Chapter 3

The Dig

24 March

Paper pressed to the kitchen counter, I scrawl a note, then slap it on the fridge. Dim, bluish light creeps through the window. Her alarm used to go off in about thirty minutes. Not now.

We didn't talk. We just stayed there like that the rest of the night, Rachel curled up between us. I didn't sleep more than two or three broken hours. It wasn't the gnawing in my leg, but gnawing in my mind.

I can't stay. That thought kept repeating for hours as the clock digits burned through my eyes in the dark. Watching Cuddy's side rise and fall peacefully, Rachel's breaths warm against my arm, I told myself she's better off without me. They both are. There's a sharper twinge that the Vicodin should've dulled. I can't be what they need.

City turns to suburbs, to fields and shopping strips, and scattered gas stations. The hours roll by along with the asphalt. The wind against the sides of the car and the groaning of the engine numb my mind. It's easier to not think. Easier to be alone.

The corrections facility comes into view. I suck down a couple of Vicodin as Thirteen exits the gate in a brown leather jacket, her hair tossed about by the wind. She makes her way over. This should be a good distraction.

I pop open the door for her. She climbs in without a word. Surprise isn't written on her face, but it must be in there somewhere.

The first few miles are just road noises. I figure I can wait a little. It's like a fine wine, or a delicious slice of pie, and deserves to be savoured.

"What did you do?" I finally ask.

She glances to me, half-disinterested. Or feigning it. "You figured out I was in jail, but you don't know why?"

"I've been busy." I let my shoe down a bit more on the gas pedal. "Excessive prescribing."

"Not that busy," she corrects.

Maybe not, but not for lack of trying.

"I know that you plead down to excessive prescribing, but the question was what did you do?"

She leans towards her window, to the highway coasting by. I'm already five miles over the speed limit, yet neighbouring cars continue to barrel past us. Amazing how little attention people actually pay to traffic laws when cops aren't around.

Speaking of which, someone is cutting into our lane without using their turn signal. I ease off the gas, sliding back enough to avoid a potential collision.

MMMBop. The team.

"Make it fast. I'm driving," I answer. "I don't want to end up in jail like..."

She casts a glance at me. Her eyes are stern when they're fixed on me, but something else glistens under the surface when they drift in the direction of the windshield.

I stop myself. "...a person should, who used their phone illegally while driving."

"36-year-old male with haemoptysis, headaches, chills, and chest pain," Masters relays.

"Where are you?" Chase asks.

"On my way to the greater Schenectady chili cook-off and spud gun competition."

"At a time like this?" I don't need to be in my office to see the depressing, pouty frowns of Cameron.

Thirteen leans my way, all hints of a deeply buried vulnerability vanishing. 'A time like what?' she wants to ask, but doesn't.

"I can't believe you're doing this to Cuddy."

"Really? Do you even know him?" Foreman jabs.

"Yeah, it's selfish, but completely expected," Chase says, "and none of our business. It's her job to spank him. Or Wilson's."

"Hey." I check the mirrors, adjusting the phone against my cheek. "Stop fantasizing about me and Wilson."

A smile creeps across Thirteen's lips.

Masters, the junior, and odd one out, sticks to the case. "ER ruled out bronchitis, pneumonia, and lung cancer."

"So," I say, "diagnosis boring. It's epistaxis. A nosebleed. Blood runs into his lungs, he coughs it back up, flu explains the rest of the symptoms."

A state trooper looms into view behind us. This call needs to hurry up. "Going once, going twice..."

"Toxic exposure to ammonia or sulphites..." Masters begins. Damn her. "...can traumatise the lungs, cause neuralgias or fevers. Fits better because of his radiating chest pain."

"Sold. To Masters," I tack on hurriedly. "Do a home search for toxins. Draw cultures for bacteria and fungi."

Just in time. The state trooper's car comes up beside us as my phone goes safely back into my pocket.

"Cuddy?" Thirteen cocks her head at me. "You two are involved? Interesting."

"That's what you got from that? Just as likely that Wilson and I finally got together."

She smirks. "Thanks for not saying anything." Her face straightens at the road ahead. "I just need some time to..."

"I didn't do it for you." I rub my leg with my right hand, left steadying the steering wheel. "Some puzzles are just too good to share."

"This is my exit."

The sign flies by as quickly as it arrived. She sighs. "Chili?" she asks after a moment.

