Page 58 of Deja Who
THIRTY-ONE
“Stop that,” she said, batting away the hand tormenting her. “Stop that right now.” She was not quite sure what had happened, but whateverhadhappened, she simply refused to stand for it. Whatever it was.
She opened her eyes and saw that for some reason Archer had taken her to the piano room, the last place she had seen Nellie alive. Her mother had been murdered, of course, in the photo room. The room where Nellie had hired Archer to follow Leah. The room Leah hated more than any other room in any other building in the world. Fitting, yes. And horrible. Yes.
“I don’t think you should... ah, hell,” he sighed as she pushed his hand away and sat up. She had been resting on the low bench opposite the piano no one could play. She wondered who would dust it now. And she wondered why she was thinking about such a silly thing, when she had no idea how she had gotten to the piano room. “You were kind of out of it for a minute.”
“I did not swoon,” she said sharply.
“I’m pretty positive I didn’t say swoon,” he replied, his expression mild. His eyes, though. His eyes. They were anything but mild. For a cold moment she wondered if he was angry with her, then realized he was angry... but not at her.
“I didn’t faint, either.”
“Didn’t say faint, either.”
“Because I have never done such a thing in my life unless I was acting and I have no plans to start. Certainly not today of all days.”
“You bet. I’m right there with you.”
“And frankly, she had a lot of nerve getting murdered last night.” Leah shut her mouth so hard her teeth clacked together. Archer would be vanishing from her life soon enough without seeing the truly nasty side of her personality; no need to bludgeon him
(like how the killer bludgeoned your mother and you stabbed him moments after your first meeting, how much of your nasty side did you think you’d successfully hidden from the poor man?)
with more of her awfulness.
“She sure did. You thought you were free—”
“Yes.”
“—you loved that you were free—”
“Yes!” She nodded so hard her neck hurt. He understood. It was incredible; unbelievable.
“—and she had to go and fuck all that up.”
She stared at him, at the blue and the green of his eyes, eyes narrowed in concentration but not—was it true?—judgment. “Yes. It’s awful, I know.”
“It’s also true. Sounds like on top of everything else, your mom’s timing was terrible. All the time, not just last night.”
A hysterical giggle burst out of her before she could lock it back, and she slapped her hands over her mouth. But then, to her amazement, Archer slipped warm fingers around her wrists and gently brought them down from her face.
“You can laugh,” he told her, as if he were the Insighter and she the fretful client, afraid and angry and not knowing why whywhyshe was feeling so strange. “You can cry. You’re entitled. Who cares? The cops have seen worse. I’ve seen worse. Remind me to tell you about my dad sometime.”
When would you have seen worse, you gorgeous idiot?
“No.” She cleared her throat and said it again. “No. Later. I’ll do that later. Right now I want to speak to Aaron.”
“Who?”
“Detective Preston.”
“Feeling better?” As if appearing because she called his (other) name, the man was suddenly in the piano room with them. He was dressed in civilian attire, brown pants and matching jacket, cream-colored shirt, brown tie, brown shoes. His hair was so light a blond it was almost white; his eyes were pale blue; his skin was also pale, with very faint color at his cheeks and nowhere else. He almost seemed to glow in his dark, dull clothes. “You seem to be feeling better. We can certainly have this conversation somewhere—”
“Tell me,” she said. “Everything. I want it all. I insist.” Leah had no idea how much Insighter privilege Preston was going to allow her, but intended to push for every bit of it. Cops, as a rule, tended to accommodate those in her profession. More, perhaps, than most other fields, cops needed them. “Please,” she added, because that seemed called for. And it wouldn’t killher to be polite. Being polite when she felt anything but wasn’t exactly—ha, ha!—like getting murdered.
He looked at her for a long moment, doubtless assessing if she was as ready for the information as she seemed. He must have seen something that convinced him—or perhaps he simply didn’t care if his words would make her crack and break—because he gave her exactly what she said she wanted.
