by Tina Gower
The forecast includes a name and a town, but as some HEA-HOPEFULs (as they call themselves) have found, there can often be more than one person by the same name in a town. The HEA-HOPEFUL alias lists their location in the side bar and I do a search for our local area to see if anyone has reported the Ever After snafu.
I see a full thread on both sites detailing the problem. Some are angry, warning others against the company. Others rave on how they want their money back, which dies down when the discussion turns to how Ever After fixed the problem, which calms most, except for one user who proclaims that they’ve been severely distressed over the mix-up.
Two months after the problem has been resolved, the person is still posting about it on other threads. I list out all of her posts, which date back three years. Odd, I’d think once an HEA-HOPEFUL got their names they’d stop posting, assuming they found their names. However, this person is an active member.
LoveBetweenThePeaks’ profile indicates he’s an Angel’s Peak resident, member of the online soul mate search community for the last five years. He’s found three of his soul mates and is concurrently dating all three. Well, I guess if it works for them.
LookingForLove is also distressed. She claims she’s bought a list of ten names from all three of the private soul mate companies and only seven of the names match.
Ever After is by far the least accurate overall, she wrote last month.
All you who’ve wasted money at Ever After are probably kicking yourselves right now. They’ve gotten too big to remain accurate. They say they have the highest rate of happily ever after, but Forever Match will catch up to them while they’re busy patting themselves on the back!
My phone vibrates, indicating a text message and I pounce on it.
It’s Ali.
Going to make chicken soup and dumplings tonight. You should invite a friend over. Maybe Becker?
Speaking of Becker…nope, he hasn’t read my last message. My stomach twists into a knot. How long does it take security to apprehend someone? If I had access to the security cameras, I could have checked the parking garage to see what was going on down there.
I fiddle with my phone case, then text my cousin. I have to be sneaky with my wording because she’s fishing for information. She definitely knows something’s up between Becker and me.
Not sure what his schedule is. He’s supposed to come by our offices and check in on everyone’s cases. If I run into him I’ll see, but you know he likes to keep to himself.
There. Not too lady-doth-protest-y-too-much, just the right amount of noncommittal and truth mixed with omission. It will leave her guessing for the rest of the day.
My phone buzzes back instantly. Liar. Lying liar. I will find out what the two of you are hiding. I saw him pick you up this morning!
Shit.
I knew I’d regret the day she saw the “for rent” sign in the apartment next to mine. The one day I forget to move the pot in front of the widow advertisement and she happened to spot it. Although I had zero supernatural ability, Ali had both Druid and witch blood, making her much more perceptive. Crap, crap. Crap. We just had to keep it secret a little while longer. At least until Becker could meet with the Turmoil pack and integrate back into werewolf society. I would no longer be his binky.
Best way to deal with the potential leak was to deal with it head on.
Becker is concerned about a possible assailant hiding in the area. He came by to warn me (last night, but I didn’t need to be specific as to when, the exact time) and offered a ride (demanded I ride with him).
Semantics.
I edited my text down, aiming for achieving the maximum effect of giving her as much truth as possible with minimal additional information for her to pick apart.
He didn’t warn me, she texts immediately in response.
He seems to think actuaries are most at risk. I scratch my chin, determining the exact reason that might be, eventually deciding to fuck it. I’d explain risk to you, but that would require math and I know how much you hate talking about math.
There’s a long pause. Then: just invite him over to dinner.
Yes. Fine. I said I’d ask.
Granted Becker was still alive at dinnertime. Come on, Becker, text me, email me, send smoke signals. Anything!
My case file calls to me, but in a really boring kind of way. In reality, it’s more that I’m too distracted on Becker’s fate. Wait, his fate. I run a quick search on his stats for today. Looks like he hovers around in the 60 to 40 range on average, not really telling me much. Police officers’ predicted risk is usually high. He doesn’t have a specific forecast for today, but that doesn’t mean much. Most oracles don’t even focus on them, unless it’s a precursor to a larger event that involves civilians. So most of the time these stats are placeholders for general probability. If he were expecting a major life event, one of the oracles might single him out, but so far he’s in the clear.
So, not dead. Possibility majorly injured at worst.
Instead of calling the other love prediction companies, I search my bag for The Lone Wolf: Surviving a World without Pack, because what better way to not think about Becker than to read all about him?
Right.
I tie my hair into a ponytail, which means I lasted less than an hour at work with my hair loose, then scan the table of contents for the most related entry.
High intensity situations were once an automatic need for immediate pack connection. After stressful days at work, hearing traumatic personal news, or an argument—it doesn’t take much for wolves to crave and need pack. The trick is finding a way to trick your nervous system into thinking it has others near. Collect items from yard sales. Blankets and pillows are the best option. Be sure to stick to items that already call to you with a familiar or friendly smell. At home, when you’ve had these days of high stress you can curl up, or bind yourself tightly into blankets to simulate the feel and smell of pack. It may take more time to calm your system and body rhythms. This can frustrate some wolves who’ve recently left their pack because moments like these were solved with a simple hug or caress from pack. Now it may feel like a production to return to the same state.
