“No, certainly not. We’ve seen the fallout firsthand. If we’re right, her condition may be all that’s keeping her alive. But at what cost? We’ve both seen where this leads.”
Logan sighed. “You’re right. But what am I supposed to do? We’ve never gotten this close before and I’m afraid if I push too hard, she’ll disappear. She’s done it before.”
“Keep doing what you think is best. We’ve tried it my way, with no luck. Maybe we’ll have more with yours.”
“Thank you. She’s not going to make it easy, but I’ll get there. I just need a little more time.”
“Do you think we have it?” the other man asked and Logan considered.
“She may be exhausted and paranoid but she doesn’t seem desperate. Not in the typical sense, anyway. She’s going to her class and working everyday, running every morning. Suicidal people don’t do things like that.”
“The running is undoubtedly a coping mechanism. You’re right though. She doesn’t seem like she’s on the edge yet. But if that changes and you need to step in quickly, be careful. You can’t let her see you coming.”
Logan hung up the phone and shoved it back into his pocket. He’d tried to sound confident but it wasn’t so easy. He took this assignment seriously. His boss was putting a lot of trust in him. Quincy was the first target he’d managed to get close to. If he messed up, there would be a heavy price to pay.
Quincy. He rolled the name around in his head. He hadn’t been sure about her at first. There was really nothing about her that stood out or set her apart. On the surface, anyway. But they hadn’t had any other leads and he figured, until they did, he might as well be thorough. He’d kept his distance at first, reading over the paperwork he’d managed to scam from the admissions office. Observing from a distance had managed to pique his curiosity but it hadn’t yielded the concrete results his boss had wanted so he’d decided to take a chance and go against his orders. He had thought, if he could create an opportunity for her to see him instead of the other way around, she might chalk it up to coincidence and not bolt the second she was out of eyesight. And the risk had paid off. In the last twenty-four hours, he’d been able to observe some of her symptoms up close. Exhaustion, trouble sleeping, massive caffeine consumption. Taken by themselves, or even together, they weren’t that alarming. They were on a college campus, after all. What student didn’t run on coffee and fumes? But it didn’t explain the severe, almost pathological exhaustion that seemed to surround her like a cloud. Not that she acted tired. It was the little things - the dark circles under her eyes that never seemed to fade, the paleness of her complexion, the constant vigilance to her surroundings, the giant wall she built around herself to keep everyone else out. But spending just a few minutes with her had confirmed his theory. This wasn’t his first rodeo after all. The question was, what was he going to do about it?
Chapter 10
Quincy
Quincy rubbed at her forehead, annoyed. She’d noticed the headache around 2:00 and wasn’t sure whether to feel grateful it wasn’t one of her brain splitters or irritated it was there at all. She leaned her elbows on the desk and cradled her head between her hands. The headaches came without warning and existed as two varieties - Painful but Livable and Exploding Aneurysm. The first was far more common, thankfully. They came and went every few days or weeks and they could last for hours. But they were usually treatable with caffeine and heavy-duty ibuprofen. Annoying, yes. Painful? Like stabbing yourself in the head with a screwdriver. But ultimately, life went on. She could function with those headaches; as well as she ever did anyway. But the Dear God, Why? headaches were a whole other story. They were still like stabbing yourself with a screwdriver but this time, the screwdriver was an ice pick and it was being shoved behind your right eye so deep it might as well be making scrambled eggs out of your brain. Sometimes, in rare moments of lucidity, that’s exactly what she pictured - a big, ice pick-wielding lumberjack digging whatever was the cause of these wretched attacks out of her brain with no thought to what was left behind. The pain was bad. And if it was only pain, she could deal. But it wasn’t just pain. It was total incapacitation. She couldn’t function, because she couldn’t see and she couldn’t breathe and she couldn’t walk. She was completely and entirely vulnerable. During one of these headaches, if whoever was looking for her found her, she would be completely helpless.
