Chapter 6: Her Kitchen

Jo lived on the second floor of a converted house above a dentist's office.

Her kitchen was the size of a closet and held a single yellow chair.

She stood me in the middle of it and shut the door.

"Phone," she said.

I gave her the cracked one.

She took the battery out, dropped it in a glass of water, and set the glass on the fridge.

"Where did you learn that?"

"Television."

"It worked on television?"

"I'm a nurse, not a spy."

She filled a kettle and her hands shook so hard that the lid rattled.

I took it from her and set it on the burner.

"He said hurry," she said. "Fifty hours. He killed him by saying hurry."

"I know."

"He said it like a man ordering a sandwich."

"I know."

"Say something other than I know."

"I'm going to take every single thing he has," I said.

She turned around.

Her cheeks were wet and her mouth was set.

"Good," she said. "Because I'm helping."

"Jo."

"Don't Jo me. He called me family on a phone line. He said bring Ms. Keane."

"You don't have to be in this."

"My grandfather put me in it when he told you to keep me near."

I let out a breath that was half a laugh.

"He was never subtle."

"He was the least subtle genius who ever lived."

The kettle began to hiss.

She took two mugs down from the shelf, and her sleeve slid back, and I saw the long pale scar on her forearm.

"Burn," she said, catching me looking. "Chemistry fair. I was nine. Morris dressed it himself and told me it was a badge."

"Was it?"

"It's a very ugly badge."

I took her hand and turned it over, and I touched the scar with my thumb.

She stopped moving.

The kettle screamed, and neither of us went to it.

"Caleb," she said, low.

"Yes."

"I haven't kissed anyone in fourteen months."

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