“That’s heartless,” I said, stung. All this time, had I been nothing more to her than someone to carry her bag?
“I said, I try to avoid it, do keep up.” She shut her book and fixed her lantern eyes on me. “Trust me, if Milo were involved in a murder plot, I’d find it very difficult to assist him. It’s not heartlessness if it saves lives.”
She was spoiling for a fight, but I made myself back down. I thought of the Cadbury Flake on my desk, the time she leaned over to straighten my glasses in the middle of a conversation. She was either much better or much worse at this whole caring business than she thought. “Wheatley’s getting information about the two of us somewhere, and he’s definitely watching you closely.”
“That surprises you?” she asked.
I bit back a remark about her being the center of the universe.
“Well, yes. No. I don’t know. He also seems genuinely afraid of snakes,” I said, wanting to defend him. “And genuinely concerned with what’s happening to me.”
“I’d suspect him less if he seemed indifferent,” Holmes pointed out. “Did he try to dig into your oh-so-compelling trauma?”
“No.” I paused. “Well, a little. He referred me to a therapist.”
“Psychology.” She snorted. “All the same.”
I threw up my hands. “What about the other names on the suspects list? You know, the ones who aren’t Romanian royalty or pop stars. The Moriartys. What about August? Is he really dead?”
“Nothing to report.” Holmes drew on her cigarette, her eyes narrowing. “Honestly, sod all this, none of this is correct. We have the data and the access but we’ve made no progress, and I’ve smoked at least twenty of these horrible things today and I am developing a wretched dependency, just you watch, we’ll be out in the middle of some sodding field watching a perfectly captivating murder take place firsthand, and I’ll have to run off in the middle because I need to have a Lucky Strike right then or I’ll be the one doing the killing.” She stabbed out her cigarette against the love seat’s arm, and in the same gesture, lit another. I’d heard her run off on tangents before, but none this frustrated or angry.
“Then stop. Smoking.”
“Do you really want me to revert to the alternative?” she snapped.
“Maybe we should take the night off,” I said. “Go get pancakes, plan for tomorrow.”
I could have blamed myself for having wound her up in the first place, but Holmes had been itching for a confrontation from the moment I walked through the door. The look she gave me then was the one you saved for cockroaches, shoe in hand. “This is what I do. You want me to stop? You think you can talk about it like it’s a game?”
The acid in her tone ate away the last of my patience. “I’m saying that you should take a night off, not that you should abandon it completely.”
“You can’t handle the pace, then.”
“No! God, if we’re so stuck, why won’t we just call in your parents—”
“I refuse to have them involved—”
“Don’t you think that getting your head on straight can take priority, for once, to proving yourself to your family?”
She pulled herself up, as proud and straight as an ancient queen. Her face was a perfect blank. The only glimmer of Holmes I could see was in the anger darkening her eyes.
“Yes,” she said in a flat voice. “I hadn’t thought of that. I, of course, have no personal stake in this matter. Since this is all an exercise to please my parents.”
“Holmes—”
“So yes, take the night off. In the meantime, I’ll be tracking down the person who murdered my rapist and tried to murder your little girlfriend and then almost had us arrested for it. It might even move faster without you, as you’ve proven yourself so extraordinarily useless.”
It was the first time she’d ever said anything that cruel to me. The word useless hung between us, like a millstone on a piece of thread.
“How can I help you,” I snarled, “when you keep so much information to yourself? There’s a Moriarty plastered all over that wall that you refuse to talk about. You’ve told me nothing about your relationship with him.”
“With him? Don’t you mean to him?” she asked. “Is this about the case, or your jealousy?”
Her hand flew up to her mouth as if to stop the words from coming out. But it was too late.
“Okay, then.” There was nothing else to say. I put my coat on, not sure where I was headed but knowing that it was somewhere the hell away from here.
“Watson.” Holmes got to her feet.
“I’m fine.”
“I know I can be perfectly beastly—”
“You can,” I said. “And why don’t you just call me Jamie, like everyone else, since I’m too useless to be your Watson.”
Holmes’s mouth opened and snapped shut. I slammed the door hard enough that, behind me, I heard the satisfying crash of a beaker shattering on the floor.
eight
I PACED OUTSIDE OF MICHENER HALL, BLOWING ON MY hands to keep them warm. By the time I banged through the front door, I was mostly in control of myself again. Mrs. Dunham was manning the front desk—did she ever go home?—but I walked straight past her without a word, not wanting to test my hard-won composure.
Usually, my room was empty the hour before dinner, but that day Tom was watching a video on his computer, eating a chocolate bar. On the screen, a girl performed a burlesque routine to a song sung in French. I recognized a few of the words: leave it, leave it all. Biting her lip, she lowered one strap, the other.