by Tina Gower
Ali quickly sets the spices in place. Bam, bam, bam. And turns back to me, biting her lip. “Do you want to borrow my car? I’d drive you, but I had three glasses of wine.” She glares. “No judging. I thought I was done for the day. I like to unwind.”
“I don’t have a license.” After my parents died I’d have panic attacks every time I got behind the wheel. I shove my computer into my laptop case and pace, intermixing it with fretting.
Ali looks at me like she’s waiting for more of an explanation. “Don’t you need a license to, I don’t know, exist?”
“I let it expire after I sold my car and started using public transportation all the time.” She gives me a that’s-crazy expression. “I have my work ID and other paperwork. I don’t need a car.”
I explain it quickly and hope she doesn’t dive too deep into the psyche of it.
Ali lets out a relieved breath. “Oh, thank the goddess, you’re a horrible driver and I didn’t want to put Lily in jeopardy.”
I flinch but recover quickly. Ali doesn’t know, because I’ve never told anyone—I was driving the car in the accident that killed my parents. “Lily?”
“My ’69 Mustang.”
I stop pacing. “How can we have been cousins our whole lives and I missed that your car had a name?”
“I named her a year ago when she kept breaking down. I put a spell on the motor, keep fresh herbs in the glove box, and named her. No problems since.” She smiles so wide it sets off my anxiety. My stomach sinks. I can’t sit around and joke when Becker is out there somewhere alone and hurting.
“I have to go.” I grab my keys and head for the door.
Ali intercepts me. “You can’t be seriously walking to Becker’s house. It’s miles across the city. He would kill me if he found out I could have stopped you.”
“I need to find him. I have a feeling he’s close anyway.”
“Because he’s been using you as pack. He’s still being obsessive-possessive?”
“What? How would you know that?” The denial hangs on my lips. I nearly shut down her accusation, exactly as I’d been doing the last few months.
Her shoulders slump. “Becker told me.”
My fingers dig into my hair. I throw my arms down as though I’m tossing out the insane idea she’s put in there. “There’s no way Becker told you that. He can’t handle being in the same room as you for more than a half hour.”
She swallows. “I’m sorry. I’ve felt so guilty keeping it from you. I’ve been…” She inhales, slow and long through her nostrils. “It all happened so suddenly. Forbidden fruit and all. Wolf and witch.” Her eyes well up. “It’s just that I could tell he needed it and I needed it. And you weren’t giving it to him…I can’t keep it from you. I’ve been…” She chokes on the words.
My brain fills the end of her sentence with wild possibilities.
I’ve been…cutting Becker’s hair.
I’ve been…attending the same gym as Becker.
I’ve been…sleeping with Becker.
All that pent-up sexual energy from both of them. First Ali and her celibacy vow ending. Then Becker coming out of emotional gridlock. When a wolf has a pack after being lone for so long they crave sexual interactions. I thought Becker might find someone else after it became apparent I wasn’t going to offer it any time soon. But…
Oh. Fuck. No.
I slam the door shut. “All this time. All this fucking time!”
She’s in tears now. “I know. I’m sorry. It seemed so innocent at first—”
“Then why does he even keep coming back over here? To me? Oh gods. He was over here yesterday. Yesterday, Ali!”
She hiccups. “Yesterday? While I was at work?”
“Yes. He was all messed up. If you’ve been giving it to him, then why was he so unstable?” I was hazy on the particulars and not thinking clearly now, but pretty much figured that sex would be just as good as, probably better than a pack hug and cuddle. “And to think I’d risked getting caught having a relationship with another employee at work when he had you…” I shiver, not really accepting this development. How could she? Didn’t she know I had feelings for him? Sure, they were complex and I insisted to her several times I didn’t, but she’s intuitive. She should have known. Or was that unfair? Should I have said something sooner?