Becker had piles of pillows in his room, which must have had the scent of his previous pack on it. Those pack mates had been killed.
Not sure if the pillow method worked for him, considering how desperate he was when I offered. No wonder having pack, even a fake one like me, was better than the alternative. It would take Becker too long to recharge in a high stress community service job. Sure, a few hours with the pillows might put an immediate Band-Aid on it, but over time that residual stress would build.
I close the book and return it to its hiding space in my bag. Time to do some actual work and make calls.
Forever Match’s phone number is listed on the main site and I call, dialing through the phone tree, which leads me in one big circle to the automated match service. No good. I press zero over and over until I get a real life human on the phone.
“Forever Match, how can I match you?”
Match, match. It wasn’t the greatest grammar to repeat the same word in a sentence, but oh well. “Yeah, I’m with Accidental Death Predictions and working on a case. I need to speak with your manager.”
“One moment.”
The phone rings and I’m connected to the Chief Statistical Officer.
“Nita Ricen how may I match you?”
“This is Kate Hale with Accidental Death.” I rattle off my ID number. “I’m hoping to speak with you regarding a case I’m working.”
“Does this have to do with Ever After’s death match kerfuffle?” Nita barely holds back a giggle. “I’m sorry, it’s not funny. It’s just fitting is all.”
Weird reaction to a competitor’s serious problem. “How so?”
“Yin interned with me here at ForeverMatch for two years right when she got out of school. We were both offered jobs and Yin turned hers down saying, I quote, ‘ForeverMatch is
a bunch of stiffs. I wouldn’t be caught dead working here.’”
“So you’re not friends with Yin Fong?”
“We’re not enemies either. Hey, look, I can tell you’re already profiling me. There’s no love lost between us, but I had nothing to do with the incident over at Ever After. It was the result of sloppy work, nothing more.”
“Has ForeverMatch experienced the same issue?”
“Hardly. We have the highest accuracy statistics and very little doomed pairings. Although we call them short loves. Makes it a little more romantic.”
“Of course.” I’m glad we’re having this conversation over the phone, so she can’t see me roll my eyes. “Nita, can I have your direct line for further questions?”
We exchange numbers.
I look up the next love predictions site. Romance Ready. The site was a bit outdated and half the links didn’t work, but they boasted the highest accuracy ratings in the area. I’m sensing a trend. All three companies can’t have the most accurate predictions at the same time.
I go through the whole phone tree circus, transfer, transfer, transfer, when I give my name and ID, until I reach the owner.
“Who’s requesting this information?”
“Me. Kate Hale. Department of Accidental Death Predictions.” I rattle off my ID number again, but he cuts me off.
“No, I mean is our company under investigation?”
“No…”
“And you do not have a warrant for this information?”
“I don’t need one, this is a friendly inquiry—”
“You do need one.” He slurs the last words snidely. “Unless our company is suspected in an investigation, I see no need to release sensitive, confidential statistics.”
“I’m not asking you for that.”
“But you’re asking for a comparison to Ever After’s incident. That would reveal if our company has experienced the same blunder.”
“Have you?”
“I’m not obligated to answer that question. We operate in an extremely competitive field—”
Then he should fix the website.
“Unlike the predictions departments regulated by the government. Unless you provide the proper paperwork, this conversation is over.”
“This isn’t necessary. All I need—”
He hangs up. My mouth remains open, mid-protest. Well, if that didn’t shoot him to the top of my list, I didn’t know what else could. Something wasn’t right about this entire situation. Someone tampered with Ever After’s results. I’m more certain of it each passing minute I spend investigating this case.
I dive back into the message boards. There might be more clues. I send a query to our guys in IT to come by A.S.A.P, which to them means after they finish their next session of War of Worlds game. Add another ten minutes that they’ll spending bitching that they got an A.S.A.P call in the middle of a Friday when they were hoping to sneak out early.
Gretchen appears in my open doorway. “Kate, I need you in my office.”
“Sure.” I close down my screens and tuck my files away so nobody can glance into my office and happen to see sensitive case information lying out in the open. Not that they’d have to work hard with my front wall being two long windows on either side of the door that create a fish bowl effect into my ten-by-ten office space.
Gretchen is sitting on her couch and rises when I arrive. She closes the door behind me—not a good sign—and motions for me to take a seat.
“I just got off the phone with Ever After’s Chair of the Board. They’ve received calls that you’re digging into the case a little too thoroughly than they feel comfortable.”
“I thought I was supposed to help them prevent this from happening again. I can’t do that unless I know how it happened to begin with.”
She holds up a staying hand. “It’s not necessary.” She sits on the couch next to me. “They’ve offered our department a large sum of money for access to our databases and a work around to the privacy regulations. We have to trust they’re doing their own investigation. Our job is to provide them with the solutions they specify.”
I lower my voice to a whisper. “There’s something strange about this case. I called the other two businesses offering the same service and both were…strange.”