The migraines, for lack of a better word, always snuck up on her. Much like her daily headaches, there was never any warning, which meant she had no time to prepare. Maybe if she had a couple of seconds to brace herself, they wouldn’t be so bad. Or maybe that would be worse, she didn’t know. They didn’t usually last as long as her other headaches, only a few minutes. Maybe an hour, tops. Time didn’t seemed to really matter in the moment, though. In fact, when they hit, time became irrelevant. It was nothing but waves of agony, crashing over each other again and again in a cycle that seemed utterly endless. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak. She certainly couldn’t form a coherent thought. She had been at the bar in Chicago once when one hit. She’d been carrying a drink to one of her regulars and when she’d doubled up and collapsed, he had been more worried than angry. She had managed to rasp out “No ambulance” before she shut down and George had scooped her up like the fireman he was and carried her back into her boss’s office. Even though she’d told them not to, they had been on the verge of calling for help when she came out of it. She was incoherent, they told her. Not even sure she was conscious. She managed to make her excuses, Just a migraine and My doctors know all about it. but she must have truly traumatized them both because her boss had insisted on driving her home, which she had allowed despite her usual objections only because she was physically incapable of getting there herself. These attacks always left her exhausted and worn out, unable to really function even after the pain was gone. And not just physically. Mentally, her brain felt like it had been hammered into nothing. Which was a blessing, really. The moments following a migraine were the only times her mind was ever completely silent. In fact, those were the only times she slept, really and truly slept. Deeply. For hours at a time. So there was a silver lining in the end. But Quincy wasn’t entirely convinced the sleep was worth the price she had to pay for it.
Quincy sighed and lifted her face, propping her chin on her fist, and glanced around her floor. Another slow night. At least this headache was only the painful variety. She’d already taken a handful of ibuprofen an hour or so ago. Maybe she’d wander down to the break room and get a refill of the very bad but free coffee someone, probably Brandon, had made. Brandon. She sighed again. That had morphed from an awkward dinner invitation the night before into uncomfortably intense attention from a distance, which seemed worse somehow. His chair had been turned towards her section since he’d come in and even though he couldn’t see over the balcony from where he sat, it still gave her an odd feeling to know he was down there, staring in her direction. Which she had caught him doing the last time she’d wandered downstairs. He didn’t try to speak to her but his eyes followed her as she made a circuit of the floor. So maybe she wouldn’t go get a coffee right now.
“Excuse me miss,” said a voice behind her. A deep voice. A mocking voice. “I’m looking for a book on British female literary references from the 1800s. Maybe you could help?”
Quincy turned to find Logan not three feet away, smiling that smile and looking extremely pleased with himself.
“Certainly. You can find it on the other side of that balcony,” she said, nodding towards the second story railing. “Why don’t you take a flying leap.”
That was maybe a little harsher than the situation called for but she could blame it on the headache. Logan laughed, though, so clearly he hadn’t minded.
“That seems a little harsher than the situation calls for, don’t you think?” he asked.
Or maybe he had. She quirked an eyebrow at him, not amused that he was quoting her own internal dialogue back at her. She cou
ld think it. He could not.
“Or maybe not. Hey,” he put out a hand, suddenly a little hesitant, “is this weird? I didn’t mean to freak you out. I actually do need that book and I have no idea where to find it.”
“What do you need with a book on 19th century British authors?” she asked skeptically, not ready to let him off the hook yet.
“Female British authors,” he corrected. “And I’m taking a class.”
“You’re taking a class on female British authors?” She looked at him, waiting for him to crack a smile or let her in on the joke, but he didn’t flinch.
“I didn’t know anything about them,” he said by way of explanation. “So I thought I’d learn.”
She felt herself soften minutely.
“A career military man finds himself unexpectedly out of the Army with no backup plan. I took a gamble.”
The ice cracked.
“Well, I do love a gambler,” she said. Before he could take that comment and run with it, she stepped around the desk. “Come on,” she said, before the words that would ruin the moment could escape his mouth. “This way.”