“A relationship?” She hugs herself and backs into the corner between my kitchen counter and the wall. “Do you really think what you have is that serious?” She smiles through her tears. “I’m glad you’re finally admitting it, but I didn’t realize—”
I glare at her. “I mean that I’ve been sleeping with him—”
“You’ve been sleeping with Becker?”
My body starts to shake. Not with anger or stress or fear. Not any emotion I can pinpoint. I can’t take it. Both my cousin and I with the same guy?
I close my eyes, nausea kicking in. “I need to sit down.” I clumsily fall into a chair. Pulling myself together, I grip the chair as heat climbs up my chest and into my cheeks. Every muscle tightens. Denial gone. I’ve moved to anger. “You know what? You should go find Becker. He’d likely rather get his comfort from you.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. He still doesn’t really like being near me.”
“So it was just one time?” I wonder if that changes my mind on whether or not to hate Ali or just not speak to her for a while.
She huffs a defeated breath. “No. It was lots of times. When he’d leave your place. When I’d notice him out there watching you.” She motions out the window.
A picture of them wrapped together in the freezing cold, using each other for warmth won’t leave my mind. They’re heavy breath creating a fog around them. Kissing. I scrub my hands over my face in an attempt to stop the influx of unwanted imagery.
“So I started with just a little at first, thinking there was no harm. And when he took what I offered, I thought maybe we could finally be friends. We could use this to create a bridge of some kind. I mean we have you in common. We should get along.”
I nearly gag. Becker used her. I’ll kill him when I see him.
Ali keeps talking, faster and faster, like it’s some kind of catharsis to get it out. “And then I could smell him on you. Do you remember when he marked you? I was so angry. I confronted him. About his intentions. And that’s when he told me. About you and the pack thing and to not give you a hard time about it. So I backed off.”
“How long have you been…together?” I force the words out like they’re a glob of gum that had become flavorless.
Ali straightens. “Together?”
“Just stop.” I wave her off. “I don’t want to know.”
“I left the first batch a little over a month ago. It was oatmeal protein bars. Vegan. Gluten free. All organic.”
“And that’s when you slept with him.”
Her eyes furrow together. “No. He took the whole batch and responded with a thank you on the note I left. That’s all.”
I lower my head into my hands. Ugh. So it was around when I backed off. When I gave him no choice but to seek out other comforts to meet his needs. I thought he would find someone. I just didn’t ever imagine it would be my cousin. My cousin who lives next door.
I toss a pillow across the room. “Gods, you’d think he’d have found someone a little further away.”
Ali picks up the pillow and clutches it in front of her. “Excuse me? Why would he go anywhere else? I’m an experienced chef. Of course he’d come to me.”
I cover my ears. I don’t want to know about the kink part of it. Of course there would be food involved.
“Don’t act all disgusted. He needed it.” Ali throws the pillow down and hovers over me. “You obviously weren’t. Who else was going to feed him? And also I was feeling abandoned because you wouldn’t let me bring you any either. Then I was so guilty doing it behind your back.”
I peek out at her through my fingers. “Wait. What?” I smooth out my shirt and pants, take a
moment to calm myself, then I look her pointedly in the eyes. “Are you or are you not sleeping with Becker?”
She takes several steps back. Her eyes widen and her mouth forms a perfect “O” and her hand flies up to cover it. From behind her fingers I see a grin, that morphs into a laugh, and then a twisted expression where she thrusts her tongue out like she’s eaten a sour pickle.
She pulls herself together. “Feeding Becker, not fucking him. Goddess, Kate, what kind of cousin do you think I am? Sleeping with your boyfriend.”
I squirm on the couch. “You made it sound…” I rub my eyes. Can’t believe I wasted time on this. “Never mind.” I rise from the couch again, gathering my things to go out.
Ali follows behind me. “I’ve been leaving him baked goods. Sometimes a meal that only requires he pop it into the oven. I scratch his itch he scratches mine. I need to cook for someone.” Her grin widens. “Jealous much, Kate? I think you should analyze this reaction and really let it—”
“Shut up.” Ugh. Yes. I’m a little touchy where Becker is concerned and maybe my possessive side is coming out. I need to deal with it. But first things first. Comfort Becker.
