Parker ran into Gwen at the general store later that day. The trip to the store had been carefully timed; Jarod and Marcie still hadn't been invited to stay long term in Val-des-Soucis, and as it was, Gwen was still their best bet. So, when she'd noticed Gwen leaving her house in the direction of the store, she'd allowed a three-minute gap and then set off after her.
She found Gwen in the produce aisle, inspecting the picked-over selection. As they tossed inane, veggie-related comments back and forth, Gwen studiously avoided Parker's eye.
"You don't need to be embarrassed, you know," said Parker, lowering her voice. "My mother used to get panic attacks, and she was the bravest person I've ever known."
Gwen looked up, surprised.
"Embarrassed? Oh, right. I, uh. Yeah, to be honest, I'd forgotten about it. I'm fine. We're fine."
Gwen was hard to read, as she always seemed nervous. Nerves didn't tend to be a sign of anything in particular, just her chronic state of being. However, Parker found that she believed the girl. Something had allowed Gwen to forget all about the humiliation and resultant breakdown at the party the other night. Something that had happened in the interim. Something which made it difficult for her to look Parker in the eye.
Gwen had seen the footage from this morning. The surveillance footage of her new neighbours in bed together.
Parker was no prude — hadn't it been her idea in the first place to give whoever manned Val-des-Soucis's security a show? But the thought of gentle, blushing Gwen watching Jarod edge her to the brink of tears made even the bold, brassy Miss Parker want to shrivel up on the spot. With that image burned onto her retinas, Parker found she couldn't quite bring herself to hint at the coveted long-term invite.
Hey, now that you've seen me get fucked, don't you want me around all the time? Well, don't you?
At the exit, Parker bumped into Sothea, who seemed to be concealing a smile. So it wasn't just Gwen.
Okay. Forget leaving the cameras where they were. Forget controlling the narrative. She needed them gone, now. It was the only way she'd be able to look these people in the face again. It was the only way she'd be able to do her damn job — and that's what all this was about, wasn't it? She needed to do her job.
She decided not to tell Jarod. Instead, she went straight to the source.
"Hey, Benji — do you go by Ben, can I call you Ben?"
"I like Benji, actually," said Benji-not-Ben. Parker had cornered him in the back workshop at his house. He, like Sothea, tried to hide a smile when he first spotted her approach.
Hur hur hur, you've seen my ass. Don't get used to it.
"I hoped you could help me with something, Benji. I found this—" She held up a camera, specifically one of the cameras from the kitchen. She paired the revelation with an expression of polite bafflement. "—while making breakfast this morning. Do you know what it's there for? I mean, I can guess," she said, enjoying the spectacle of watching Benji squirm. "It must be for some kind of home security. It makes a kind of sense, you guys have two strangers in the guest house, you want to make sure we don't loot the place. I'm not completely comfortable having them there without being told, though. Can you imagine if there were more in the bathroom, or the bedrooms even! I don't think I could ever feel comfortable."
She watched placidly as Benji stammered his apologies.
"I… I didn't know those were still there," he said. "We had a burglary problem about a year ago and we had to take some protective measures. I'll see about having them uninstalled."
It was even easier than she'd imagined. Generally, she never considered the option of simply asking politely for what she wanted. Perhaps Jarod was rubbing off on her — but, no, when did he ever ask politely for anything, either? He just seemed like the sort of person who would.
Later, at a lunch hosted by Benji and Charlotte at their house, Clint passed along a platter of slightly freezer-burned asparagus and brought the matter up again.
"Benji tells me you ran into a technical issue with some old surveillance equipment," he said. Jarod jerked his head up at the word surveillance. "So sorry about that. Not everybody we've opened our homes to has been trustworthy."
"Don't worry about it," said Parker sweetly. "It's not as though it was recording." She punctuated the comment with the sort of laugh one hears at a charity brunch in the Hamptons. With calculated care, she let her face fall. "And why would you trust us? You barely know us. Maybe, hm. Maybe next time we visit, we'll have earned that trust."
She trailed off morosely, while on the inside, she preened at her own talent. How desperate she sounded, how mournful! Jarod, eat your heart out.
"Oh, but we do trust you!" Charlotte protested. "We've just had a couple rotten apples spoil the bushel."
"No, it's fine, Charlotte," said Jarod, speaking up. He waved a hand with a kind of weary understanding, as if to say, I'm used to it. "Along the road to getting clean, it's taken a long time for anybody in my life to trust me again. Most never do, and they're right not to. We'll get there, though."