"I hate chili," I say. "Love spud guns."

My phone vibrates in my pocket, breaking the droning monotony of wind against the car. We haven't spoken in about an hour.

"Gonna answer that?" she prods.

I draw the phone out, glance at the screen. Wilson. Not in the mood. I shove it back in my pocket.

"What's this really all about House? As convincing as I find your deep devotion to vegetable trajectory—"

"First of all, it's a tuber," I say. "And you're just jealous because your potato-related plans are of the serving up fries variety." I glance at her, then the rig lumbering along in front of us. "You did time. Means your licence is suspended."

Tick. Tick. I slide into the left lane.

"Which means your leave of absence is definitely indefinite." Gas pedal to the floor board, we lurch forwards with a grumble. "What exactly are you going back to?"

The rig's front end drifts away in the rear view mirror.

Tick. Tick. Back into the right lane.

"I'd only have to serve up fries until the medical board hearing." She pushes her hair behind her ear. "What's more interesting is what Cameron meant earlier."

I ignore that addition. "I stand corrected. You obviously have a rich, full life waiting for you. I'll slow down the car and you can roll out."

Her lips curve upwards, maybe at my remark, maybe not. "What could be going on with Cuddy that now is a bad time?"

My fingers constrict around the steering wheel. "Rachel's got a little problem with bed-wetting."

She just listens.

"Yeah, I told her not to let the girl drink a jug of water before bed. Didn't listen. So, no surprise it's a yellow version of Kill Bill by morning. The sheets, the mattress, the floor..." I roll my eyes over to Thirteen, making what should be a particularly vivid expression. "...Cuddy."

Her face doesn't shift. Not even to smile.

"I didn't want to be the next victim of Rachel's overactive bladder... and here we are. Apparently, that's not being supportive, I guess."

"Right, that totally makes sense," Thirteen says finally. "I don't even have a change of clothes."

On the bench outside the changing booths, I slip a Vicodin in my mouth. "Okay, here's what I got." It goes down with a hard swallow and I tuck the bottle away. "One, you were in jail for six months, but you were gone for about a year, which means that you weren't arrested right away."

Rustling comes from Thirteen's booth. "Why didn't your answer your phone the second time? Was that Cuddy?" She acts as if she hasn't heard me.

That's okay because I'm doing the same. "Two, you enjoy being known as a number. You don't want people to know the real you, because you think the real you is weak."

"You had a fight. And like a five-year-old, you don't know how to apologise, so you'd rather make an excuse to drive off for a few days."

She emerges in fresh pair of jeans and something black that's halfway between a blouse and a tank top. "This interrogation thing is getting annoying." She cuts me with her eyes.

"Studies have shown that un-annoying interrogation is 50% less effective." I press the handle of my cane against my chin. "And since you're annoyed, I'm already winning. Because I'm having the time of my life."

Her glare crumbles into a dispassionate smile. "Why are you so determined to bring me to this competition? Why don't you bring Wilson?"

"Wilson thinks it's stupid."

"I think it's stupid." She ducks back into the booth with two more tops. "You sure it's not just because you brought a bunch of hookers to Cuddy's place and you're avoiding Wilson because you know he'll be nagging you until your ears bleed?"

Hmm. Interesting theory. I choke back a smile.

"Junior year of high school you placed fourth in a West Virginia all-county science fair. Your project, clean combustion."

"Yeah," she calls over the curtain. "I also wore a training bra. Things have changed."

"Not that much." Ouch. Yeah, I'm that good. I purse my lips against the curve of my cane handle. "I've been going to this contest for four years. For four years, I've come second to a piss-ant named Harold Lam."

Thirteen emerges again in a different top. "This is serious?" She studies me for a moment.

"Second." I tap my cane to the floor.

"Okay." She puts on her jacket. "I can help you, but I'm going to need to make a personal stop along the way."

"What kind of stop?"

"Personal. Did I not mention that?"

Buzz. There's an annoying vibration at my side again. I click it off before Thirteen can notice.

"Okay, turn right." Thirteen leans towards her window, hand poised to grip the door handle, as if she's bracing herself to jump out.

I do as she says. We roll along the suburban street.

"You were writing bogus prescriptions for medical marijuana." I offer yet another theory. "Please say no, because you have to be an idiot to actually screw that up."

"No," she says, "I mean, I was, but I didn't get caught."