She snatches my coat from the hook and tugs her arms into it. “You should get a coat. It’s getting chilly out.” She shoves her hands into my coat pocket that she’s filched. “Here. At least take these gloves.”
I slide them on. “Thanks.”
“He’s probably not at his apartment,” she whispers into my ear, pulling the coat as tight as she can around her. “This way.” She takes my arm and guides me. “I know where he hides.”
Becker appears from behind the bushes at the bottom of my stairs.
Ali jumps back and lets out a little scream. Her hand goes to her chest. “Hells, you scared me.” She pushes me in front of him. “Here. Talk. I’ve got…I just realized I need to check on the bread. If it over rises it gets as hard as a priest’s prick.” She jogs up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
“Hey,” I say.
Becker eases his hands in his pockets. “Hey.”
I sigh and grab his coat, pulling him up to my apartment. “Just come up. It’s late. I’m tired. I’m hungry. You need pack more than ever tonight.”
Thankfully, he follows without question.
We get inside my apartment and he does his “lock the door and check every window” gig, staring out through the blinds as though he’ll catch an assailant in progress.
Then he turns to me, and his cheeks go red. “How could you think…I’d never. With Ali?” He swallows. “It was just the food, which is excellent, by the way…I didn’t…wouldn’t…”
“Forget it, Becker.” I go to my room and toss off all my work clothes and shrug into my yoga pants and long T-shirt. I call to him from the bedroom. “Leave your pants on. Put a lock on your belt or whatever you need to do. And don’t shove me to the edge of the bed.”
He joins me after a few minutes. I fall asleep within moments of him wrapping his arm around my waist and tugging me close. But when I gently wake in the early morning hours, he’s gone.
Chapter 7
When I arrive at the office on Monday, I hold my gaze straight ahead while each actuary sneaks a glance my way. Pity for the poor, miscalculating pencil pusher. I’m the black plague; I’m a thing we all fear. It’s like after a breakup when your shared friends issue invitations with a hint of sincerity and even more hope that you’ll decline. Nobody wants what I’ve got to infect them.
The second to last cubicle is empty; so much for all hands on deck. Miles had better be truly sick to miss the first workday after a wrong prediction. The peace lily outside my office door is drooping, so I pour the last of my bottle of water into the pot. People like me shouldn’t be responsible for dependents.
It’s quiet, unnaturally quiet—probably because they’re all rehearsing their “poor Kate” speeches for when we break for lunch and they’ll have to face me.
I’m halfway through my quota when Becker strolls into the actuary offices. He’s holding a file and a grim frown is fixed on his face. He looks like he’s aged since I saw him a few hours ago. I wish I knew why our sessions aren’t working for him like before. If he’s stressed because of the shade bringing up old memories, I want to help.
If he’s here it can only mean he has more evidence to deliver to me as the officer liaison for the actuaries. My holding on to this case will only cause him more anxiety.
Maybe the sensitive was right: this is the best outcome for everyone involved. I can continue working the case on my own time, without Becker knowing. His involvement appears like a conflict of interest anyway. HR will question Becker’s judgment if he continues to allow me extra time and perks on cases. I’ll strong-arm Lipski to give me access to old files.
I meet him halfway. “Just hand it over and you can get back to the station. You’ve indulged me long enough. I’m going to file the report. It was just a chance, like you said, followed by a lot of interesting leads, but we’re chasing clouds.”
He pins me with a look as though he’s unsure why I’m putting on this show. He can smell a lie, so I breathe in a huge sigh and muster up some defeated feelings.
Thinking about my inability to help him through this rough patch, I try again, hoping this trick masks my true intentions. “The sooner I get past this mistake, the sooner I can forget it happened. I’ll just be more conservative with my math in the future.”
