“JoJo,” Rick said, “you dig deeper. T. Laine, you’re with the senator today. Watch for any signs of paranormal activity. Tandy and Occam, get some rest. Nell, go get some sleep. Anyone got anything else to add? Good. I want everyone here at four p.m., ready to roll, in place for surveillance at five. Meeting adjourned.” Rick stood and left the room. Soul was no longer standing in the doorway.
Sure? I said sure. I stood, tossed my trash, and went to the locker room for a hot shower. Not having to wait while my water heated would save me time when I got home. It would be better if I could put on jammies and be ready for bed before I even walked in the door, but sure as shootin’, I’d have a flat on the way home and have to change a tire in my pajamas. According to Mama, I’d burn in hell if I ever did something so irresponsible. Instead I slathered my homemade sandalwood-and-lavender-scented coconut oil over my body, and a mixture of hempseed oil, jojoba oil, and sweet almond oil on my face and throat, and put on clean undies with yesterday’s office clothes. I paused, wondering how I smelled to the cats and reminding myself to never add catnip to my body oils. I’d seen the result of catnip on Rick and his faithless mate, Paka. I ran a little of the facial oil through my short hair before I dried it. I left off makeup, even though I looked as pale as Yummy. Gathering up my gear and both gobags, I pushed through the door to the hallway. And stopped short.
Occam was sitting on the floor in front of the door, his back against the wall and his legs stretched across the hallway. I didn’t know if he was cat-claiming me or if he just felt calmer in my presence after the disturbing visit to DNAKeys. Either way I’d have to step over him. Which felt all kinds of wrong. No lady would—
I shot Occam a scowl that woulda set kindling on fire, hitched my bags higher, and stepped over his legs. Without stopping to see how he would react, I jogged down the steps to the outside. Men.
I drove away, ignoring Occam standing in the doorway. I had enough problems in my life without worrying about his catty self, this close to the three days of the full moon. Yeah. It was mighty awful sometimes. But I was tired of making allowances for cats.
Back home, I turned on the electric blanket that warmed my bed—a guilty secret I hadn’t told Mama about buying. Wasteful, she would call it, when I could put heated rocks in a bed warmer in the bed with me. But I didn’t have time for rocks to heat. I made up a fire in the cookstove and set a kettle on it for tea when I woke, then let the cats off the porch and inside. I fed them kibble and petted the ones who let me.
From my closet, I pulled out the threadbare jeans and the mismatched earrings and the thin, holey T-shirts. The scarlet and purple wig. The cheap high heels. Set them all on the bed. They looked perfectly awful on Leah’s hand-stitched velvet wedding-ring quilt. I stripped down and put on flannel pajamas and fell in the bed.
? ? ?
I woke to my cell pealing. It was two thirty, my alarm chiming. The cats were curled around me, purring. I had shoved a pillow beneath my knee, and my face was half buried in another pillow. I was toasty, but the room was icy. I could hear sleet peppering on the metal roof two stories above me and on the windows at the back of the house. I was groggy from too little sleep over the last few days, but I had to get up. I had a wig and undercover clothes to get into. I had a job to do. I was going undercover in my first-ever meet and greet with what I hoped would become a confidential source. I was going to lie and cheat and fake with every word and every move. I was ashamed. And excited.
I turned off the blanket, crawled out of the warmth, and shivered in the cold. I added two oak logs to the firebox, thinking again about that electric heater I hadn’t bought. I dressed in a hurry, the clothes warm from contact with the electric blanket. I stared at myself in the unfamiliar clothes, the ones bought for my undercover persona by JoJo and T. Laine on what they called a “girls’ night out.” I looked long and lean in the tight jeans and the tall heels, but also odd, half-finished.
So I made it worse.
I shoved my hair up under the stocking skullcap and situated the wig in place. Put on the earrings, one a real Cherokee Indian arrowhead wrapped in silver wire, the other a silver hoop big enough to catch on my clothes. I’d have to be careful not to hurt myself. I hadn’t had pierced ears for long and I might snag the earrings and yank the jewelry through the earholes. I drew on heavy eyeliner in shades of green and purple with a thick band of black. Layered on the mascara. I added powder to make me paler. And pale lipstick.
I stared at the stranger in the cheval mirror. My new height and the tight clothes made me look modelesque, though three-inch heels with crisscrossing straps were going to make it hard to walk in the sleet. I’d manage long enough to do the meet and greet. The colorful hair was a shock, but . . . I looked . . . I looked really good, actually. I looked hot. Which was a very uncomfortable thought.
I coiled my wig up into a bun and stuck hair picks into it. The picks had faceted onyx and skulls dangling from the ends. The multicolored hair looked better bunned up. Except for the sticks and the color of the wig, the hairstyle made me think of a churchwoman’s bunned-up look.
It made me think of Mud with her hair up. For now, Daddy was keeping her safe, but I had to do something about her. Soon.
I shook my head and the earrings swung against my neck, which looked too long and skinny. I wrapped a colorful scarf around it and then tried on my winter coat, which seemed out of style with the outfit. I rooted around in the closet, among Leah’s old clothes. I had never been able to make myself give away some things, even though I never wore them, and I remembered a quilted shawl made of velvet patchwork. She had made it at the same time she made the velvet quilt for the bed. I found it on a shelf and draped it around me. It looked splendid, perfectly matching the street-waif-meets-gypsy-fortune-teller look I hadn’t realized that I was going for. I repacked my gobags with fresh clothing and with extra goop for fixing my hair after I removed the wig. I felt a car pull into my drive. If I hadn’t been so busy, so distracted, or if I’d been barefoot, I’d have noticed it sooner. A knock on the door interrupted me and I sighed. Occam. Had to be. I’d had a bad feeling he would show here, wanting to chat before work. My gypsy-fortune-teller look was working.
I threw the shawl across my chest and strode to the door. Threw it open. To see Benjamin Aden standing there.
NINE
“Is Nell ho . . . Oh,” he said. His blue eyes dragged from my sexy-sporty-strappy boots to the top of my colorful head.
Shame and horror and shock twined through me. “I’m going undercover,” I blurted out.
Ben’s eyes went wider if that was possible. “Nell, you look . . .”
I got a breath and the shock of icy air cleared my head. I narrowed my eyes at him. “Not like a prostitute.”