Then her gaze flashed again to me.
I averted mine. Faked a groan, collapsed into a cracked leather armchair. Put a hand to my head.
Armin said, “It’s no use. We have to reschedule, Lane.”
“We can’t. I paid people off.”
“We’ll pay them off again.”
“The mousetrap is set for tonight. His roommate’s out of town. Things won’t line up like this for months.” I could almost hear her teeth gritting. “I planned this out perfectly.”
“And I fucked it all up,” I said. “Because I’m not perfect, like you.”
Laney didn’t respond, which was response enough.
“He made a mistake,” Armin said. “This is why there’s a plan B.”
Fraternal solidarity. How nice.
“What’s plan B?” I said.
Laney looked at me, expressionless, then headed for the door. Before it opened she said, “Reconvene tomorrow. Same time. Show up sober, or don’t show up again.”
Heavy steel creaked and slammed, so loud it made my teeth ring.
And then there were four. I sank deeper into the chair. Blythe turned to go and Armin caught her hand.
“I’ll talk to Lane,” he said.
“She needs me.”
“You’ll just set each other off. Let me defuse her.”
There was a weird bond between those three. Laney and Blythe were girlfriends, madly in love; Armin was the pseudo-platonic ex who arbitrated their fights, smoothed their jagged edges, kept them together while he lived through them vicariously. Blythe called it a two-and-a-half-sided love triangle. It was sad, clinging to something dead like that.
To someone who didn’t love you the way you loved them.
Blythe scrunched Armin’s sleeve in her fist and let go. The door opened and closed again, gentler.
“Bloody hell,” she said when he was gone. “I wouldn’t mind dismantling the shit out of that bloke.”
“Armin?” Ellis said, looking horrified. But not too horrified.
“No, little bird. That arsehole, ‘Crito.’ Talk about bloody pretentiousness.” Blythe sank her nails into a leather chair back. “Every men’s-rights fuckwit fancies himself some Greek philosopher. A beacon of pure reason, shining a light on our womanly hysteria.”
“You know,” Ellis said, “that word itself is sexist. ‘Hysteria’ literally means ‘suffering in the womb.’ The ancient Greeks actually thought the uterus drove women crazy.”
“Here we are two thousand years later, and some blokes still think it does.”
I shifted uncomfortably.
Thing is, some blokes have a uterus.
“So what’s this plan B?” I said, changing the subject.
“Who bloody knows. Lane never tells me anything.”
“She’s been watching this guy for a while, but never mentioned him before.”
Ellis cleared her throat. “Actually, we’ve kind of known about him the whole time.”
“?‘We’?” I said.
“Well, me. I mean, obviously all our missions lately were connected. The flower bouquets, the threatening cards. It’s his signature move. We just didn’t know who was behind them.”
“Crito,” I muttered, stroking my stubble.
Ellis eyed me. Then she eyed Blythe. Then she bit her lip.
“You have that thinky look,” I said.
“It’s nothing.”
“That means it’s definitely something.”
Ellis took a step back, loosening her tie. Behind those Buddy Holly glasses, her clear green eyes bounced between us.
“What do you know, E?” I said. “Laney said you’ve built a dossier.”
“She’d kill me if I shared it.”
“We’re all on the same side here.” I stood. “I want to see that data, Ellis.”
She looked pleadingly at Blythe. Blythe merely shrugged.
“I can’t, Ren.”
“Then just give me the address. That’s all I need. I can take this scumbag out myself.”
“Laney set everything up a particular way. If we mess with it, who knows what could happen.”
I could redeem myself, I thought. And then ask for the favor I wanted. “We go way back, old sport. Do me a solid.”
Ellis was grimacing. “Let’s wait till tomorrow. Ren, you’re not sober. Maybe that’s a sign this wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“Since when do you believe in signs, Professor?”
“I don’t. I’m just saying—” She sighed and glared at Blythe. “Could you back me up here?”
“Mate, Laney doesn’t like anyone fucking with her plans. She’s allergic to the unexpected. It makes her bite people’s heads off.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you two know something you’re not telling me.”
Ellis tossed her hands up. “We’re just trying to keep you out of trouble.”
“Blythe’s middle name is trouble.”
“It’s Spencer, actually.” Ellis sighed again, but with resignation. “This is a really bad idea. If you mess up—”
“Give me an hour and I’ll be fine. I’m a professional, E. I don’t mess up.”
Blythe cackled and said, “Famous last words.”