at Leah, and pulled out a chocolate pudding cup. Then, horribly, she helped herself to Leah’s abandoned carrots and began dipping and eating. “You’ve had that guy sniffin’ around you for a few days now.”

“Mmmm.” She couldn’t look at the other woman. Carrots on their own were dreadful enough. She didn’t think it was possible to ruin a Jell-O pudding cup. Wrong again, dolt. “He is definitely taking his time this life.” The quickest he’d ever killed her was when she was nineteen. The longest was this life—she had just turned twenty-six, and was thus far unperforated.

“Can’t believe you just wanna let it happen. Whad’ya take all the classes for? Huh?”

“The confrontation,” she corrected her. “That’s what I want to have happen. I’m tired of feeling him get close but not knowing if today’s the day. And he might not kill me this time. I’m supposed to keep learning, yes? Maybe in this life I have learned enough. Maybe I’ll kill him this time.” Wait. That didn’t sound like the lesson karma was trying to teach her . . .