Page 5 of Due South

“You don’t?” Evans is smart. Like,reallysmart. Probably the smartest person here besides India. And he doesn’t know how to use a simple piece of kitchen equipment?

“No, I…” Huh. He’s blushing. It’s cute. “I never learned how.”

I sigh. I don’t have time for this, but maybe a few minutes away from my desk wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe calling it a night would be even better. I won’t be able to get any work done if I’m this close to tears, and they’re still lingering in my eyes.

“Give me a minute to get my stuff together and I’ll show you on my way out.”

“Thanks, Lucy. That’s nice of you.”

Yes, that’s me. Sweet Lucy, nice Lucy, not-very-bright Lucy. Everybody’s best friend Lucy. That’s what I’ve been since I moved to California. It’s partly the whole Midwest, growing-up-on-a-farm thing, but it’s also the shyness thing. Not to mention anyone who works alongside India basically looks like a baby bunny rabbit compared to her tigress claws. So yeah, that’s me, sugar-coated Lucy.

Quite a change from at home where I was temptation-incarnate Lucy. That’s what Pastor Elijah used to say. Not directly of course, because that would’ve been wildly inappropriate, but in smaller ways. Like, how I should dress more carefully for church because he knew I didn’t mean to, but showing too much skin would distract the boys from listening to the word of God. Really could’ve done without that.

I close the documents I’ve been working on, shut down my computer, gather up my things into my purse, and go across the hall, with Evans trailing behind me. The coffee machine sits on the counter, illuminated only by the low, perma-on fluorescents lining the ceiling. I start the familiar process—one I must go through a dozen times a day—of taking down the filters. When I reach up for the grounds, I almost grab the regular coffee I use when I’m making a pot for the office, but instead my fingers float to the bag of the good stuff I keep tucked toward the back. Evans is working late; he deserves a treat.

Just as I’m about to show him how to put the filter in, a crash comes from the hallway and then a stream of curses. I grab Evans by his arm and, without totally understanding why, pull us both to the floor. Underneath his wrinkled sleeve, Evans’s arm is surprisingly muscular. We’re not doing anything wrong, but it feels safer to crouch in the kitchen than to confront the very angry India who’s stormed into the office. Why is she back?

“How the fuck could I have forgotten that fucking file? God-fucking-dammit all to hell.”

Oh dear. I let go of Evans’s arm and am about to stand and offer to help find whatever she’s looking for, but Evans wraps his fingers around my forearm and holds me still. He shakes his head. He’s right. I don’t want to get involved. I want to leave as soon as possible, and I won’t be able to if I get caught up in Tropical Storm India.

We stay stock still like kids who don’t want to get caught during hide-and-seek. Seconds later, she’s stomping by, looking like maybe she’d been in bed, wearing yoga pants and a hoodie that’s way too big. Maybe not stomping. It’s hard to stomp in flip-flops. Lights illuminate her office. When Jack left four months ago, she’d had the solid wall knocked down and replaced with glass. From here, it’s like a diorama. I can see her shoving things around her desk, picking up piles, and generally making a mess.

The stream of curses hasn’t stopped. Does she always talk to herself? I’ve never noticed that before. But when another body, backlit by the bright lights of her office passes by, I realize she’s not.

“Hey, mili. Calm down and tell me what you’re looking for, then I can help.”

“It’s a file folder. A plain old, manila fucking file folder. Just like the ten thousand other ones I have.”

I cringe. I’m used to India going on the occasional rampage, but I don’t like hearing her talk that way to her husband. Cris is nice. And easygoing. And handsome. I don’t understand why he likes her. I mean, she’s beautiful and smart, but she can be so mean. I guess you can get away with that if you look like her and have brains like she does. I could never pull off half the stuff she does. Not that I would want to because engaging in any kind of conflict, never mind causing it, would make me queasy, but still.

She’s crashing around her office like a wrecking ball, curse words still flying from her mouth. Cris, on the other hand, picks up a stack of folders from the counter behind her desk and leafs through them as if he’s got all the time in the world. How is he not a nervous wreck? I hate it when she yells. Maybe she does it so often he’s used to it. To be fair, I’ve learned to take it less personally, and this definitely isn’t about him. After a couple of minutes, he draws out a folder and holds it up.

“It’s the PRA bond thing you’re looking for, right?”

She turns on him, looking for all the world as though she might fell him; a lioness hunting a wildebeest. “Yes. Is that it?”

“Maybe.”

The scowl on her face is downright terrifying, but he’s standing there cool as a cucumber. Practice must make perfect.

“Give me the fucking file, Crispin.”

“On one condition.”

“No. No goddamn conditions. Hand it over.” She stalks toward him and grabs for it, but he holds it out of her reach. I’d thought he must be crazy to marry her, but apparently the man has a death wish. A wish India looks completely willing to fulfill.

“You just have to answer a question, that’s it.”

“Fucking hell. I don’t have time for this. Give it to me now.”

“No.”

She takes an audible inhale, and when she speaks, it’s through her teeth. “Fine. One question. And then you’re giving me that file and driving me home.”

Cris nods his agreement and then wraps an arm around her waist. Though she lays her hands on his chest, she doesn’t resist his embrace.

“What is this about?”

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