Quincy headed towards the back of the floor, winding her way between rows of encyclopedias and atlases to the lesser-used resources. To be honest, this was her favorite place in the library. She had discovered some amazing writers back in these dusty, lonely aisles. She had read Austen of course, and the Bronte sisters. But there were so many more. Charlotte Lennox, Mary Wollstonecraft, Mary Shelley, George Eliot. Eliot being a woman had been a shock sure, but far be it from her to judge anyone for using an alias.
“So, other than Shelley and Frankenstein, who’s your favorite so far?” she asked.
“What?” Logan said, sounding distracted. Quincy glanced back and saw him looking over the side of the balcony. “Who’s that?” he asked, motioning over the rail.
She didn’t even need to look. “That would be Brandon” she said, embarrassed.
“Does he always watch you like that?” Logan asked, sounding genuinely concerned.
“He’s new” she said. How that excused it, she didn’t know. “He doesn’t have many friends yet”
“And creeping you out is supposed to help him with that?”
“He’s not creeping me out,” Quincy argued, trying to ignore the fact he actually was. “He’s just kind of awkward,” she said, trying to play it off. “He doesn’t really know how to talk to people.”
“Yeah, but he’s staring at you specifically.”
Quincy turned the last corner without bothering to reply, leaving Brandon and his watching eyes behind. “Down this way,” she said. “All the British literary references you could want.”
She turned and found Logan right behind her. “He asked you out, didn’t he?” he said, looking torn between amusement and concern. “And you turned him down.”
“Well, he wouldn’t be the only one I’ve shot down recently, would he.” Quincy reached up, and up and up, and planted her hands on his chest, giving him a shove back. He moved and she reached around him. “Here. Enjoy,” she said, smacking him in the chest with the thick book she’d grabbed off the shelf.
Logan looked down. “19th Century English Novels?” he said. “This isn’t exactly what I need. I need one about the ladies.”
Quincy smiled as she walked away. “Then I guess you’d better start reading.”
Chapter 11
Quincy
Quincy marched herself to the maintenance closet and grabbed the vacuum. She’d just taken care of this yesterday, quite thoroughly in fact, but it was a good way to burn some energy. Maybe if she looked busy, Logan would leave and Brandon would just plain leave her alone. What was it with these guys? She could go months without anyone so much as saying hi to her but in the course of two days, she’d managed to pick up not just one, but two guys she couldn’t seem to shake. Ridiculous. What were the odds?
She stopped in the middle of a rather aggressive attack on the area rug in the middle of the room. It sat in the middle of the coziest chairs, the ones that tried to invite students to settle in with little success. But she had to admit, who really wanted to hang out in the middle of old, dusty books? The people who appreciated those kinds of things were few and far between these days. And just what were the odds? Probably not all that great. Brandon had been with the library for what, a couple of months now? And Logan had just popped up yesterday. For all she knew, he might not even be a student. She had no proof. It was possible they were working together, watching her, clocking her schedules and routines. Working for him. The man she’d seen in Boise, and then again in Chicago. Maybe he realized he’d been made so he’d sent in a couple of ringers who knew how to blend. But if that was the case, she thought wryly, they weren’t doing a great job. Brandon was too intense and uncomfortable to blend easily with other people and Logan? Well, Logan didn’t exactly blend either.