I reach for the file and Becker tugs it away. “It’s not for you.”
“What?” I clench my jaw. “I made a wrong prediction. You’re the officer who brings in the case files. If you have something more on my case, then I’d like to see it.”
“It’s not for you.” He repeats the words, each one carefully pronounced.
I feel the gaze of a dozen eyes on me, Gretchen’s the most intense. I step aside. Becker sets the file on Miles’s desk and walks out. He catches my attention as he’s leaving and glances at the window, a subtle invitation to meet outside. I fiddle with a few papers before I leave for the bathrooms, then cut through the hallway, out the side exit, down the stairwell toward the spot where Becker had indicated, only to have him grab my arm after the first few floors.
“Don’t let them see you talking to me,” he says. “We could both be fired for this kind of breach in confidentiality.” He guides me to a space behind the steps. An unlit alcove where we can hear and see who’s coming from both above and below.
“There was another wrong prediction, wasn’t there?” My voice echoes, so I lower it to a whisper.
He nods, his lips pressed tight, as if not saying it out loud will save him from insubordination. He holds out his cell phone with crime scene photos and slowly scrolls through them.
It’s too slow and yet too fast. I tear the phone from his hands and slide through the photos. “This is why Miles wasn’t in the office.” I point to Miles bending over two crushed cars, making notes. “He was out on a call. This was his prediction. He assigned a high probability. What was it?”
“Eighty-nine percent chance that this crash would result in no deaths. A slight rear-end fender bender, so they only had minimal support staff on the scene for cleanup. Instead we’ve got a full side collision, seven-car pile-up, and a semi truck, three pronounced dead on the scene, two in critical condition, eight with moderate injuries.”
“Damn, damn, damn.” I tug my thin sweater tighter. I should have brought a coat. There’s no heating in the stairwell. Cheap government bastards. “If my prediction case was changed, then this could be one of the ripple prophecies. Why wouldn’t it center on Alana? It would change a few predictions on the repercussions related to her. Was her forecasted death related?”
Becker shakes his head like he can’t believe it either. “Get this. It’s the route Alana takes to work most mornings and the time she would have been driving through.”
“Was she…”
“No.”
“It’s got to be a ripple. She dodged
it again? This is too convenient for it to be chance.”
Becker crosses his arms. “But the guys in Related Crimes and Predictions say it’s not enough to go off of—that a traffic accident has too many confounding variables to determine that close of a connection. It’s a common time for most commuters. Especially since she wasn’t involved in the accident. Not even close.”
“This is a mess for Miles. He’s got a spotless record and is about to retire next year. Heck of a way to go out.” I cycle through the photos again. Pausing at one. “Here.” I pinch the screen and zoom in. “This trash can’s been unbolted and moved. See the grooves on the pavement?”
“Yeah, but that’s not going to cause an accident in the road.”
“Maybe not, but any tampering on the scene that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours is suspicious, don’t you think?”
He shrugs, but I know he’s already gone down that line of thinking because he has some closer shots of the bolts and grooves in the pavement where someone dragged the trash bin a few feet.
He leans over my shoulder, squinting at the photos. “Zoom in on that car. Wonder if that mirror was taken off in the accident or if the car was on the road like that. Would have impaired the visibility on the side where the trash bin was.”
“If they moved the accident time up, it could have prevented the original one predicted. Boom, it keeps Alana safe because it effectively stops traffic and makes everyone else more careful directly after the accident.” I wait to see how Becker reacts to my hypothesis. He seems to be absorbing it, so I continue. “We need to look into any street camera footage if it’s still available. See who moved those cans. The shades who attacked us a few months back used a garbage truck; this is a tampered trash bin. Could be they’ve got someone in sanitation.”
“It’s likely. But, Kate”—he gently removes his phone from my palm—“this isn’t your case. If you breach confidentiality, it won’t look good on either of us.”
I lower my shoulders. “You’re right. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