"I have to admit. You have one of the best game faces I've ever seen. Also one of the best game bodies."

She gives me a sideways glance. "Your turn. You were running random metal objects through the MRI on a bet and Cuddy found out. Nothing like blowing up expensive hospital property to blow up your relationship."

I scrunch my face in exaggerated shock. "How childish do you think I am?"

"Pull over." She motions to the house we're approaching.

I bring the car to a stop at the kerb. "Hang on a second." She clears her throat and with a click of the door latch, she's out and on her way up the path.

She pounds the front door. It's loud enough to make out from here. A man answers. She leans in close, snarls something to him. He can't react. Her knee slams into his groin, topples him to the porch.

Wow. Knew she could hold her own, but didn't expect that. I pop two more Vicodin before she turns around and stomps back.

"Didn't know you were a Jehovah's Witness," I say as she straps on her seatbelt.

"Yeah, the weak lost faith when Christ didn't return in '75, but I still believe."

"You're really not gonna tell me what just happened?" I shift the car out of park and steer away from the kerb. The street loops back around onto the highway ahead, so we can go straight. My foot sinks into the gas pedal.

"I don't know about you," she says, "but I'm starving."

"Kicking people in the crotch really burns the calories, huh? Someone should turn that into a hip new diet plan."

She doesn't remark. Apparently, she's not in the mood to play the game now.

Low voices and clattering dishes fill the diner and form a layer over a song on the kitchen radio, too muffled to make out. We're at a window table in the far corner. Traffic swishes by.

"You know..." Thirteen lifts her fork to her mouth. "I'm actually kind of hurt that you don't know what I did. I'm not worth bribing a court official or hacking into police records?" She takes a bite of steak.

"Where's the fun in that?" I sip my Coke through the straw.

"You could've at least hired that detective. I would've said 'Cuddy's weird boyfriend', but I guess that's you now."

"Mm-hmm." I take another sip.

"Interesting taste."

"A little over-cooked?" I prod my last chunk of steak.

Her lip curls and reveals a bit of her teeth as her eyes narrow. "Don't play coy. Cuddy." She twirls a fry in ketchup. "First him..." She pops it in her mouth.

"Lucas," I say.

She nods while she finishes chewing. "And now you," she says. "She must have a thing for immature, unreliable guys."

"Nice. Good to see prison hasn't broken you entirely." I suck a ketchup slathered fry of my own down.

The bell on the door rings as a couple walk in. They're holding hands. The father is carrying a little girl who must be about two. The mother leaves them to make their order.

The girl's face twists up and turns bright red. Baby tantrums. My favourite. She wails, tears and snot streaming down. Her father bounces her and says things that can't be heard over the other noises. He strokes her cheek. And like magic, she looks him in the eye and stops as quickly as she'd begun.

I couldn't be like that. Even if my life depended on it. Even if I wanted to. For her.

"I killed a man." Thirteen's words are like a pin prick. I turn back reflexively, knowing something in my face has betrayed the concealment of surprise for a split-second.

It's been about half an hour since the diner. My leg's worse again. I knead it as discreetly as I can manage, other hand on the wheel. It'd actually be better to swap and let Thirteen drive, but she'd only see that as an invitation to poke further.

"You're awfully quiet," she remarks suddenly.

"Sorry. That's just how I get around people who have recently killed a man."

"It wasn't..." She looks away. "You know, I've had a pretty rough year. Do you think maybe we could just give this whole thing a rest?"

"You broke the silence. Way to act like you don't want to talk about it." I glance at her between focusing on the highway stretching ahead. "You killed a man. But you plead out to drugs." I make another guess. "Hit-and-run under the influence. Guy you kneed in the groin was your date, who dropped a dime on you."

"Wrong again," she says. "You yelled at Rachel."

"That's it?"

She studies me, as if that will help come up with a better theory. "You were supposed to watch her, but you were too engrossed in your guitar or piano to notice. She wandered out into the street, got hit and ended up in the ER. She might not make it. You're running away to avoid dealing with that idea and what it means for you and Cuddy."

I suck my lips into my mouth, letting it all absorb for a moment. "Morbid. What did Rachel ever do to you?"

"Hey, you're the one who started this game." Her eyes slice across me. "I'd rather we drop it, but if you really wanna keep going..."

