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Shuddering, I crossed the room and slid into Ophelia’s black captain’s chair. I’d never seen her desk from this angle. I glanced at her computer … Hello Kitty glared at me from the screen. The only thing that didn’t fit the bizarre theme was a small portrait of a sweet little girl with gray eyes and golden curls. Her cheeks were as white and smooth as ivory. She was wearing a little red sweater and a plaid dress. One adorable little ringlet hung in the middle of her forehead. But either the artist hadn’t liked the little girl, or he was really bad at painting eyes. They were cold, calculating, a patch of ice on a lonely country road, waiting to trip up unsuspecting prey. I shook off the little shiver that rippled up my spine.
I turned to the stacks of file folders neatly arranged on the table behind Ophelia’s desk and narrowed down which of her “file piles” I needed. I found files marked “Calix” and “Blue Moon Incidents.” I pulled out the small, portable scanner Gigi had given me for Mother’s Day the year before. It was one of those digital wonder devices meant to save space by eliminating the need for paper records. You moved the wand over the document, and it quickly scanned a copy into a memory card.
Gigi had run out of good gift ideas for me sometime around eighth grade.
I methodically copied each page, placing them back in order so they wouldn’t seem rifled through.
Hearing a thump down the hall, I froze. I heard a muffled male voice and then a closer thud. I tried to shuffle the folders into the right order, but my hands wouldn’t move as fast as I needed them to. I stood and moved away from the desk. Scanning the surface, I looked for anything out of place. I heard another thud, and the voice was farther away this time, fainter. My hands seemed to relax, to still, and I was able to draw my tote over my shoulder.
And when I turned, my bag knocked another pile of files off the table.
“Shoot!” I hissed, falling to my knees to gather the dropped papers. They were neatly stapled and clipped, so it wasn’t difficult to sort which papers went into which folders. I found another file folder marked “Blue Moon, Analysis” and “Vee Balm—Testing.” Another file was marked “Calix.”
On the bottom of the stack, in the very last folder, marked “Beeline,” was a neatly typed dossier. I read the top page aloud: “Iris Scanlon, 29, owner of Beeline daytime concierge service. Owns home and acreage at 9234 Olivet Drive. Marital status: Single. Children: Custody of a minor sibling, Gladiola, age 17. No clear religious ties. Debts … What the hell is this?”
I skimmed over the handful of pages, which included a credit report, my college transcripts, my (blank) criminal record, my personnel history with the Council, and a picture of me unloading blood from the Dorkmobile. The final page was labeled “Observations.”
No good could come of reading that.
My hands shook as I closed the folder. Cal knew me. Or at least, he knew about me. All of those questions he’d asked me about Gigi, my parents, my background—he’d already known the answers. But for some reason that I couldn’t begin to fathom, he’d pretended otherwise. From the moment I found him on the floor, he’d been lying to me.
Why? Was he testing me? Playing with me? Was my personality profile be so boring that he simply forgot who I was? I glared down at the folder in my hand.
“Screw it.” I whipped the folder open again and flipped to the final page, where I saw Cal’s now-familiar bold block handwriting. I huffed an unsteady breath before reading: “Observations: No lasting romantic attachments per Ophelia. Dress: Conservative to the point of chastity belt. Spinster? Lonely? Financially unstable. Looking for an escape from sad little life? Likely starving for any sort of attention, male or otherwise. If confronted, turn on charm. Not a threat.”
My mouth went dry. My throat was too swollen and tight to swallow the lump growing there. Is that what he really thought of me? Is that what he’d been thinking of me the whole time? Was he laughing at me, sneering inside at the poor, pathetic loser he could manipulate with a few flirty suggestions and a pity lay?
Biting my lip, I willed away the hot tears gathering at the corners of my eyes. At least Paul only showed signs of emotional indifference. With Cal, I’d slept with a man who seemed to disdain me actively before even meeting me.
“You will not cry in the middle of the Council office,” I ordered myself with a growl. “You will not cry here. You will not cry in the car. You will finish up here, go home, and shove a stake up his ass. Sideways.”
Boiling rage, like lava rising from the pit of my stomach, consumed every cell in my body. It was comforting or, at least, more comfortable than the crushing weight of self-doubt. How dare he? How dare he make those “observations” about me without even meeting me? What was he basing this on? Secondhand accounts from Council officials? Had he watched me from a distance like some creepy stalker? Because using a telephoto lens was a great way to sketch someone’s character. And my clothes were not that conservative!
Grinding my teeth, I had shoved the file folder into my bag, followed by the scanner, when I heard a voice outside the door. Terror replaced my righteous spinsterly anger.
Yeah, I was going to have a hard time letting that one go.
Ophelia was berating some poor underling for “not knowing her ass from the sparse collection of cells between her ears.” I scrambled to restack the files on the table. Should I hide? Should I try to crawl under the desk?
I slipped around the desk to the black leather armchair decorated with zebra-striped pillows. I dropped the tote on the floor and crossed my legs, as if I’d been waiting patiently. I concentrated on my breathing, trying to slow my pulse.
Please don’t let me be sweating right now. Pit stains would both tip off and offend Ophelia.
The door clicked open behind me, and I turned, smiling as Ophelia walked through.
She arched an eyebrow. “Iris, we didn’t have an appointment.”
Reaching carefully around the scanner, I pulled the shoe-box-sized carton out of my tote. I smiled, easily feigning excitement thanks to nervous energy. “I know, but I couldn’t wait to drop off the Clarenbault!”
For a moment, an honest expression of delight passed over her eyes. She looked like the schoolgirl she pretended to be. She held out her hands and took the box from me, opening it to find a sweet-faced porcelain princess in an intricately embroidered peacock-blue gown.
“Oh, she is a beauty.” Ophelia sighed. “I am very pleased, Iris.”
“Wonderful, but I’d be more comfortable if you didn’t look at the receipt while I’m in the room.”
She smirked at me, crossing her office to sit in her desk chair. “You know what I find interesting about you, Iris?”
“My puckish sense of humor?” I suggested, my voice cracking slightly on the last syllable.
