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But since Flick moved in nearly a week ago, he’d barely been aware of her presence, and they’d not had a single conversation that wasn’t about bank transfers, access codes, key passes and the best times to use the condo’s top-floor gym.
And that was utterly mystifying.
He’d resigned himself to coping with a wrecking ball and he’d found himself living with a ghost.
Not that he was complaining. Flick had paid three months’ rent in advance. She didn’t appear to eat, or watch TV, or talk on the phone, or own anything that didn’t fit inside her bedroom. She’d arrived with two suitcases and an overnight bag stuffed with tech.
He was only aware of her because he heard the front door open and close and water running in the bathroom. She left for work well before him and slipped home before him, her closed bedroom door signaling she’d retired for the night.
It was fine. Great, even. He was too busy to spare any time puzzling over it. He could simply get on with his routine without interruptions.
It was unexpected, eerie and unnatural.
But so was naming an Alzheimer’s drug Improcog. It was a combination of two words, “improved” and “cognition,” and of the legally registerable names it had tested better than Cogimpro, Memcog, Memeffect and twelve other made-up words that made the short list.
Musing about being ghosted was interrupted when Wren put a copy of the Courier on his desk, folded open to the story that’d come from the press briefing they’d held yesterday.
“Long week,” she said, sitting opposite.
“We kicked its ass.”
“My brain has reached the glazed-over stage.”
“We’re both bunking out early. Everything else can wait till Monday.” Which would make Monday crazy, but they both needed the break. Without it, mistakes would be made, and unfucking things took longer than doing them right the first time.
“I heard ‘wait till Monday’ and I can’t quite process that. I’ve forgotten what I do when I’m not working or sleeping.”
“You buy shoes.”
Wren’s shoes today had heels that looked like Roman columns. For the press briefing, she’d worn shoes that were covered with a newsprint pattern. He wondered what kind of shoes Flick wore. Flippers, for all the attention he’d paid. He needed to pay more attention. Behind that motor mouth and the fuel-injected eyes there was a formidable opponent.
“How is your roommate?”
Speaking of which. “Suspect she wants to kill me in my sleep.”
Wren laughed and segued that into a yawn. “Sounds positive.”
“She’s quiet. Suspiciously stealthy.”
“Maybe she’s not well.”
Would he know if he was living with a person who was unwell? What did unwell sound like? He was never unwell and neither was Josh. Iron constitutions, both of them.
“Maybe you intimidated her.”
He made a sound of disbelief. “Not likely. We’re talking pro cat herder Flick Dalgetty.”
“She certainly rounded you up.”
He shrugged. “It’s a useful arrangement for us both.” She had stampeded, steamrolled, herded, corralled and roped him. He’d let her do it, a solution fallen in his lap, but he still resented it and was struggling to be gracious about it, which was redundant, because instead of crowing about her victory, she’d abandoned all signs of life. It was unnerving.
“If you’re doing that broody, pissed-off and suffering-the-weight-of-the-world thing you do, you might’ve intimidated her.”
“If I was doing it, she’s not been around to see it.”
“Gold star for not denying you do broody, pissed-off and distinctly martyred.”
“I prefer to think of it as thoughtful, with barely contained menace and the potential for decisive action rising.”