25 March

We make a stop at a hardware store because apparently my gun sucks. She can't find any half-inch drill bits and I inform her that Harold will probably hit on her because he wants everything I have. She keeps combing the aisles and suggests, full of sarcasm, that maybe she should just sleep with him so he'll throw the contest. I jokingly ask her if she'd really do that for me. After I tell her how the contest is judged, she decides to go for raw power.

As we gather the supplies we can find, I make another guess. That she met a guy at a club, brought him home, and he OD'd. The guy she left writhing on his porch was the dealer who sold her the faulty goods. No reaction. Another miss.

We arrive at the field in time for practise. Another ignored call from Wilson. Thirteen fiddles with the fuel valve. Harold shows up. I try to intimidate him, but it doesn't go so well. He sees through my bluff that Thirteen is famed Russian physicist Olga Petrovich, who as it turns out is 72.

I say she's Olga's granddaughter come to kick his ass. And she's killed a guy. That doesn't have quite the effect I was going for because her test shot veers off and busts out someone's windshield.

I sit on one of the two single beds in the orange light of the rustic motel room. "I hope you like rhubarb." I glance to the box on the end table beside me. "We're celebrating."

"We're going rogue." Thirteen paces the carpet, musing. "We rip out the combustion valve, replace it with disks. With enough pressure, it should blow out at maximum velocity."

"Turning the spud into spudnik," I say.

"What do we use for disks?"

"Well, here's a hint. I actually hate rhubarb."

"Pie tins. You're a genius." She heads into the bathroom to change.

"You know... I'm a doctor. Any interest I have in the human body is purely clinical."

"Yeah." She comes back out in a t-shirt and sweats. "That line never works for me either."

"That line always works for you." I watch her sit down on her bed. "So, what did you do?" I ask after a moment.

"No more guessing?"

"I need to know. I can make some phone calls, see if we can speed up your medical board hearing. In the meantime, no one could stop me from hiring an assistant."

"What?" She raises a brow. "No swap? You know, I tell you mine, you tell me yours."

I stare at the pie box, then the shaggy carpet.

"Didn't think so." She pops open the box and grabs a slice, as if to show she's unconcerned.

"So, no deal?" I prod.

"No deal." She takes a bite of pie. "Unless you change your mind and want to tell me what you did."

Great. I won't be getting any sleep tonight.

Sometime after what must be the hundredth time I've rolled to my other side, my ears catch a faint sniffling. She's sitting up in bed, facing the window, trembling in the shadows. Crying.

My fingers dig into the pillow, fighting the urge to slam it over my head to block her out. We were having fun. Or at least I thought we were. My jeans are draped over the footboard. I reach for them, grope for the bottle in the pocket, wriggle it out with a rattle.

The pill's on my tongue when Thirteen's voice springs on me. "You're back on Vicodin." She manages to sound almost detached. "Is that why?"

I force the pill down, turn. Her features are shrouded in darkness. She must've wiped the tears, but I couldn't see them even if she hadn't. This is stupid. She's the one who's been caught in an awkward moment. But it feels like it's me.

"No." I set the bottle on the bedside table. No sense in hiding it now. "Gonna tell me why you were crying?"

The mattress creaks as she shifts. "I... I wasn—" She drops her attempt at denial halfway through. "It's not important."

"You're not the type to cry over anything that's not important."

"Cuddy broke up with you because of the Vicodin," she deflects, ignoring my prior answer about that.

"She knows." I hang my jeans back over the footboard. "She didn't break up with me."

Thirteen stays quiet. Either she believes me, or she doesn't, but isn't willing to prod any further. We're like that for what seems like a solid minute, deadlocked in the dark, before I lie flat on my back and she curls over on her side.

26 March

The sun glares on the field. Booms echo around us. The man on the PA says we'll be shooting for hang time next. Thirteen adjusts the aim of the spud gun, talking about the wind direction. She's confident we'll break 14 seconds.

I tuck my pill bottle away as she changes to a ramble about her childhood. So much easier popping them in plain view again. She mentions a fair her dad used to take her to. But she's slipped up. She said 'us'.

"Who's 'us'?" I ask.

"My mom and me." She keeps fiddling with the spud gun.

"Your mom who had advanced stage Huntington's." I lean in, attempting to get her attention. "You have a sibling that you've never mentioned. Why did you slip up now?"

She squints in the sunlight, not so much as glancing up. Her hair blows across her face, partly concealing her stern expression. "Not everything means something."

