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When there was too much information to work through, my brain went into hyperdrive, spurred on by the challenge. Unable to let it go.
Each victim was given a colored Post-it. The TV, coffee table, wall, and kitchen sink swam in blue, yellow, pink, and green. The floor held the files, which Razai nearly stepped on.
“This is terrifying,” he wheezed. “Is this your version of organization?”
I glared. “Also, why didn’t you knock? You can’t just break into my room, you know. That’s so rude!”
Razai frowned. “Did I do the thing again?”
As in, did I cross a personal boundary without realizing it?
“Yes,” I confirmed. “You did the thing.”
“I ordered pizza, though.” He hopped over the files and landed on the sofa with a bounce. “Do your work.”
Hackles lowered by the promise of cheese, I continued to reorganize and write down class names and times. The TV held the schedules for the last two years, organized by teacher, time, and date.
Razai laid upside down on my couch, with his silver hair brushing the floor and feet hanging over the backrest.
Still, my intuition pressed me forward. There’s something here, something—
Razai’s phone rang and he answered, still upside down. “Hello? Yes. Thank you. Pizza’s here.” He rolled backward off the couch, toes crunching the files on the ground.
I bit back my scolding while he ran out the door, clearly too excited about the food to care about my carefully controlled chaos.
I examined the spread of work around the room and sighed. I’d been going at this for hours. My shoulder ached. My head throbbed, and my eyes burned.
It was time for a break.
When Razai came back in, he called, “Where’d you go?”
“In here!”
He followed my voice into the bedroom, eyes landing on the tray and napkins I’d set on the bed.
“This is the best I could do,” I explained. “The rest of the place is too stacked, and I don’t trust that you won’t mess it all up. Sit.”
He followed my command and settled cross-legged on the comforter. I cracked open two beers and handed him one.
When had I become so comfortable with him? Only a week ago, I’d been hissing and spitting at his very presence, and now, I’m inviting him to eat pizza on my bed with me.
“So, why do you think Clave is involved? Convince me,” he challenged through the pizza in his mouth.
“I told you I wouldn’t say.”
“Castile needs a little more of an answer than that,” he admitted.
“Castile can shove it up the contract that didn’t say I was required to disclose.”
Razai held up his hands. “I’ll let him know. Did your adoptive parents teach you your vicious negotiating skills?”
“No,” I answered automatically. This pizza was delicious. I’d have to remember this place in the future. “It was my mom.”
My hand paused, the pizza poised to enter my mouth. Had I just said that?
Razai zeroed in on the sliver of personal information like a bloodhound. “Aren’t you an orphan?”
Too late now.
