Page 26 of The Devil Wears Orange
At least that’s what I think he said. I have trouble concentrating, and it takes him a while to get the words out.
“Here, let me be your guide,” I say, swaying into him, and end up splayed across the staircase on all fours. Jack pulls at my arm. “Leave me here,” I plead.
“Come on,” he tells me and looks up the stairs. “There’s light at the end of the tunnel.” Jack scoops his arm around my waist, picks me up, and guides me upstairs.
The cat returns, slinking across the upper corridor, and sits down one step from the top.
“Not again,” Jack mutters.
“Here, kitty, kitty, pussy catto, kitty,” I slur and stretch my hand out to pet the creature.
Jack snaps back my hand. “Don’t touch her,” he yells. “She’ll destroy you.”
His tone is so severe that even in my drunken stupor, it terrifies me.
The cat eases its way past us, our breaths held, our bodies motionless, playing dead.
Once the beast reaches the bottom step, Jack whisper-shouts, “Run.”
Twice, we blunder our way up and trip. Finally, at the top, I break away and stumble towards my bedroom door. Jack follows, but I swing an arm out to guard my door, preventing him from worming his way in.
“Professor Jack,” I garble, “your door is next room.” Something about that doesn’t seem right, and I think about it before correcting myself. “Your door is next room.”Better.
“So, it is.” He remains, his torso pitches forward unsteadily, and he stares into my eyes.
“Your eyes are very dark,” I say.
He places an elbow against my doorframe and leans his head into the palm of his hand. “Helps with the brooding. Apparently, women like brooding characters.”
“That’s only for vampires.” I hesitate and tilt my head forward, conspiratorially, until I’m mere inches from Jack. “It was his eyes, you know, that gave it away.”
“Whose?”
“Thomas.”
“Thomas who?”
I giggle, and take a step back, leaning against my door for support. Jack’s face lights up, and he laughs along with me.
“Thomas Crown,” I tell him between laughter. “I saw his eyes when I fell from the helicopter,” I say, gesticulating with my hands how I fell.
“Splat!” says Jack.
This elicits a short burst of laughter from me, and I reiterate his “Splat!” then slam the palm of one hand against the other. I’m not sure why I find this so funny. “I convinced myself I was wrong. But I’m not. I know the thief’s identity.”
“Who is it?” Jack says, muting his laughter.
In a deep whisper, I say, “The Prince.”
“William?”
“No,” I say in a quickened, hushed tone.
“Not Harry? I quite like Harry.” Jack’s lips curl up in a scowl.
“British royals aren’t the only royals out there. The Prince is transparent.”
“He’s invisible?”