She carries the gun to what must be a better spot. Or she just wants to avoid me. "We're gonna be up soon. I wanna check the pressure."

I limp after her. "You don't wake up in the middle of the night to cry over a dead stranger. You don't confess to killing a man and then hide the details unless the details reveal more about you than the crime itself. You plead down to drugs."

She's doing a great job pretending to be deaf, hands busying themselves with the spud gun.

"You've got a horrible genetic disease and a sibling who's suddenly on your mind."

I can taste victory, though a voice somewhere in the depths of my mind warns me it might not be as sweet as I anticipate. I'm never good at listening to those sorts of things. Like a boulder rolling downhill, I can't stop now.

"You euthanised your brother," I say, savouring the moment of reveal. "And that guy back at the house was the doctor who wouldn't help you cover it up."

Her eyes meet mine, cold. No teasing glimmer. "The guy back at the house is my cellmate's boyfriend. He cheated on her when she was inside."

The comfortable breeze still carries the smell of fresh pies and chili, and the cheerful calls of people in the distance, but the atmosphere has changed. Everything in her deliberate, yet shaken, movements speaks of attending a funeral rather than a light-hearted competition. The spud gun is a casket and she's carrying it to its place of burial.

It's all the proof I need, really, but I can never let it rest without verbal confirmation. "But I was right about everything else," I press.

"Congratulations." She pushes her hair out of her face, avoiding my gaze. "You win." She puts down the gun again, this time spacing herself from it. She's giving up.

"He couldn't do it himself. He was—the disease had progressed too far. He was flailing. He didn't have any control over his own body." Her striking eyes fill to the brim with tears she must be fighting hard to keep from spilling out. "He pretty much lost control of his mind too, but... every once in awhile, he would have a few seconds of lucidity."

The wind hits a rough spell, tossing her hair about more violently. She ignores it. "He turned to me and he said, 'it's time.' I hooked up the IV. I used gloves. I knew they'd get me on the drugs, but they couldn't prove who pushed the plunger. I put in the needle, and he just..." She gulps. A tear escapes. "Got quiet. And it was over. And I was alone."

She fingers away the wet on her cheek. "And one day, I will be that sick, and there will be no one there when it's time." She finally meets my gaze. She's searching for something. Something that isn't there.

Or maybe she just doesn't see it.

She forces a bitter laugh. "I didn't expect compassion from you. I would have taken commiseration." Her voice wavers, hands trembling at her sides. "Hell, I would have taken revulsion, any emotional engagement at all."

Maybe it's pouring out from her like an explosion of infectious viral cells, whisked into my respiratory system, travelling up, crossing the blood-brain barrier, attacking the limbic section of my brain, causing illogical symptoms. Or maybe it's just the disgust when she looks at me.

I take a deep breath, my cane wobbling in my indecisive posture. "Cuddy has cancer."

She stares at me like I'm topless and I have eight nipples.

The admission itself wasn't a big deal. Everyone else knows. Why not Thirteen? It's the way I've said it. With a note of undisguised desperation.

"Everything was fine until one morning she peed blood." Spewing facts is easier. I can retain some level of impassiveness, fidgeting with my cane, letting my eyes flick away whenever it's too intense. "I dismissed it. Thought she was just being irrational because her mom had a recent health scare. Then the biopsy confirmed it."

Thirteen watches in silence.

I squeeze my cane, swing it outwards, pushing the grass. "Renal cell carcinoma. Clear-cell with sarcomatoid features. It's already metastasised to her lungs. Too many tumours for surgery. Radiation and chemo are out, of course. And the drug Wilson's got her on makes high-dose IL-2 therapy riskier, even if she stops now."

"Folks," the man on the PA announces, "Chad Lockerbie just won first place in the chili cook-off." An interjection that serves to contrast the gravity of our exchange. "Congratulations, Chad. That cocoa powder really did it."

It's still only the two us, really. Everything in the background is unimportant. We're connected somehow in our disconnection. Close, yet distanced by more than the two feet between us.

I grip my bad leg at the thigh. I'll need to rest it soon.

"I'm sorry," she finally says.

I turn towards the treeline. She walks off. The crunching of grass under hiking boots makes me flip around. It's Harold. Like there couldn't be a shittier time.

"Dumped in a field in Schenectady." He smirks. "Ouch." His head cocks in the direction of Thirteen. "You mind if I make a move? I know she's out of my league, but she's at a spud gun contest with the soon-to-be five-time runner-up, so she's probably got some self-esteem issues.