“I know it’s hard for investigative actuaries to not investigate. I’ve been there. But we do the job we’re paid to do when it comes to private companies. If we spend too much time, H.R. gets a little antsy. It’s a conflict of interest if you become a long-term consultant in a private business and it takes you away from your case load and monthly quota. If you find you have extra time, Miles could use an extra statistician in the weekly probability stats.”
I groan inwardly. WPS (weekly probability stats) reports were the bottom of the food chain. Filtering through the raw data of lower probability reports and organizing which go to Archive, which go to Low Probability, which get sent to citizens directly, and which get trashed due to outliers or error—not at all the reason anyone dreamed of becoming an actuary. There’s no way I’d volunteer for that position. I’m lucky Gretchen didn’t assign me as part of my probation.
She stands and opens her door. “Just keep to the assigned case. Going rogue didn’t work out well for you last time.”
She says it with compassion, not at all meant as a blow, but it hits me just the same. My stomach cramps. Gods, I’d really fucked up Jack’s case by not reporting it to the correct department. Someone in Homicide might have pointed out the areas we’d neglected if we’d just asked for some oversight. Except for the potentially embarrassing reunion between Kyle and me, I could use that as an excuse as to why I avoided the proper channels—It had been strongly suggested by HR to stay away from my ex. And I couldn’t blame it all on Becker’s eagerness to solve it and impress the brass either, part of me hungered for the recognition too.
I still do.
Maybe this was a test. A test to see if I could leave off the details and simply do the job as outlined. So far I’d been failing.
I’d let my ambition lead me into this. I could let my humility guide me out.
I straighten my spine, lean my shoulders forward as I march out the door. Twisting around when I’m halfway to my office, just a few doors down. “I understand. I should finish up later this afternoon and deliver the materials to Yin on Monday.”
Gretchen’s lips quirk into a pleased smile. “Good.”
My office door is shut. I left it open. The minor detail causes me to pause. Yang’s phone trills at her desk at the front of the office. Miles’s printer clunks as it prints out the latest WPS reports.
Nyla from Low Probability bumps me as she walks past, staring down at her files. “Sorry, Kate.” She keeps strolling past to the elevator hallway.
I stare at my doorknob, placing a hand on it to turn it slowly. My blinds are down as well. I don’t remember them being down. I’m not sure how I left them. Wait, they were down. From the sun’s glare streaming through Miles’s office across the hall. Damn it, Becker’s warnings and concerns are making me irrationally paranoid. Or the werewolf was rubbing off on me.
Either way, I open the door slowly, positioning my body in such a way I could make a quick get away if I needed.
There’s someone waiting. Becker. His back is turned to me, but when I step through the doorway he eyes the hallway behind me. I leave the door open a crack; we can’t afford to lock ourselves in here for a private conversation and make the office wonder.
He points to my files. “Want to go over a few things? You asked for a police consult, right?” He tips up one eyebrow, and his face says he’s not here to talk about my case.
“Unfortunately, I won’t be needing that consult anymore. HR wants me to stick to the original outline of the project.” I press my lips and slowly shake my head to convey that we can’t use my case as an excuse to talk.
Becker squeezes his hands into fists. “He was here. I chased him for seven blocks.”
He nods once, his arms vibrating from the extra pent up energy. Protective. He’d said he’d get more protective now that he was using me as his pack.
“It was probably a coincidence—”
“I don’t think so. I’m going to question his associate we’ve got in custody. So far he’s not talking, but I’ll make him.” His jaw tightens.
“Are you sure you’re not blowing this out of proportion? Because of what happened before? To your pack?”
His glassy eyes narrow. “Excuse me?” He growls. “What did you just fucking say?” He takes a step toward me. His quiet whispers make his words all the more menacing.
I hold up my hand to stop him. “Not like that. It’s just you’re protective over what you might lose. Again. I’m not pretending to ignore that.”
He shakes more. The gold around his iris glows. “We can’t talk here. About that.”
I sigh. “I know.” I hadn’t forgotten. It’s just the intensity on his face; I felt compelled to do something. The book’s advice comes to me. He’s all jacked up on adrenaline and it’s messing with him. I can do something to help.
Sneaking a look out the hallway, I turn my body and corral him to a corner where the hutch from my desk blocks the curious eyes of my coworkers strolling by. Nobody will see. Not with the blinds down on my fishbowl windows. His expression twists into confusion. My fingers reach out, testing, gliding along his wrist. I hover my palm over his, slowly bringing our hands together, intertwining my fingers with his.
He places his other hand on the wall next to him, as though for stability. He lowers his head, blowing out a trembling breath. He sucks in air, and his eyes meet mine. The wildness in his irises tame, dampening back to his normal hazel green.
He steps back first, but reluctantly releases my hand, hooking my fingers with his one last second before letting go. “It’s ten thirty, give me an hour at the station to question the other assailant and take an early lunch. I’ll be down at that new cafe across the street at eleven thirty.” Three strides and he’s in the hallway.
