When Chrystal wakes up (finally), I take her dazed self back to her flat. I unlock the door, walk inside, almost surprised at how much everything looks the same, even after all this drama. Still cozy, still sweet. She collapses onto her white leather couch, still a bit in shock.
"Omigod. Things like this donʻt happen to me. Do they happen to you?" She asks, switching on the TV.
I sigh. "Hon, youʻre talking to the girl who ran away from boarding school, bought an old Volvo, and spent her eighteenth year driving from one town to the next. But yeah, as far as that goes, this might be one of the weirdest things that has happened to me..." Iʻll admit that. I remember those days... going wherever there was work, eating from roadside food shacks. Sleeping at Holliday Inn each night. Until I finally found where I wanted to live: Pennsylvania.
"What happened while I was out?" Chrystal asks.
I was dreading this. Sheʻs used to my sudden decisions, but... this? Sheʻll probably be surprised at this. "Well, I punched your neighbor in the face, then formed a temporary business partnership with him."
Shaking her head, she says, "Why should I be surprised? Anyway, whatʻs your business partnership?"
"Tracking down whoever almost killed us."
"Um, that seems dangerous..."
"I love danger." Itʻs true. I was always the first one to volunteer for something, the one most likely to jump off a bridge for fun. The kid who always loved the most insane rollercoasters. Basically, I like almost dying.
"True, true. When do you start?"
"Tommorow morning. At the cafe next door."
I get a good nightʻs sleep, waking at precisely seven in the morning. I go about my morning routine, trying to forget Iʻm about to begin my strangest job yet. And trust me when I say Iʻve done some pretty weird stuff, particularly working as a cashier at a pet store, a waitress at a Meditteranean place, and, most weird of all, working at a daycare (a nightmare). I struggle in vain to at least partially tame my blonde hair, eventually throwing my hairbrush across the room in despair. It lands with a loud crash. Chrystal immediately rushes in.
"What the heck is going on?" she asks in alarm.
I laugh. "Relax, I just got angry at my stupid hairbrush."
She shakes her head. "That is not normal behavior!"
"For me it is." She shakes her head again, laughs, then leaves. I stare into the mirror. Minus the hair, I look presentable- black peacoat, lacy jacket, corset top, and stiff dress pants. Pretty much my typical look.
As I rush out the door, I almost run in Chrystal. She steps out of the way quickly, saying, "I thought we could hang out, go see the sights, but... guess that wonʻt work." She looks slightly disappointed, making me feel guilty. I did come here to visit her, not to work. Yet I guess having a bomb explode in your best friendʻs flat can change things a bit.
I put my hands on her shoulders in comfort. "Hey. We still can. Iʻll be back by lunch. Weʻll have plenty of time." I smile at her, which she hesitantly returns. I slip on my combat boots, opening the door only to see rain pouring down. I count to three, then force myself to sprint through the downpour to the cafe, slipping inside. The door slams loudly, due to the wind, causing every customer to turn around to stare at me, then rain-drenched twenty-something who looks half like she belongs in the 19th Century. Sherlock is already sitting there, sitting at a small table in the back. I walk through the crowd of people, smiling awkwardly.
As I approach, he says, "Finally, Miss Christophson."
Taking a seat across from him, I respond, cringing, "Please. Just call me Charlotte." I donʻt know, but Miss Christophson always sounded like the name some glamorous movie starlet would have. Which, quite obviously, Iʻm not, awesome as I am.
"What would you like?" A blond waitress asks. Shy, clumsy, single, a suck-up, crush on the cashier, born in the U.S.
"Iʻll take English Breakfast, no sugar." Sherlock responds gruffly.
"Chamomile, with cream," I say. The waitress writes that down, squinting at me, then scampers away.
"Nobody has cream in herbal tea." Sherlock tells me.
"Correction: normal people donʻt. I, on the other hand, do what I want." I fire back. I can see Sherlock holding back a smirk, looking at me.
