Page 101 of Override

The realization is deeply irritating. The television drones quietly in the background while files for Grayline's newest contract cover the coffee table.

Kidnapping. Ransom demand. Two-state search area. The kind of operation that should have my complete attention. Instead I've reread the same page four times.

My eyes drift toward the laptop again.

No. Not happening.

I drag a hand down my face and lean back harder into the couch. The springs creak beneath me. Outside, rain taps softly against the apartment windows.

The room is quiet. Too quiet. Which is probably why the text alert nearly kills me. The custom tone explodes through the apartment.

I physically jerk. My laptop slides off my leg. Papers scatter. My heart immediately attempts to leave my body.

"What the hell—"

The phone. The phone is ringing. Not ringing. Alerting. My hand closes around it before my brain catches up.

One new message.

Maeve.

My pulse does something concerning.

The message opens.

Maeve:

Are you a guy?

I stare at the screen. Then blink. Then read it again.

Are.

You.

A guy.

Of all the things I expected to receive today, this wasn't even in the top hundred.

I lean back against the couch and stare at the ceiling.

"What?"

The question leaves out loud. To absolutely nobody. Because apparently that's where we're at now. The phone remains in my hand. The message remains on the screen. And somehow the longer I look at it, the funnier it becomes.

I don't know if that's a good sign. Eventually my thumbs move.

Me:

This may be the strangest question I've ever received.

The response comes almost immediately.

Maeve:

That wasn't an answer.

A smile pulls at my mouth before I can stop it. I type three different responses. Delete all of them. Type another. Delete that one too. Because apparently responding to hostage negotiators is easier than responding to Maeve Gallagher.