"We — I don't give trust easy," said Clint, turning serious. "And when I do, I mean it. You two are good people, honest people. You've fit right in, it's like you've always been here. Which brings me to a big question, which I hope you'll think over: what would you think about staying for longer?"
Parker paused carefully.
"How much longer?"
Clint spread his hands and smiled. "As long as you like."
Thank you, Gwen. Parker looked over at Jarod, pretending to mull it over.
"It is tempting," she said. "We'll have to talk it over, though."
"Thank you for the invitation," said Jarod. "It's very generous of you."
"Like Clint said, we think you're a superb fit for our little family," said Benji, chiming in. "We serene few."
And just like that, they were in a cult.
The invitation to make their stay at Val-des-Soucis permanent gave Parker the perfect excuse to make a trip into Fredericton to meet with Sydney. As far as their neighbours knew, she was popping into town to pick up what belongings she and Jarod would need for an indefinite stay.
Parker had an extra bounce in her step as she pulled up to the temp office where "Marcie Jamison" had been working before moving to Val-des-Soucis. Her and Jarod's skinny, green house was much more comfortable now that the surveillance camera network had been uninstalled, and she and Jarod had been taking full advantage of their newfound privacy.
Jarod had stayed up at the house, per Sydney's request. Parker still couldn't imagine why he'd insist on Jarod not coming along. Sydney was still not accustomed to the novelty of being allowed to see Jarod regularly, and jumped at any opportunity to spend time with him outside of simulations. Not today, though. Today was for Parker's ears only.
She had her hand on the front door to enter the office when a car across the road honked twice. Sydney sat behind the wheel of the offending car; when she locked eyes with him, he gestured for her to join him. His mouth was an unhappy scribble on a clench-jawed mug and his eyes squinted the way they did when he was especially upset.
Parker eased herself into the passenger seat, steeled for the worst.
"Sydney," she said in acknowledgement. "You look like you've swallowed a cup of vinegar. I take it you haven't brought good news."
"News?" said Sydney. "No, I don't imagine what I have to talk to you about will be news to you at all. Good or bad."
The load on Parker's shoulders lightened. She'd been sure from the look on Sydney's face that some fresh horror had come down the pipe.
"What is it, then? I have to get back and—"
Sydney rounded on her, and for the first time, she noted a wrinkle of contempt marring his expression.
"What do you think you are doing, Miss Parker?"
Parker blinked with exaggerated indignation. "You're going to have to be more specific."
"Oh? You need a reminder? Broots told me about the message on the answering machine left by Jarod's neighbour."
So much for Broots's discretion. Parker entertained a brief fantasy of shoving her cane past Broots's loose tongue and down his throat. Everybody had apparently chosen this week in particular for making her sex life their business. Coming from Jarod's pseudo-father, this had the makings of the most awkward confrontation yet.
"Oh, for the — listen, Sydney, I'm fine. Your concern for me is… more condescending than touching, if I'm honest. This attitude made more sense coming from Broots than it does from you, I thought you knew me better than that. Butt out, and tell Broots I'm coming for him with a needle and thread for his lips."
"My concern is not for you," said Sydney. The wrinkle of contempt had, if anything, intensified.
If not for her, Sydney's concern must be for Jarod. It hadn't been the angle she was expecting, but she wasn't complaining.
"Good, 'cause I don't need it," she said. She followed his trail of logic back to its source as best she could. "So you're worried we're going to get caught. I can't promise it won't happen, but I won't let the blame fall on him. It shouldn't, anyway. I made the first move."
The moment came back to her as she spoke: straddling Jarod in the dark as he slowly realized the dead Miss Parker in his dreams was a work of fiction, then finally giving into temptation with a kiss. She hadn't regretted it for a second.
Meanwhile, her reassurances seemed to have had the opposite of their intended effect. Parker could count on one hand the number of times she'd seen Sydney this angry before.
"Of course you made the first move. You don't even understand what you're doing, do you? You think you're only amusing yourself."
What on earth was he getting at? Parker scowled.
"If you're worried I'm going to break his heart or some—"
"No!" Suddenly, Sydney was shouting. "You — you didn't even think! Did it never occur to you that in Jarod's position, with the threat over his head, with the scattered, unpredictable nature of the consequences he's faced…" The words got ahead of him and he paused to take a breath and collect his thoughts. "Miss Parker. Given Jarod's situation, how can you know for certain that he wants this?"
