"Hard at work, I see."
"I'm allowed a lunch break. It's in my contract."
At that, we both snort—as if a contract has ever dictated Tuija's responsibilities. If I were to put those in writing, I'd be hauled in front of a judge faster than she can down shots.
I nudge aside a stack of files and a haphazard scatter of makeup, making room for my ass on her desk.
She waves to the space and sighs. "Oh yeah, just make yourself comfortable."
"I will." I peer around to the laptop as the credits screen rolls by. "Dexter? Really?"
"I like me some blood and guts between..." She nods at the files. "Blood and guts."
"Speaking of which. Has anything come back from Leo's old clinic?"
"The therapy place?"
"Uhuh."
She shrugs. "Nope. Trying to crack these places is like trying to fuck a cat in the ass."
"Then get busy lifting tails. I want the intel." I position two fingers behind a lipstick and flick it off the desk. It soars into her full-length mirror with a piercing smack.
"Hey! That's a Dior, asshole." She glares between the lipstick—which is now cracked and looking pathetic on the carpet—and my grin. "You're as bad as a fucking teenage boy sometimes."
I probably am. "Anybody would think that you didn't want me to have the info, firecracker."
"They're classified medical records. They have all sorts of celebrity basket cases at these clinics and they're up to their necks in NDAs. Our best bet is to get our hands on her referral letter, but I've been told it'll be another week."
"Why so long?" I brace my fingers behind another lipstick, but she spots me at the last second and swipes it away. "I'm bored of being patient."
"You're always bored."
"Stop watching that bullshit TV show and answer my question."
"I don't know why it takes so long. You want answers, I'll give you the number of my contact and you can ask him yourself." Her eyes dart left to right. "Although all you'll do is terrify him, and then you'll never get what you want, so..."
"Don't be so overdramatic."
"Don't call Dexter bullshit. This show is genius."
"I don't watch it." I squint at the screen, where the guy from Six Feet Under is hacking someone up with a chainsaw. Have to respect variety. "Isn't it just some serial killer crap?"
"No," she huffs.
"You know what percentage of serial killers are actually caught?"
"Should it worry me that you know this?"
"Three percent. The rest are just walking around like average Joes, murdering when they feel like it. And they'll probably never be brought to justice." I have to be careful that this doesn't sound like bragging.
Not that I'm a serial killer. Of course.
"Yep," she mutters, not looking up. "Definitely worries me."
"You finally figured it out, Tuij." I grin, dimples and all.
"Right. You're not nearly stereotypical enough. I mean, where's your obsession with expensive grooming products? Why has there never been blood on your dry cleaning? Where's your collection of dried-out butterflies, huh? I've seen your apartment. It's way too..." She almost sounds disappointed. "...Normal."
"You realise that most murderers don't hack off their victims' third finger and send it to a police detective in a jar? They just snap. Kill. Go back to their day jobs. If they're lucky, they do a good enough job of clearing up or disassociating themselves, but that's it."
"Dexter kills people because they deserve it," she says matter-of-factly. "He picks out people who've committed crimes and then uses them to relieve his urge to kill."
"Doesn't make him any less of a predator."
"I guess not." She shrugs. "It's like spiders though, right? Some people are afraid of them and some people aren't, but either way, they do a good job taking care of the flies."
I press my lips together. "You're seriously standing up for this guy?" He's not even real!
"Why?" She beams at me, all lipstick and bright white teeth. "You jealous?"
"I think I'll survive."
"You'd make an excellent sociopath. Just work on your cannibalism, or something."
I pull myself to standing. "Right."
"Or maybe psychopath. Cannibals are psychopaths, right?" she calls.
"There's no difference." I glance back, careful to catch her eye. "They just started using sociopath because too many professionals mistook psychopath to mean psychotic."
She pauses, her finger pointing feebly at the laptop screen. "These guys are not sane."
"Yep, they are." I grin again. "Get me my intel please, Tuij."
"I'm working on it." She glances back at her laptop and shakes her head, muttering to herself. "No way they're sane."
We're saner than all of you.
***
That evening, I wait for the rest of the SilentWitn3ss clique to leave before knocking on the door of Leo's office. I haven't seen her depart on the security cameras; it's gone seven p.m., but she should still be around.
"Come in," she calls, sounding harassed.