"Did she seem bothered by his…intensity?"
Casey considers this, tilting her head. "Not bothered, exactly. More like she'd made peace with it a long time ago. She kept saying things like 'Harold was Harold' and 'forty-three years teaches you to pick your battles.' I got the impression that pancake architecture was pretty low on her list of grievances."
The casual acceptance of someone else's darkness, the way love can make the abnormal seem mundane…it's something I understand better than I should. That’s neither here nor there.
Mrs. Brennan spent four decades accommodating her husband’s compulsions, and now she's honoring them in death. There's something both touching and disturbing about that level of devotion to someone else's obsessions.
“You’re smarter than Martinez gives you credit for,” I sigh.
"Thanks. I needed to hear that." Casey's smile is grateful, genuine. "God, I don't know what I'd do without our little chats. You're like my personal sanity check. Speaking of which, did you hear about the Kowalski case from last month? The one where the guy tried to fake his own death using a mannequin and theatrical blood?"
"Casey," I interrupt gently, though there's amusement in my voice. "You're going to get yourself fired for discussing active cases with civilians."
"Technically, you're not a civilian. You're a consulting expert with security clearance." Casey waves a hand dismissively. "Besides, these aren't active cases anymore. Harold's definitely dead, and Kowalski's definitely an idiot who's now definitely in jail for insurance fraud."
The casual way Casey discusses death and crime always fascinates me. She’s developed the dark humor that comes with constant exposure to humanity's strangest moments—the ability to find absurdity in tragedy and comedy in the macabre. It's a necessary defense mechanism, but it also reveals something about her character. She’s drawn to the bizarre, excited by the unusual, thrilled by puzzles that don't fit normal patterns.
"Anyway," Casey continues, straightening up and attempting to look professional again, "I should probably get back to work. Dr. Martinez wants me to finish processing the Henderson robbery evidence before I leave tonight, and I still have about three hours of fingerprint analysis ahead of me."
"Don't work too late," I say, though part of me appreciates Casey's dedication to her work. Thorough people notice details others miss, remember specifics that might seem unimportant at the time.
"Ha! Tell that to my student loans. Overtime pays for my fancy ramen addiction." Casey grins. "Oh! Before I forget: Are we still on for dinner Thursday? That new Thai place on Fifth Street finally opened, and I've been dying to try their pad see ew."
"Thursday works." I find myself genuinely looking forward to it. Casey's enthusiasm for life's absurdities is oddly refreshing, a reminder that not all darkness has to be threatening.
"Perfect! Okay, I really do need to get back to this fingerprint analysis before Dr. Martinez comes looking for me. But seriously, thanks for listening to my pancake crime scene rambling. You're the only person I know who doesn't think I'm completely weird for finding this stuff fascinating."
The irony makes me smile. "We all have our interests, Casey."
"True! Okay, talk soon. And hey—if you ever want to hear about Mrs. Brennan's pancake recipe, I kept a copy. For purely academic purposes, of course."
Casey's face disappears from my screen, leaving me alone with my reflection in the black glass. The parking garage feels different now—not charged with dangerous possibility, but lighter somehow. Casey's ridiculous story about Harold and his pancake obsession has reminded me that human behavior doesn't always have sinister undertones. Sometimes people are just wonderfully, harmlessly strange.
I slide the phone back into my purse and unlock my car, settling into the driver's seat with a lingering smile. Harold Brennan and his seventeen pancakes, Mrs. Brennan continuing his breakfast rituals as a form of memorial—it's absurd and touching and perfectly human all at once.
But as I start the engine and pull out of the parking space, I find myself thinking about the precision Casey described. The specific number, the geometric syrup patterns, the forty-three years of accommodation that preceded Harold's final pancake performance. There's something almost beautiful about that level of devotion to someone else's compulsions, even when they make no logical sense.
Some people express love through grand gestures. Others do it by learning the exact specifications of seventeen pancakes arranged just so around a kitchen island.
I drive toward the exit, discomfitingly warmed by Casey's story and companionship.
***
I'm halfway home when I change my mind.
The decision hits without warning, a sudden shift in the evening's trajectory that has me taking the next exit instead of continuing toward my empty apartment. I pull into the parking lot of a hotel I've never stayed at, cutting the engine in a space far from the entrance lights.
The silence settles around me like a familiar embrace. Through the windshield, I can see the warm glow of the hotel bar's windows, the suggestion of movement and conversation and the kind of temporary connections that require no explanations. It's been months since I've allowed myself this particular indulgence. Tonight feels different. Tonight, I want to be touched by someone who doesn't know my name.
I flip down the visor mirror and study my reflection in the harsh overhead light. The professional version of myself stares back—muted lipstick, hair perfectly styled, every detailcalculated for courtroom credibility. Respectable. Controlled. Boring.
Safe.
I reach into my purse and withdraw a different lipstick, something darker, richer.Rouge Noir, the color of wine stains and whispered secrets. As I apply it with careful precision, I feel the familiar transformation beginning. Not a different person, exactly, but a different facet of the same complicated whole.
My blazer comes off next, folded carefully and placed in the passenger seat. Underneath, the silk blouse clings in all the right places, the neckline just suggestive enough to be interesting without being obvious. I unpin my hair, letting it fall to tickle at my clavicle, and run my fingers through it until it looks artfully disheveled rather than boardroom perfect.
The woman in the mirror is still me, but she's someone who might laugh too loudly at a stranger's joke, who might lean in close enough to let her breath ghost across his ear, who might disappear into a hotel room without leaving her real name behind.
