Calculated in Death (In Death #36)(104)

“Yes. His training’s important to him. Physical training, and maintaining his area. If you’d found clothes, they would have been tidy and organized. Plain, efficient, nothing flashy. Good quality. His dishes matched. Undoubtedly he bought them in a set, but he’s kept them in that set. The fact that he took everything he could tells me he’d have been very unhappy to leave his fitness equipment behind. That means something to him. Replaceable, certainly. But it was his, something he used, enjoyed. Something that proved his strength and sense of self. He’ll blame you.”

“Only more reason to try for me, and it’s going to be tomorrow. It’s the only logical choice left. And going with his sense of self, his comfort zone, he’ll go in as security. That’s another logical choice.”

“I agree. But, as he’s shown, he’s a scattershot planner. He may not take the logical choice. He may jump with impulse.”

Eve considered that as she swung through the gates. “If he manages to get his hands on a ticket and come as a guest, or as one of the staff, we’ll still spot him.”

“He won’t come at you directly. If he’s able to infiltrate security, he’ll know its weaknesses.”

“Yeah. But so will I. Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Plan carefully,” Mira warned. “When he comes, he’ll be brutal.”

“I’ll be covered,” she told Mira, and signed off.

She’d take an hour first, Eve decided. Get in a solid workout. Test and tune her body, clean out her head.

She sincerely hoped things didn’t shake out with her going up physically against a guy who could bench-press three hundred pounds, but if it did, she wanted to be ready.

She had an insult waiting for Summerset, who she knew would comment about her being home early. She’d say it was Mortician’s Day, and she’d taken off in his honor.

Quick and to the point.

But when she walked in, he wasn’t on the lurk in the foyer. Out somewhere maybe, she assumed. Digging up mushrooms in some dank cellar or visiting a fellow ghoul.

Pleased at the idea of having the house to herself, she jogged up the stairs. And when she turned toward the bedroom very nearly squealed like a girl when he walked out of it.

Instead she said, “What the f**k!”

“Laundry must be put away,” he said equably, “even the small collection of rags you call T-shirts.”

The reminder he handled her clothes left her speechless. She lost any possible insult advantage when he just continued down the hall.

The best she managed was a muttered, “Damn it,” as she walked in. Then nearly squealed again when the cat leaped out from under the sofa.

“That’s two,” she mumbled, letting out a breath. She was jumpier than she’d realized.

Definitely time to work out, sweat it out, tune it up.

A quick exam of her butt in the mirror reassured her. The sickly yellow bruises no longer resembled any land mass she could think of, but more a kind of blurry constellation.

Tits not too bad either, she decided, and gave her own sternum a poke. No thumping or twinging, not even when she tested her shoulder.

So she’d work those muscles, remind them they had a job to do.

She changed into a sports bra and workout shorts, and after a very short debate left the neatly folded and not ragged T-shirts in the drawer.

Inspired, she took the disc of the theater’s layout, considering it as she rode the elevator down to the gym.

It took her some time—electronics always took her some time—but she managed to program three scenarios using the layout. She’d get in a good, hard run, she thought, and familiarize herself with the area.

She set a brisk pace. If she had to run, there wouldn’t be time to warm up. Through the lobby, up stairs, down stairs, into the maintenance level, behind the screen, through the main audience area, up again, down again.

He was fast, she thought. She’d be faster.

He was strong. She’d be smart.

When Roarke came in she’d worked up a sweat.

He studied her view screen, raised his brows. “Did you program that yourself?”

“Yeah.” She panted it out, not ready to quit. “I can do e-stuff.”

“How long did it take you?”

“Shut up.”

“Let’s see if I can catch up.”

“I’ve got . . . twenty-six minutes on you, and I’m taking it out to the street. You never know.”

“You don’t, no.” He got on the machine beside hers, and in seconds had his synched with hers.

She wanted to ask him what he’d found at Milo’s, what he knew, but realized she needed her breath to run.

She avoided people and street traffic, both of which she’d programmed the machine to throw in at random. By the time she’d circled around to run through the theater one last time she hadn’t worked up a sweat. She was dripping with it.

“Okay. Okay.” She slowed to a walk, sucked in air, guzzled down water. “Okay.”

“Interesting scenarios,” Roarke commented. “More so, I think, if you were in pursuit or being pursued. Mix it up, make a bit of a game out of it.”

“Yeah, you do that.”

She walked over, lay flat on her back, and told herself she’d stretch it out in just a second. For now she’d just lie there and watch him sweat.