Page 6 of Bulletproof

“I will.”

“You will, or you won’t? You don’t sound too certain.”

“What? Yes, of course.”

“Okay.” I smirked at him, widening my eyes, making sure he knew I thought he was nuts. “As long as you’re sure.”

He turned to face Michelle. “Mrs. Cooper, your partner⁠—”

“Mr. Fisher, I⁠—”

I turned my iPod back up so I missed whatever they said to each other as I took in the details—the cinder-block and plywood bookshelves; the milk crates holding his movie collection; the plastic lamp hanging in the living room, the gilded chain that hung from it, down back over the shade, falling to the middle of the floor, where it was then plugged into an orange utility extension cord that was in turn plugged into the far wall. It was beyond hideous. And then there was the spider plant in the corner.

The only other place I had seen a macramé plant hanger before was in pictures of Sam’s parents’ house from the ’70s. I thought there was a shot of his mother sitting beside one in the living room. I turned my camera around and took a picture of just the hanger and then one of me and the plant hanger together—where I was doing my best Vanna White impression—and I emailed it to the project manager, Wade Fujihara. I got a quick text back and chuckled when I saw it. He was very confused about where I was—or more precisely, in what time I was. I had taken the way-back machine to work, he was just certain.

“Jory!”

Realizing that she had been yelling, I took out my earbuds and looked at Michelle. She was right behind me, apparently had been for several moments, and Hayes Fisher was standing next to her.

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Harcourt,” Mr. Fisher began sharply, “I⁠—”

“You just moved back here, right?”

“I’m—what?”

“I read that in the profile. You used to live in New York, but you’re originally from here, from Chicago, and you moved back after a horrible divorce ’cause your family’s here, correct?”

“Yes, I⁠—”

“So, most of the crap in here is from the previous owner.”

“No, I⁠—”

“You didn’t make them clean up. You just moved in, yeah?”

“No, this is all my⁠—”

“Oh,” I said, drawing out the word. “Wow, so much for the benefit of the doubt, huh?”

“Mr. Harcourt!”

“Is this about the house, or are we just chitchatting?”

“You—”

“Sorry, you obviously have something to add.” I sighed, even as my mind drifted. It was why I had stopped going to church when I got old enough to decide for myself. I had informed my grandmother that I always felt bad because I would be thinking about chocolate chip cookies or something when I was supposed to be thinking about God.

“Do you have any idea how obnox⁠—”

“You know what the coolest thing about driving is?” I asked, giving up for the moment on keeping myself on task.

“What? No, I do⁠—”

“Do you want to know?”

“I—”