Quincy blew out the breath she’d been holding. She was being overly paranoid. She’d seen the same guy twice before, which made her think he was inclined to follow her himself, not send two overgrown teenagers to do it. She’d been running and looking over her shoulder for so long now that it was hard to know what was normal. Maybe boy drama was just something that happened to everyone once in awhile. Maybe attention wasn’t always a bad thing. Professor Michaels seemed on the level so maybe Logan and Brandon were too. Clearly they weren’t working together. Logan seemed genuinely concerned with Brandon’s attention towards her and it would have been hard not to notice Brandon’s ever-darkening expression at seeing Logan trail after her like an overeager puppy. She needed to relax, not worry so much. She was going to set off another headache if she wasn’t careful. Actually, now that she was thinking about it, her headache seemed to be gone. That was something, she guessed. Maybe the stress of Brandon’s disappointment and Logan’s effervescence had been exactly what she needed to get her mind off of it. Weirder things had happened, after all. Quincy looked down. This poor rug. Even her overzealous enthusiasm with the vacuum wasn’t going to save it. She might as well throw in the towel. She shoved the ancient sweeper back to the closet. It had to be at least 20 years old. Did they even make this model anymore? The wide mouth of the sweeper caught the frame of the door as she tried to wrestle it inside and she stumbled at the sudden stop. It had to weigh at least 50 lbs. Could the library seriously not find an extra $60 in the budget for a new one? As she headed back towards her desk, she vaguely wondered if an unexpected and sudden accidental trip down the stairs would take care of it or if that would just anger it more. She was so lost in the thought of unintentionally unleashing the anger of an ancient inanimate object that she didn’t realized Logan was still there until it was too late to disappear again. He had pulled a stool from one of the computers up to the front of her desk and was propped up reading his book. On 19th century British novels. She found she couldn’t even feel any anger. Did the man really never give up? She was exhausted by the sheer weight of his undaunted spirit. What must that feel like? She couldn’t even imagine.
Quincy walked around to her side of the desk and hauled herself up into her chair. “See those tables and chairs over there?” she asked him.
“Hmm?” he asked, pretending to be absorbed in his book.
“Or even that couch in the middle of the room. That nice, big, comfy couch? The one that’s empty? That might be a good place for you to read. Actually,” she said, while being soundly ignored by the man across from her, “now that I think about it, I believe that’s actually what those chairs are for.” She looked at him pointedly. “Students. Studying.”
Without looking up, Logan reached across the desk and pressed his hand over her mouth. She froze at the unexpected contact, tensing under his hand.
“Shh,” he whispered. “I’m trying to read.”
He pulled his hand back before she had a chance to react, and then glanced up and gave her a wink before turning back to his book. Leaving Quincy with nothing to do but pick up her own book, n
ot entirely sure when the power had shifted back into his hands.
“Quincy?”
She glanced up at the voice, startled to realize Brandon had managed to walk up on her, again, without sound. Logan glanced up, gave Brandon a nod, and turned back towards his own studying, which had grown from a single book into a book, a notepad complete with pen and highlighters, and three encyclopedias. All sprawled across her desk.
“Hey Brandon,” she said, giving him a small smile. “What’s up?”
“We ordered pizza for dinner,” he said after a beat of hesitation. “We have a bunch left over and Clara thought you might want some.”
Clara? Unlikely. Unless she spit on it first. If he’d said Hattie had offered to share, Quincy might have bought it. Hattie was friendly, if in a polite, distant way, smiling and offering up a wave as Quincy wandered by her department. But not Clara.
“Um, no thanks,” she said. “Pizza’s not really my thing,” she added, hoping not to sound ungrateful.
Brandon stepped back, glancing at Logan and then back at her, like he was trying not to get caught staring. “Okay,” he managed to get out. “No problem. Just thought I would ask.”
“Thanks anyway,” Quincy said. “That was really nice of you.” And then she waited. But he didn’t leave and he didn’t speak again. “Well. See you later,” she prompted. Brandon turned red at her words.
“Yeah. Sure,” he managed, then turned and walked away without a backward glance.
“Smooth,” Logan said from his seat slumped on the stool.
“You’re supposed to be studying,” she said, looking over to see him watching with that same slightly amused, slightly concerned look on his face.
“Yeah, well, it’s hard to look away from a train wreck when it happens right in front of you,” he drawled, causing an unusual reaction in Quincy. She blushed. She knew she was awkward, thank you very much. She didn’t need him pointing it out.
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