A tense silence followed, broken by Parker's bitter laughter.
"Luckily for us all, you haven't been there. He hasn't had any problems getting it up, don't you worry about that." She shook her head. "God. I can't believe I'm having this conversation with you. You honestly think that I'd…"
She couldn't say it.
Sydney watched her carefully. Whatever he saw in her face, it seemed to calm him, though not to shake him of this bizarre conviction. He took her hands in his and looked her intently in the eye.
"I'm… sure he is." He laughed dryly. "I'm sure the two of you are having a lot of fun. Under better circumstances, I might even be happy for you. But you have to realize — Miss Parker, you know you hold a position of power over him. You are the last shield between him and madness. How can you be certain that Jarod knows he can say 'no' and not face terrible consequences? That if he wants to stop, he can — that his consent is unfettered? Would he be doing exactly this, if he weren't essentially an indentured servant?"
(Jarod was not an indentured servant. Indentured servitude is finite; it has a predetermined, mutually agreed-upon end, a freedom to look forward to. There was an uglier, more accurate word for Jarod's situation.)
Parker tore her hands away.
"Where the hell do you get off?" she snarled. "I seem to remember that back in the seventies, your Michelle worked under you, too, in more ways than one. You didn't have power there? You—" She didn't want to talk about Michelle and Sydney. She shouldn't have brought it up at all. "How can I know he wants it? I know because… I know."
The comparison was not a good one. For one, thought Parker. Well. Sydney and Michelle were in love.
Sydney grimaced. "I suspect you know that the two situations are not the same."
"You can go to hell." She groped for the door handle. "You can go straight to hell. If you'd think I'd — if you really think I'd do that, you're a stranger to me. If you have anything work-related you need me to know, pass it along through Broots. Otherwise, leave me the fuck alone."
"That is not what I'm saying at all!" Sydney protested, though Parker knew different. He may have softened in the face of her reaction, but she'd seen the contempt on his face, the absolute revulsion. "I'm only saying you need to be sure."
The last few words were muted by glass and steel, because Parker had climbed out of the car as fast as her wobbly leg would allow and slammed the passenger door shut behind her.
It was moments like these which truly made her regret her bum leg. What she wouldn't give to be able to stalk off in a terrific huff, leaving Sydney in her dust. Instead, she picked and poked her way back down the sidewalk, taking care not to hit any ice patches with the base of her cane and aware all the time that Sydney was watching her from the driver's seat of his car. Her progress was hindered still further by the fact that she was shaking all over.
The problem was, she couldn't confidently say where Jarod's head was at. Oh, she'd thought she was iron-clad. But then there'd been that morning, the morning after she'd found the security cameras. He'd been about to say "no"… and then he hadn't. And she'd gone along with it, even though she wasn't sure, because she'd wanted it. It hadn't even really crossed her mind that it was up to her to apply the brakes.
He was a Pretender. If he wanted to appear as though he was enjoying their time together, he could do it. Fully and convincingly. Even if he had mixed feelings; even if he hated every second of it.
No, it was ridiculous. That cold morning had been a strange blip, but only a blip. The circumstances had been unusual and, if she was honest, it had probably been a mistake on both their parts. Having sex on camera — what had she been thinking? She should have exhausted all possibilities before leaving the cameras where they were. But the hotel in Baltimore, the elevator at headquarters on New Year's, and every time since then but one… those had been good, and not only for her. She'd be able to tell. She wouldn't give it up just because Sydney had some weird hang-ups.
She hadn't taken advantage of Jarod. She hadn't. She couldn't have.
On the long drive back to Val-des-Soucis, Parker ate up the time staging imaginary arguments with Sydney. She won every one of them. She was just pointing out how Jarod had been the one to suggest she accompany him to Val-des-Soucis (He needs you to be around to administer counteragent, the imaginary Sydney fired back) when she pulled her car into the driveway.
That night, she set a fire roaring in the hearth in Jarod's bedroom, as per usual. She brushed her teeth and washed her face in the ground-floor bathroom, as per usual. She dressed in her pyjamas, as per usual.