"You like me! Omigod, the sociopath who thinks everyone beneath him, oh yeah, forgot that part, actually likes me... I mean, not like romantically, that would be weird, just like respect and friendship. I mean, do you even have friends? Oh, sorry, that sounded really rude. Which I am. I always have... And Iʻm shutting up now."
"Thatʻs why thereʻs more than one sociopath in this room, Christophson. Weʻre good at figuring out everyone.. except ourselves." For a moment, he looks surprisingly melancholy, then sits up, back to his normal self. "I make it up by being brilliant."
Rolling my eyes, I prepare for a sassy response, but he interrupts me by saying, "Enough. Letʻs see just how good you are. Tell me about that cashier."
I stare intensely at the man at the register, a mousy guy around twenty years old. "Thinks himself quite a catch, for some reason, note the confident smile at that girl. Means heʻs also confident, possibly arrogant. Bit of a bully. Slept late, judging by his half-combed hair, so must have been up late. Why? Letʻs see, something in his jeans pocket." I scramble to my feet, walking casually closer to get a better look. Once I do, I turn around and saunter back to my seat. "Page from a cookbook. Doesnʻt want his current girlfriend to know he loves to bake. Trying to get into cooking school, evident by the pamphlet behind him, but studies at night. His image is important, obviously. Seems aloof, but actually a good, sweet person, notice the charity buttons on his backpack. Which brings me to the fact that heʻs sentimental. A tru-"
Sherlock stands up abruptly. "Youʻre not an ordinary person, Charlotte Christophson. Youʻre the type that usually ends up as my enemy. Not my ally. What the hell is wrong with you?"
I shake my head. Probably a lot of stuff. Iʻve been diagnosed with no mental problems, but that probably just means my condition has not been discovered yet. "Iʻve been asking myself that for twenty-eight years. But please, can we start figuring out who the hell is behind this stuff?"
"Fair enough, letʻs start by finding this bomb."
When we return to the flat, using the key Chrystal gave to me, the girl is nowhere to be found. I find a note scrawled in familiarly messy handwriting and adorned with a familiar happy face. "Ran some errands. Back by lunch J -CL". We have the place to ourselves, which could be good. Chrystal has a habit of asking tons of questions about everything. I turn to see Sherlock already searching high and low for the bomb. It could be anywhere, but its best to start with the obvious places. I join him, moving knick-knacks, furniture aside. After all, this thing could have been placed long ago, days, weeks before. I plant to check in each room, but before Iʻve even finished half of Chrystalʻs messy kitchen, Sherlock speaks up.
"Thereʻs high traces of the gas in this room," he says, from the coatroom. Itʻs near the street, so perhaps somebody could have placed the bomb without even going inside. I rush over there, looking for a logical, or perhaps illogical place. Seconds later, my question is answered by a small window. Itʻs firmly closed, but Sherlock quickly locates specks of rain below it. I fall my knees, searching the ground, but come up blank.
"Wait. Whover did this is smart; these kind of people usually are. They know what people expect. Logically, the culprit would drop the bomb on the floor. Just easier, especially if you canʻt climb in through the window. But logic is pretty much useless when youʻre unusually intelligent. The culprit didnʻt expect intelligence, so they did the illogical thing." Standing on my tiptoes, I reach for my target: a tiny, camouflaged capsule on the ceilling. Sherlock, whose probably a full three inches taller than me, grabs it effortlessly, holding some gadget to it.
After a moment, he nods in approval. "Not bad. Whoever did this had to have long arms to reach the ceiling from the window, so tall..." I throw open the window, glancing outside.
"...or wearing heels," I declare, pointing to the prints only partially obscured by rain. The shoes are small, so the culprit is petite. "Also, the depth of th-"
Sherlockʻs phone rings, one of Beethovenʻs symphonies blaring. After half a minute of muttering, he hangs up. "Jawnʻs got a case for me. Will I see you tommorow, Christophson?"
"Yes, and for the last time, I donʻt appreciate being called that!" Unfortunately, heʻs already gone. Sherlock Holmes is right: Iʻm most likely the second biggest sociopath in the world, to be actually involved in all this insanity.