Page 18 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

“Tell me library things,” Charlie says, leaning back against the seat. “I need stories involving people with smaller crises than what we just dealt with.”

I turn into my mom’s neighborhood. “My student aide, Violet, checked out three murder mysteries and asked whether cyanide has a smell.”

Charlie twists her head very slowly toward me.

“I told her yes, but also that the school library does not provide beginner-level poison consultation.”

“Responsible.”

“I try to be. Oh, and when I lost the stapler and the half a dozen people I enlisted to help me find it were coming up empty, my aide, Dylan, told me I’m cursed. I told him I’m not cursed—I’m just creatively organized in ways the human eye cannot perceive. And I’m enthusiastic about side quests. I’m not sure he believed me at first.”

“Did you ever find the stapler?”

“Yep! In the faculty lounge refrigerator, of all places. Right next to my yogurt. I used it as evidence with Dylan that I’m not cursed because cursed people don’t find things. They wander moors.”

Charlie laughs, then turns to look out the window. I know she is exhausted. I know something big happened last night, and I’m so curious about what. But I also know how seriously Charlie takes her clients’ privacy.

Miles does, too. I am a pro at getting him to tell me a lot of things, but when it comes to his business clients, it never works.

My mom’s house—the house I grew up in— sits on a tree-lined street at the edge of an older neighborhood, with a deep backyard that slopes toward a stand of maples and oaks. When I first asked if I could keep bees in her backyard, she didn’t even blink. She just said, “As long as they understand there is a sting-free yard-sharing treaty in place.”

So far, the bees have honored the treaty.

Mostly.

My mom is just pulling into the driveway after work as we pull up out front. It doesn’t look like Hammy, my new step-dad, is home yet. She gets out of her car, wearing a sky-blue business suit with a skirt, and as we get out of our car, she says, “There are my girls.”

As she hugs both Charlie and me, I say, “Hello, Mother Who Is Hosting My Tiny Winged Livestock.”

“Hello, Daughter Who Keeps Describing Them in Ways That Make Me Question My Homeowner’s Insurance.”

Charlie lifts one hand weakly. “I’m just here as emotional support and possible bee tribute.”

Mom’s gaze sweeps over Charlie’s tired face. “Long day?”

Charlie gives her a smile. “Long yesterday that spilled into too much of today. I think it’s supposed to be character building.”

“Was it?”

She nods. “Except now, I have too much character.”

When my mom disappears inside, Charlie and I head around to the backyard and the small shed at the back where I keep my bee suits, smoker, hive tool, bee brush, and other equipment in a level of organization that would shock anyone who has seen the inside of my closet.

Which is why very few people are allowed to see the inside of my closet.

In here, I’ve got labeled bins, hooks, and shelves, and everything is in its place. I have two full beekeeping suits, which we’ll need today.

I hand one to Charlie, and she takes it with the solemnity of someone receiving armor before battle. She has only joined me on bee duty once before, but she preferred to watch from a “safe distance” and never strayed from the deck attached to the house. “Do the bees know I’m on their side?”

“They’ll know if you’re calm.”

“I am the picture of calm.”

She’s more the picture of someone who is regretting her decision to join me, but I don’t point that out.

As I’m putting on my gear, Charlie is watching and doing the same with hers. The familiar weight of my veil settles over my shoulders, along with the calm it brings. Bees do not care if I forgot to send an email or if I put my cardigan in the nonfiction section. They do not care if my brain is full of loose confetti and half-finished thoughts.

They care if I move too fast. Or if I ignore what they are telling me. Or take more than they can spare. That I can handle.