Deja Who (Insighter #1)(12)
“Quit leaving yourself mean notes.”
Leah shrugged. “I decline.”
“Or I won’t eat your carrots tomorrow and you can just worry about them being in your lunch all day.”
“. . . deal,” she finally said. Outwitted again by a woman who uses last year’s swimsuit as underwear.
“Ha! Sucker.”
They finished their meals in the closest thing to a comfortable silence Leah knew. That, too, could be considered weird or problematic if she thought about it.
So she didn’t.
SIX
Archer hurried to intercept Leah. This was dumb, this was crazy, this was not what his client was paying him to do. This was the sort of shit that led to his father being locked up.
Watch and report, he had been told. And he’d been happy to take the money. Then.
“I have to know what she’s doing,” the client had commanded. “It’s the only way to know when the time is right.”
“Okey-dokey.” Being in a—there was no other word for it—lair made Archer want to check himself for ticks. Stacks of People and Us and Entertainment Weekly. Dust. Packets and packets of Sugarless Bubble Yum and packs of orange Tic Tacs filled clean ashtrays. And everywhere, pictures of Leah. Worse, pictures of his client. Worst of all were the pictures of Leah and his client together, feigning humanity while Leah grimaced at the camera in a variety of humiliating costumes. “What did you do to her?”
“That’s none of your concern. And she did it to me. Now. The time is almost right.”
“Are you trying to sound like a comic book villain on purpose?”
His client hissed at him like an irked housecat. “You will watch, and you will inform.”
“A Nazi comic book villain?”
“Then, when I’m ready—”
“—you’ll spirit her to your lair and make her your bride?”
“That’s disgusting.” For a creature who lived in a mansion out of Great Expectations and paid strange men to follow cute Insighters, the client was ironically judgmental. “I would never. You have a filthy imagination. Now get to work, but use your imagination on your own time. Everything you need to know is in that folder.”
“Not everything,” Archer had replied, taking another long look around the mansion of horrors. Who knew such monstrosities lurked in Chicago’s Lincoln Park? “Are you dressed as a birthday cake in this picture? Why is Leah dressed as the candle? And what’s the dog for? Where is this taking place? I have questions about at least ten other pics, too. I’d like to take pics of your pics and take them home and sort of fret over them. And when I’m done with the questions about the pics, I have questions about your house, starting with the fish. And when I’m done with the questions about your house and your fish, I—”
“Get to work!”
“Please,” he begged. “Just one question. Any question. What’s with the gum and Tic Tacs? At least tell me that much. You eat them together, don’t you? And then spit the Tic Tacs–y wads of gum into the ashtrays? Because I can’t help noticing there’s no cigarette smoke in here. Or cigarettes. Or things to light cigarettes. So please, in the name of God, tell me, what are the ashtrays for?”
“Out! Go work for a living, stupid boy!”
“Don’t call me a boy!” Anyway, off he went, and after days of lurking it was time to warn Leah. Which probably broke some sort of Pee Eye rule: don’t rat out your client to the person you’re following for said client. Yeah, that was probably definitely a rule. Oh, well. He could always get another job. And maybe Leah would be glad. Maybe she’d agree to grab a coffee. She could bring her homeless friend if it made her feel safer. She could bring five homeless friends, a dozen, and guns, too, if that would help her feel safe, and/or knives. He just wanted to see if he could get her to smile.
She hardly ever smiled. Archer thought that was the saddest thing ever, and he’d been surrounded by bubble gum and dusty packets of Tic Tacs and squeaky-clean ashtrays in a cigarette-free house full of fetish photography. Although perhaps that was more creepy than sad.
“Excuse me,” he called, hurrying to catch up. She was done eating, she didn’t want to go back to work, it was broad daylight, so she maybe wouldn’t spook . . . it was as good a time as any, and maybe better than most.
“Finally,” she said, which should have scared him but didn’t. (He’d have time to ponder all that should have terrified him, and didn’t, while being stitched up in the ER with a local that should have dulled the pain, and didn’t, while being scolded by Leah who should have been contrite, and wasn’t.)
“Yeah, hi. Listen, you don’t know me.” She’d allowed him to catch up to her, had stepped off the sidewalk and into the little alley between her office building and the CVS. The alley was well-lit and clean and not remotely like the kind Bruce Wayne’s parents were killed in. Comics had given alleys such a bad rep.
He had hopes she’d led him off the street because she wanted to talk to him in private, and tried not to pant. She could really move when she wanted; it had been tricky keeping an eye on her while keeping up with her. God, she was so cute! Even her scowl was cute. And she was definitely scowling at him. Probably thinks I want to sell her something. “Pardon me, miss, are you satisfied with your life insurance coverage?” Could not quit part-time job number nineteen fast enough.