“Oh, Peri …” He awkwardly edged his way in, taking her in a damp hug and pinning her behind her towel. “You talked to her last week. Everything is fine.”
“So am I,” she insisted, not liking the lump in her throat. “But I want to get last night’s task back before I get in the car.” His arms eased, and she looked at the guard’s button sitting on the shelf. “Can we build the defrag around that?”
He nodded solemnly and took it. “Um, yes. I talked to Bill. He’s freaking out. Are you sure you don’t want to wait and defrag at Opti?”
“Opti?” she blurted, thinking the request was unusual. But there was a memory knot, and he was tired. “I’d rather do it now if you’re okay. You are okay, aren’t you?” she said, and he nodded, head down as he backed out and shut the door to leave Peri with a lingering unease.
The six weeks she’d lost wouldn’t come back on their own, and there was only so much Jack could reasonably return to her. Sandy, her Opti-assigned psychologist, who’d been with her from the start, said that the larger the difference between the two timelines, the deeper the damage went. Six weeks for saving her life wasn’t a bad exchange. Six weeks was manageable. But she had to know what had happened up in that room.
The scent of sausage and egg began to permeate the bathroom, mixing with the lure of coffee on the shelf. Her stomach rumbled as she reached for the robe Jack had brought in, and it pulled free from the hook to send her pen necklace behind it swinging like a pendulum. Peri brought the cotton to her nose, breathing in the scent of her detergent under the cold, stale smell of luggage, then slipped it on, silently thanking Jack for putting the robe in his bag. If she wasn’t relaxed, nothing would come back. That Jack knew her so well made her feel needy and dumb, but patterns kept her sane when the world was jerked out from under her.
Reluctantly Peri tucked the sterling silver pendant pen away in her bag. Most drafters had a way to leave quick, impromptu notes to themselves in case they drafted without an anchor, but wearing it during a defrag would be a show of mistrust.
The quick gulp of coffee hit her like a bitter, welcome slap, and she sat on the edge of the tub and pulled her overnight bag closer. Most of the clothes in it were unfamiliar, but she almost always wore the same thing so she’d never feel lost—solid, bold colors and tailored cuts—and she hung a fresh pair of slacks and new top on the back of the door to unwrinkle in the shower’s residual fog. White panties? she wondered, the thin cloth sticking as she put them on under her robe. When had she started wearing white? They were so … pedestrian.
The boots were her familiar kick-ass style, and she gave them a quick wipe to get rid of a scuff, flushing when the cloth came away red with blood. That explains my swollen foot.
Her tight brow eased at the knitting project shoved in the front pocket for the drive there and back. I’ve gotten brave enough to try gloves? she thought as she set the double-pointed needles aside and kept digging. The domestic art was more than an Opti-sanctioned stress relief, and she liked being able to carry spikes of wood through TSA. In truth, it was a big part of why she’d agreed to it when Sandy had suggested she learn the homebody hobby. In a pinch, the needles could fit beside her knife in its boot sheath.
Her phone was next, and she checked to see whom she’d been talking to lately, glad she hadn’t forgotten how to work the glass technology. There weren’t many names, and she recognized all of them. An odd exchange gave her pause until she realized it was out of Charlotte, probably the club, a restaurant, or the hotel they’d stayed at.
She found her knife wadded in Jack’s handkerchief, and she meticulously washed the blood off with a DNA-destroying wipe, using a drop of oil stored in an unused contact lens case to lubricate the blade before tucking it in her boot sheath where it belonged. The bloodstained handkerchief she threw away, knowing that the maid would dispose of it more surely than she could. She didn’t like that she couldn’t remember ending a life. She never killed anyone unless they killed her first. Jack, though, wasn’t that picky.