“Really?” Quinn asks with amused skepticism. “You don’t strike me as the drunk-dialing type.”
“OK, maybe not,” Henrietta confesses. “But one can always hope.”
Quinn is grateful for the company and decides to nudge the dynamic a tick more toward companionship.
“So, does toiling away in Moretti’s secret lair leave much time for dating?”
“Ha!” the young woman exclaims. “I wish my schedule were the problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean men aren’t exactly lining up to date a five-foot-tall Korean K-pop fangirl with two PhDs in physics and a Pokémon fetish.”
“Hold on,” Quinn says. “Back up a second. You have two PhDs in physics?”
“Quantum and particle.”
“Jesus,” Quinn says. “I hope whatever Moretti has you doing is worthy of your aptitude.”
“So do I,” Henrietta says.
“Anyway,” Quinn pivots, “I know it’s hard to see yourself the way other people see you, but you are an intelligent, charismatic, and absolutely adorable young woman. You’re kind of the total package, if you ask me. If you don’t get hit on, it’s only because men are intimidated by you.”
Henrietta blushes through her honey-colored complexion, and her eyelashes bat daintily at her bangs. “You’re so sweet,” she says. “Thank you. I really needed to hear that.”
“Anytime.”
Something dark explodes into frame, and it takes Quinn a moment to grasp that it’s a cat, glossy and pure black. As it nuzzles Henrietta, it simultaneously shows Quinn its pink, puckered butt.
“Who is this?” Quinn asks.
“This is Jiji,” Henrietta says. She hooks the beast by its belly and relocates it beside her on the couch. Its hypnotic amber eyes regard Quinn with intense vigilance as it rubs its cheek against Henrietta’s elbow. “He’s the closest thing to a boyfriend I have.”
“He’s adorable.”
“He’s also schizophrenic. Some days he’s like this and I can’t keep him out of my lap, and some days I can’t even find him.”
“Sounds like a pretty typical boyfriend to me.”
The cat abruptly ejects himself from the frame, and Quinn can see from Henrietta’s gaze that he crosses the room, leaps, and comes to rest on some sort of elevated perch.
“Case in point,” Quinn says.
“Exactly.” Henrietta repositions herself on the couch, and her expression portends a transition. “I know you’re boarding soon, Ms. Mitchell, but do you have another minute?”
“Sure.”
“I wanted to apologize for the other day.”
“Apologize?”
“Mr. Moretti told me about your daughter. And then I remembered making that comment about her growing out of Pokémon.”
Quinn leads with a reassuring smile. “Don’t even think about apologizing,” she says. “There’s no way you could have known.”
“I know,” Henrietta says. “It just felt so…I don’t know. Insensitive.”
“Listen,” Quinn begins. “Let me tell you something about tragedy that only people who’ve experienced it seem to know. It doesn’t help for everyone to avoid talking about it or to pretend like it never happened. I actually like talking about Molly. It seems to make everyone else uncomfortable, but to me, it keeps part of her alive.”
“I like that,” Henrietta says. “Tell me something about her.”
“OK,” Quinn says. “Well, in some ways, you remind me of her.”
Henrietta smiles primly. “Oh? How so?”
“Well, there’s the obvious, of course. The Pokémon fanaticism. But she was also really smart. She always used to figure out all her birthday and Christmas presents before she opened them. She never peeked, but she could always think back in time and figure out little comments, or unusual behavior that would tip her off. Like when her father snuck away at Harry Potter World and bought her Hermione’s wand for her birthday. She remembered that day over three months later and knew exactly what was inside—even though we wrapped it in a shoebox to try to throw her off.”
“Sounds like she was as analytical as her mother.”
“She also had a bit of an edge to her. One day, she and her friends were trying to figure out what their spirit animals were. Everyone else was picking things like foxes and deer and pandas. Then all of a sudden Molly declares her spirit animal is a scorpion that can kill all their spirit animals.”
“Well, that definitely isn’t me,” Henrietta says with playful revulsion. “I’m more of a panda girl.”
“But I can tell you have a bit of an edge to you, too,” Quinn says.
“Really?”
“You have two PhDs. You could be making millions on Wall Street, yet you’re working for the CIA. And you’re working on one of the most covert projects I’ve ever heard of at the agency. And you seem to be one of the few who can handle Moretti.”
Henrietta replies with a demure smile. “You just have to know when to ignore him.”
“Listen,” Quinn says. “I have a box of Molly’s old Pokémon stuff in storage. When I get back, I’d like you to have it.”
“Oh, no,” Henrietta says. “No, I couldn’t.”
“Henrietta…” Quinn insists. “It’s just sitting in storage. Nothing would make me happier than to give all that stuff to someone who will love it as much as she did.”
It takes her a moment, but Henrietta relents. “Thank you,” she says. “I promise to take good care of it.”
“I know you will,” Quinn says. “Unfortunately, I need to start making my way to my gate. Apology not accepted, because it wasn’t necessary. But thank you for calling.”
“Of course,” Henrietta says. “Safe travels, Ms. Mitchell.”
“Call me Quinn.”
Henrietta beams. “Safe travels, Quinn.”
Quinn takes another mouthful of wine. Henrietta was right: Molly got her analytical prowess from her mother. Quinn has come to think of her own mind as a type of multi-threaded device. It is as though she has a second, dedicated processor for offloading background jobs—integrated circuitry optimized for solving complex problems. Sometimes she doesn’t even get to choose the tasks it spins up and chews on. Answers, when they are ready, are simply copied to active memory, whether she is in the shower, falling asleep, driving, or in the middle of a conversation. One moment she is walking or grocery shopping or drying her hair, and the next, she is
