Page 24 of Brazen Criminals

“Huh.”

She finishes her glass of water and quickly washes it. “Are you heading out too?”

“Yeah, I thought I might go for a run. I couldn’t sleep.”

Clara rubs her eyes with a soapy hand. “That party next door kept me up way too late. If you don’t mind going at a slow, steady pace, you could run with me for the first mile or two, then turn back at your own pace. I was planning an out and back along the river, down on the West Bank and up on the East Bank.”

I nod. “Sure.” I finish my water and set the glass in the sink for later. “I’m ready when you are.”

We head out the front. The house is only four blocks from campus, but the cross streets are full of traffic, even this early on a Saturday. We keep having to start and stop. Clara trots through the closest campus gate and heads toward the river. We pass a big maintenance building before she darts down a stairway I’d never noticed before. The stairs dump us at the bottom of the hill and right next to the river walkway. She stops to stretch, and I join her.

“How do you know when you’ve gone far enough?” I ask.

Clara uses a bench to steady herself as she stretches her quad. “I mapped it first thing this morning, so I know when to cross over the Mississippi and head back.”

“How much do you have to run to train for a half marathon?”

She shifts to the other side. “I run four times a week. Two easy days, one tempo day, and one long run.”

“What do you do the other three days?”

“I don’t run.”

I can’t tell if she’s joking or not. I must be staring again, though, because she gives me a little shove. “You ready?” she asks.

“Sure.”

We start south, the river on our right. “We’ll cross at the Washington Avenue Bridge,” she says.

The morning is already warm and humid, and it’s not even 7:30. The pace isn’t punishing, so I feel like I should chat, but I don’t know what to say. I glance at her, her cheeks already red from exertion. “So do you run track too?”

She shakes her head, her long ponytail swishing between her shoulder blades. “Nope. Not anymore. I just like running. I feel stronger and calmer after I run—happier. What about you? Do you run a lot?”

“No. I only run when I get antsy and my dojo isn’t open for sparring.”

“Dojo? What kind of dojo?”

“I used to compete in Kendo, a kind of Japanese sword martial art. I did a bunch of different martial arts before I found Kendo, but that one stuck.”

A bicycle comes toward us, so Clara steps behind as they pass, moving back up to run beside me once it’s clear. “You don’t compete anymore?”

“I just spar for fun. Sometimes if they need me, I’ll teach some kids’ classes, but nothing too serious.”

She smiles. “So you’re like a sword master or something. Neat.”

My cheeks heat, and I look away toward the river. “Nothing like that. I just like the forms, the structure and motion. It feels good and keeps me from feeling, I don’t know, bad,” I finish lamely. If I could turn the color of a tomato, I would right now. I need to practice talking. I’m so bad at this.

I hear the voice of my sister Trish in my head, her frustration obvious after I failed this summer, once again, at chatting with any of her girlfriends:If you want to talk to a girl, then you just have to talk to them. You can’t mumble, stare, and walk away. Seriously. How are we even related?

She isn’t wrong.

I debate turning around and running back, but Clara has already started up the stairs to the Washington Avenue Bridge. She looks over her shoulder at me with a smile, and I follow her without conscious thought.

Our footsteps echo on the pedestrian bridge as we stride toward the business school. Usually by now, some of my jitters would have eased, but they seem to have gotten worse. I wonder if it’s because I’m running with Clara.

I sneak another look at her. My heart stutters. This run will not be the calm down I’d hoped for.

We make it down to the running path on the other side of the bridge, Clara on the river side this time. “Oh, I forgot. I have your drill. It was a godsend for hanging my curtains last night. I hope you don’t mind.”

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