I grab the spud gun, aim it at his chest.

His hands fly up as he takes a few steps back. "You wouldn't."

Oh, yes I would.

The police station door buzzes as I exit into the parking lot. Thirteen leans against the hood of the Dynasty.

"So?" she asks.

"Warning." I close the distance between us with a jerking gait.

She straightens up. "They gave you a warning?"

"Well, it turns out our friend Harold felt up the sheriff's daughter last night at the potato mash mixer," I say, turning around beside her and half resting the back of my legs against the grill. "So, sheriff's feeling kind of ambivalent."

"You always get your way, don't you?"

"Not always." The trees by the station rustle. "We didn't win."

"Well, spud guns aren't everything."

"The only chance I see is the IL-2... which she's refusing."

Thirteen's expression is suddenly grave again.

"So, I'm just supposed to sit around while she waits to die like an idiot."

"I misjudged you earlier," she says. "I shouldn't have assumed you weren't feeling anything."

"That's fine." I pop a Vicodin, glancing between her watching me, and the clouds above. "It was a fair assumption."

It's quiet back on the road. Neither of us seems to have anything to say. Or maybe too much, but no idea how to say it. It doesn't matter. We can't change anything. We're both screwed.

The sun dips below the horizon and my phone vibrates. Thirteen's glance questions. I check. It's not Wilson. The team again. Yeah, switched them to vibrate and started ignoring them too. Only Masters and Foreman wouldn't prod me about the obvious.

I wasn't interested in the case they found, but now... with the way things have turned out, there's a nagging itch. A craving. A need to know. I succumb against my better judgement. Thirteen watches with piqued curiosity.

"So? Anything interesting?" I click to speaker and set the phone on the seat, between my knees. No sense in getting a fine.

"House!" Cameron's voice is rife with exasperation. "Why haven't you been answering your phone?"

"Not important. What happened? Kill a patient?"

"No!"

"Patient's fine, well, um, the original one," Masters says. "He and his wife both had Q fever. We've treated them for that, but she's not improving. We're running a hormone panel because—"

"Cuddy's in the hospital," Cameron blurts.

Part of me has registered the real meaning of that statement, but I pretend I haven't. "Be a lot weirder if she weren't."

"No, her liver almost failed."

My fingers dig into the steering wheel. The tail lights in front blur out of focus. My lips are bars of lead. I can't force anything out.

"Acute hepatotoxicity brought on by the pazopanib. Luckily her nanny found her collapsed in the bathroom. She's stable now, but you should be here."

This was happening under my nose. The nausea that didn't respond to Zofran. The itching. The hints of jaundice that evening. How the hell did I ignore it? Why?

"The patient," I manage. "What's going on with her?"

"Really?" Chase asks, full of a disbelief that's undoubtedly plastered across everyone in the office.

"Yeah, spit it out."

"Um... she's—she's had a myocardial infarction," Masters stammers, uncertain which matter should take priority. "I think her fertility issues are another symptom that could help us—"

Cameron won't take no for an answer. "I want to help our patient too, but Cuddy—"

I click the phone off. It's not worth it.

Thirteen's pupils drill through me as patches of light wash over us followed by shadow. Her mouth drops open about a quarter of an inch, but nothing audible surfaces. My eyes flick back to the cars in front.

"Running doesn't work, you know," she finally says.

"That's why we're in a car."

She doesn't bother pressing and turns to look out her window.

We pull to a stop in front of Thirteen's apartment building. I don't know quite why she's remained silent, why she's resisted the urge to delve further into my reactions to the Cuddy situation.

"Home, sweet home. You owe me eighty-seven bucks for gas," I rattle off, detached.

Our eyes lock for a moment. There's a mutual concern and respect between us. Something words would fail. I can't block what drifts into my mind. What she said earlier today in the field. How she's alone now. How she's got no one to help her, to do what she did for her brother. That's not true.

"I'll kill you," I say. "When the time comes, if you want me to."

She blinks longer than usual. I'm willing to bet that means 'thank you'.

"I'll do it now if you like. I think I've got a baseball bat in the back."

She gets out and slams the car door shut. "I hope you're going to Cuddy."

About time she meddled. I don't answer.

"I'll see you Monday."

"Maybe," I say. "Maybe not."

She squints, analysing. Before she can question, I reverse the car and screech away.