Jarod was out late, talking to Sothea. They'd both decided that Sothea, Maggie and Charlotte, along with Gwen herself, were weak links. The more Jarod encouraged Sothea to explain his beliefs, the more Sothea failed to make a coherent case for said beliefs, the more sweat gathered at his hairline. And then, the thinking ran, the more Sothea noticed his own lack of persuasive powers, the more he would doubt the strength of his beliefs. So, Jarod was out at Sothea and Maggie's, Pretending at boundless curiosity, watching Sothea stumble over his words.
When he came back to the house, Parker was already in their shared bed, not yet asleep but with her eyes closed. In her mind's eye, she saw herself open her eyes, turn to him, kiss him quiet, help him out of his clothes. But then she heard Sydney's words.
Of course you made the first move.
For that single, isolated point, Syd wasn't wrong. Parker couldn't remember a single time when it had been Jarod, and not herself, who had pulled the both of them into bed. If she could only prove to herself that Jarod wanted it, too; if he made the first move, just once, it would put her mind at ease. She opened her eyes and turned to him, smiling, but stopped there.
Jarod's smile was soft and tired. "What did Sydney want?" he asked.
"Nothing important," she lied. "He misses us. Must get boring at headquarters with nothing to do."
A light frown creased his brow, but then he nodded and slipped into bed beside her. The night was cold, and they were warm. Just as she liked it. She lay there for who knew how long, waiting for him to reach for her. It wasn't until she woke up the next morning that she realized she'd fallen asleep waiting for something that would never come.
Once she'd downed a cup of coffee, things straightened themselves in Parker's mind once more. She was spoiling a good thing with schoolyard bullshit like, what if I'm into it more than he is? She had let Sydney's overbearing worrywart ways get to her, with heavy words like indentured servant and consent.
Just to prove that she wasn't bothered by the idea, she pulled Jarod into the too-small shower stall and didn't leave until all their fingertips were raisins.
(Still, that little voice, asking: who pulled who into the shower, again?)
Breakfast was eggs on toast. Jarod liked his yolk as runny as possible. This was the sort of thing Parker knew about Jarod, now. Not how to spot him in a crowd, or how to look at three different articles and pinpoint the one that would have caught Jarod's interest, or how best to cover the exits when she had him cornered. No, she knew how he liked his eggs.
Jarod bit happily into his yolk-smeared toast.
"Later, I thought we could—"
"I'm going to try to get Gwen to open up today," Parker announced, as if he hadn't spoken.
He swallowed. "Good idea. Do you want help?"
"No." It came out sharper than she meant it. She softened the edges before she continued. "No, I've got it handled. I have some girl talk in mind."
"Okay." His eyes were on her again. Her attention remained glued to the toaster. "I'll keep working on Sothea and Maggie."
Parker took her own eggs on toast on the road, so to speak, and used her well-honed hunting skills to track Gwen down to the living room next door. Clint wasn't at home.
"Marcie!" said Gwen. Gwen was the first person since Catherine Parker herself who could call her that long-abandoned nickname without making her wince. "Great to see you. I was just thinking about your door. I want you and Jarod to have your own marigold, but it's too cold outside to paint."
"It can wait until spring," said Parker, knowing that she'd be gone long before then. She brandished some of the supplies she'd picked up in Fredericton. "Want to give these a spin?"
Gwen's eyes turned to sand dollars, and she gasped aloud.
"Whoa, what! Where'd you get all this stuff?"
Parker had bought a little of everything from the arts and crafts store, with the assumption that Gwen-the-artist would know what was worthwhile and what wasn't.
"In town," said Parker. "Can you do anything with it?"
"Oh, I could paint you the world with this — or draw, or sculpt the world. You sure you don't want your marigold? You'd have the best one in the Serene Few. Oh! I know, I'll do it on canvas and hang it on the door."
Parker sat down on the rug and helped Gwen spread everything out to take stock. She found she liked being Marcie, Gwen's Friend, if only for a little while. Gwen didn't expect her to be hard as diamonds twenty-four-seven. She didn't expect Marcie to work, or to represent the Parker legacy; she'd never even heard of the Centre.
As Parker watched, Gwen set about sketching a marigold with a bloom the size of a dinner plate. She stopped every few seconds to allow her sketching hand to flex and press and move against itself, whether by its own volition or because she needed to move her hand, Parker wasn't sure. Gwen's thumb would swipe against the outside of her index finger over and over, like some kind of tic.
"Are you okay?" asked Parker.
"I am now." Gwen's thumb wouldn't stop moving, but she smiled all the while. "Could — could I borrow a couple of these colours tomorrow? And the charcoal? I have a piece in mind for the general store."
