Working Stiff

Oh. “Well … if you don’t mind …”

“Absolutely no trouble, Miss Davis. Will you want coffee or tea with your breakfast?”

Right on cue, she remembered her caffeine deficit, and her stomach rumbled. “Coffee,” she said. “And just a bagel, please. Oh—Liam?”

“Yes, miss.”

“What’s the story about this house?”

Liam regarded her for a few seconds without replying, then leaned against the door and said, “I’m not sure that Mr. McCallister shouldn’t tell you himself.”

“Mr. McCallister has a policy of telling me absolutely nothing, and it’s getting pretty old.”

“He does tend to be very private,” Liam agreed. “Very well. His great-grandfather was a hardscrabble railroad man who made a fortune, which his grandson set about squandering. Luckily, his granddaughter was more astute, and by the time Mr. McCallister’s father was born, the fortune had been successfully defended.”

“He said he had a brother.”

“He did.”

She waited, but he didn’t expand on it. “And?”

“I believe Patrick told you that Jamie died.”

“It sounds like neither one of you wants to tell me the truth about it.”

“So it does,” Liam said. “I should walk the dog, miss. Go down to breakfast when you’re ready.”

He left before she could think of any better way to pry information out of him. Not that she’d have succeeded. Liam and Patrick both seemed to have taken vows of silence on the subject.

Freshly scrubbed and dressed, she came downstairs to find Mr. French comfortably snuggled into a doggy bed near the door, looking deliriously happy. Liam showed her to the Small Room, which apparently was where the breakfast buffet was laid out; the room wasn’t small, and it held enough food to take care of a fairly major armed camp. “I just wanted a bagel,” she said weakly, surveying the ranks of gleaming serving trays. Liam pulled out a chair at the table, and she saw a steaming china cup and a bagel ready for her, just the way she’d asked. “Oh.” She sank down, and was taking her first sip as Patrick McCallister walked in.

I made this man sleep on my ratty old Sears couch, she thought. Covered with a Wal-Mart blanket. In my six-hundred-a-month apartment. I made him eat peanut butter and crackers off of paper plates.

And he smiled at me.

She wasn’t sure which emotion that boiled up in her was the most apt: a vague sense of shame for being … not part of this world; anger, for making her feel inadequate; or surprise, because once again, Patrick McCallister looked like a real person when he smiled.

Or a secret, unsettling sense of delight that there was warmth in the smile, despite everything.

Bryn shook it off and forced herself to look at him analytically. He looked like he was wearing an identical suit, shirt, and tie to what he’d had on yesterday, only these were spotless and wrinkle-free. Maybe Liam had some kind of overnight cleaning service, too. Even his shoes were shiny. He filled up a breakfast plate, moving fast but gracefully, and took a seat across from Bryn.

“Good morning,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes,” she said. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I? Fast Freddy rose from the dead and someone is apparently climbing sheer walls like a lizard to get at me. Nothing to keep me awake there.”

“He won’t be climbing them here,” Liam said, sounding absolutely convinced of it. “Motion sensors on the walls, security at every possible entrance. Constant monitoring. You’re quite safe here, miss.”

Before she had a chance to feel better about that, McCallister said, “She’s not staying. We’ll be leaving right after breakfast.”

“I see.” Liam’s eyebrows went up just a little. “Will you be needing anything in the way of supplies?”

McCallister flat-out grinned at that. “I’m starting to wonder if you think being a butler means that you’re Alfred and I’m Bruce Wayne. Do we have a Batcave?”

“Once again, I’m not a butler, sir. I’m an estate administrator. And we do not have a Batcave that I’m aware of, but I can certainly check the basements just in case. I was speaking more of providing you with a packed lunch. Perhaps some coffee in a thermos.”

“Ah,” McCallister said, and took a bite of bacon, which Bryn was starting to regret not having. “Lunch and coffee would be fine. Thanks.”

“And for the lady?”

“Whatever you’re doing is fine,” she said hastily. What did rich people eat for lunch? Finger sandwiches with the crusts cut off? Oysters? She had no idea. This place made Mr. Fairview’s fancy French lunch look like the corner deli had slapped it together. “Where are we going?”

That last was directed at McCallister, and he chewed and swallowed a large bite of eggs before he said, “I told you that I had a contact who might be able to help with your … unique problem. A therapist. We’ll be visiting him shortly.”

Again, he was talking in code, and the reality descended hard on her shoulders, like hands pushing her into the chair: someone was always watching. Listening. Even here. No matter where she went, she couldn’t shake off Pharmadene’s leash around her neck.

She took a bite of bagel. It was probably delicious, but she tasted almost nothing. At least it would keep her going, along with the coffee. “I need my shot,” she said.

“You’ll get it once we’re at the therapist’s.”

“You have it with you?”

“Yes. I keep two with me at all times in case of emergency.” When she frowned, he continued. “If you get severely injured, you may require a booster shot. I don’t want to be unprepared, as long as you’re with me.”

“In other words, I could knock you out and take them, and I’d be all right for two days.”

The smile went back to a tight, controlled, almost humorless expression. “Your problem is assuming you could knock me out.” She knew that glint in the eye; McCallister wasn’t confident because he was arrogant. He was confident because he had historical evidence he was right. “And I don’t think one more day of running would take you out of the reach of Pharmadene.”

He was right about that. Without resources, she’d be delaying the inevitable, and very messy, end. Pharmadene wouldn’t even have to chase her, unless they really wanted to. They could just literally let her rot.

Sucks to be me.

Bryn ate her bagel in silence, and by the time she was finished, Liam had already neatly packed her overnight bag and loaded it in McCallister’s car. He even included a new dog bed for Mr. French to travel in comfort. Lunch was in modular little boxes. “I think he is Alfred,” she said to McCallister, who was downing the last of his coffee as he watched.

“Actually, I often wonder if he’s Batman.” McCallister handed Liam back the cup and saucer and opened the passenger door for her. “Time to go.”

She let Mr. French jump in and take his seat in the dog bed before slipping in herself. McCallister got behind the wheel, and in ten seconds or less they were heading down the gravel path. Bryn let the crunch of the tires fill the silence for another five seconds before she said, “Your family has a shitload of money.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“But it’s not your money?”

“I told you. I’m the trust administrator. I decide where the money is spent, but I’m not allowed to touch it personally.”

“Is that why you took the job at Pharmadene?”

“Even ex-rich people need salaries.”

“But why there?”

He didn’t glance at her. His focus stayed on the long, winding road down to the gates. “I don’t think we need to discuss my job, Bryn. It’s not healthy for either of us to dig too deep into the details.”

“But back at Joe’s you said—”

“Bryn.” He cut her off, cold as a guillotine blade. “Change the subject. Now.”

She hadn’t been going to spill anything top-secret, damn it; she wasn’t that stupid. It offended her that he thought she would. “Fine. Tell me about your family.”