“If I don’t, who will?” He shrugged, taking his coat pockets up and down with the gesture.
“Did you grow up here?”
“Nearby.”
“Where do you live?”
His lips quirked up into a soft smile. “Nearby.”
“How many stations away?” I asked quickly, before he could evade me.
“Past the station. I don’t take the train.”
“Oh.” I kept on course, hoping I was on to something. “Do you live alone?”
He drew up short and looked at me. “Why?”
“Because people are looking.” I indicated behind myself with a head gesture. “Either you’re very single and they’re making assumptions, or you’re very married and they’re imagining the worst.”
He almost rolled his eyes. “I live alone. You?” he asked in a tone that made it sound like he was only asking to be polite. But in my experience men didn’t ask questions like that if they didn’t want to hear the answers.
“I have a needy Siamese,” I told him. I tried to sound a little cute. Not that I was interested, but I could be flirtatious when the opportunity presented itself. “Did you report that guy from yesterday?”
He snorted, the beginning of a laugh. “I see how you are—try to get me to lower my guard with personal questions, and then in for the attack.”
I shrugged and gave him half a grin. “There’s only one of me. It’s transparent when I’m the good cop and the bad cop.”
He eyed me and turned serious, shaking his head softly as if to say there were a lot of things I didn’t understand. “You’d probably find a lot of bullets inside that storm drain too,” he finally said, which still wasn’t a direct answer.
“Why?”
“Because reporting things to the police won’t change anything. Not down here. You haven’t seen one yet. Nor will you. We’re off their maps, unless there’s been too many bodies to ignore. But,” he said, leaning his head forward, looking directly at me, “you seem willing to be very lax with rules.”
“Heh.” I hadn’t exactly been reaching for the phone yesterday. I felt a little sheepish—he had a point. “The place where I used to work, it didn’t always pay to ask questions.”
“And yet here you are, interrogating me,” he said. He gestured me forward, and we began walking again.
“You haven’t even gotten me started yet, really.” We had just half a block left. Now was my chance for the most important question—we were too close to the train station for him to abandon me. “Eduardo drew some blood on my last patient, but you didn’t order lab work. Did he make a mistake? Do I need to talk to him about that tomorrow?” I asked as casually as I could, trying to make myself sound managerial.
He shrugged and shook his head, too fast. “Don’t. I’ll say something to him.”
“He did tell me to ask you, when I asked him about it,” I pressed.
“We see a lot of patients each day. Mistakes happen. We should be lucky if they’re all so benign.”
I regretted his choice of words. It was too easy to slide in my mind from things that were benign to things that weren’t, currently growing inside my mom.
“I will talk to him,” Dr. Tovar assured me after seeing the look on my face.
“It’s not that—” I began to explain, but saw my train coming down the line. I knew I hadn’t seen a refrigerator full of blood-draw mistakes—but I wasn’t sure they were worth throwing down with my day-old boss over just yet. For his part, he looked like he wanted to ask me what was wrong, but I could see him restraining himself. Maybe I wasn’t the only one worried about crossing lines. Behind me, I heard the air brakes start. “Sounds like I should go—” I waved and started trotting backward.
My leaving decided him. He went back to being a doctor again, surely as closing a door. He stood a little straighter and nodded at me. “Have a safe trip home, Nurse Spence.”
I took the train all the way to my parents’ house. Not the same train—they lived in the nicer part of town, off a different line—but it only took about thirty minutes. I got off at their stop, and it would still be a walk to their place, then—
I looked down. I was wearing the same outfit I’d worn at the clinic. When I’d been seeing patients. Frank, in particular. I may be immune to everything this side of TB, but my immunocompromised mother was not. There were germs all over my clothes. Shit.
I stood at the station—probably the safest in the city, as my folks lived in a gentrified zone—and called her.
“Edie—are you coming by?”
“Tomorrow.” I told her who I’d seen today, and where I was. She was disappointed, but also amused.
“Weren’t you just working at the sleep place?”
“It got boring.”
She laughed. God, I loved to hear her laugh. “Well, I’m sure you’re doing the Lord’s work, wherever you are.”
Yeah, about that. Actually, Mom, I’m there because I’m trying to find a sympathetic supernatural creature to save your ass. Too late to argue now. Plus, I loved her. “Can we do dinner again tomorrow? Don’t cook. I’ll bring food in.”
“That sounds lovely. We’ll expect you tomorrow night.”
“Give me till seven thirty so I can go home and take a shower first.”
She said, “See you then, dear,” and hung up.
Still feeling foolish, I swiped my card to get back up to the train.
* * *
By the time I stopped off for takeout and took the train back, it was almost eight o’clock. I set the food down as soon as I got home and shooed Minnie off when she got too close. I didn’t think I needed to take a shower before dinner—I was starving, my PB&J had been a while ago—but a change of clothes and washing any exposed skin would be nice.
I was running a washcloth over my arms and feeling silly for not just showering already when the doorbell rang.
It was eight o’clock at night. And to say I didn’t typically have visitors would be an understatement. No one knew where I lived now, except for my family. Goddammit, if it was Jake … well. Maybe it would be good for us to talk about Mom.
I set the washcloth down and came out to look through the peephole.
“Hey, Edie,” said a familiar voice as I looked through. He must have heard me lean against the door.
Ti. My zombie boyfriend from last fall.
All the stomach acid that had drenched my stomach at the thought of my brother visiting shifted slightly, continuing to rise. I could ignore him, like he’d ignored me for going on seven months now. Being forgotten had hurt.
“Edie,” he said from behind the door, his voice dropping.
“Can’t help but think of the last time we met like this,” I said quietly, from my side of the door. We’d been going to a trial then, and he’d been wearing half of someone else—a part of their face, and their arm.
“I’m all me this time, though.”
I opened the door up just a crack and whispered, “Where have you been?” I kept my face hidden by the door.
“Around. You were kind of hard to find, once you moved.”
“And no one told you I was being shunned?”
“Do you think I care what any vampire says?”
This apartment unit, unlike my last one, was on the second floor. My porch light made him cast a shadow on the wall beside my door. His skin wasn’t much lighter than his shadow, a dark even black, though his eyes were the color of amber hidden from the sun. The last time I’d seen him, he’d been recovering from injuries received as a fireman inside a burning house, and his skin hadn’t healed back all the way. Now he was whole, the rippling scars were gone, and his hair had grown back, tightly clipped against his scalp.
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