"Of course," said Parker. "I bought them for you, you can use them how you like."
"For me?" Gwen's eyes went wide again. "Why?"
"Well, we're friends, aren't we?"
Gwen looked pleased. "Of course," she said. "Still, it's very nice of you." She returned to her sketch. Once the general shape of the bloom was committed to canvas, words flowed, if only to fill the quiet. "I'm still a little embarrassed about the other night, that you saw me in the middle of a panic attack. I know I said I'd forgotten about it, but. It was pretty scary. You don't forget something like that overnight."
"No reason to be embarrassed," said Parker, pulling up the first platitude that came to mind. "My mother had difficulties with mental health, too. Medications helped, but she had a hard time."
Gwen sat up with a jerk and looked around. She mimed a cutting motion at her throat.
"Ix-nay on the… other-may," she said, craning her head to see if anyone was in the nearby kitchen. "Sorry. I wouldn't recommend too much family talk around here, it's not a favourite topic." Satisfied that they had no listeners-in, she sat back on her heels and returned to sketching the stem. "Mental illness medications, that's even more verboten. I used to be on an antidepressant before I moved here, but Clint helped me see how much it was hurting me."
It wasn't too surprising to hear that the Serene Few did not encourage talk of family. Any cult worth its salt was well-versed in cutting a person off from their existing support system. They'd known about the aversion to medicine, too, but it was the first time it had come up in conversation — this could be a productive bruise to poke.
"How was it hurting you?"
"Oh, you know. It was poisoning my body. Took away from who I really was. My art is so much more genuine now."
Whether or not she believed what she was saying, they weren't her words. She sounded like she was quoting somebody else. Parker stuck a pin in the idea.
It didn't take too long to take the pin out again, two days later. Gwen had enlisted the help of her new friend "Marcie" to strip the linings out of a dozen secondhand briefcases. The briefcases were all laid out on the kitchen island at Gwen and Clint's house. Both women were dead tired, swaying on their feet for the same reason: Clint and Gwen had kept their neighbours up to the wee hours of the morning in an almighty screaming match. "Match" implied something less one-sided than it had been, though Clint's voice hadn't been the only one rattling the rafters of Val-des-Soucis.
Gwen took one look at the bags under Parker's eyes and blushed.
"I guess you heard us last night," she mumbled.
"People in the town thirty klicks up the road heard you last night," said Parker, but she softened the comment with a smile. "What was that all about?"
Gwen chewed her bottom lip, then appeared to make a decision. "The protest in Brampton. He wants me to get us all into the building. I have a connection through my dad, I dunno if I told you. As you might have guessed, I don't want to do it."
Gwen's stare was intent, watching her friend's eyes for recognition. Parker's mind went into high gear. This was the first she was hearing of a protest, but she had to appear to know about it already, so that Gwen would feel comfortable saying more. Something to do with her father… likely to do with his job, if it would get the Serene Few into a building. What did Terry Boyce, Gwen's father, do? She tried to bring the image of Boyce's file to mind. He worked for something called… Modesci Canada. Was that it?
No. Modesci Pharmaceuticals Canada.
Here was Clint's grudge against psychiatric drugs again. It was difficult to picture Clint picketing outside a pharmaceutical lab. There was something a little too passive in the image of the Serene Few's brusque leader holding a piece of poster board on a stick and bobbing it up and down.
She took a gamble.
"Right, that's what the suitcases are for," she said.
"Oh, you knew about that already?" said Gwen, plainly surprised. "I thought it was a secret. I don't agree with it, but… well, I guess there isn't a 'but'. I just don't agree with it."
"… With how they're using the suitcases."
"Ye-es," said Gwen slowly. Her eyes narrowed. "They told you, right?"
If Parker didn't dive out of this conversation by the nearest fire exit, Gwen would catch her in a lie, fast. Thankfully, Jarod chose that moment to come around the corner into the kitchen. Parker dropped her voice to a whisper.
"Yes, but they didn't tell Jarod, so—" Parker held a finger to her lips and winked. "I'm gonna feel him out, see if he's on board. Can you clear this stuff away, so he doesn't see it? I'll distract him." Gwen looked uncertain, but nodded. Parker beamed and turned to Jarod, raising her voice. "Jarod! Could I talk to you for a moment? Over here?"
Her hand closed over his forearm, gently but firmly tugging him away from listening ears. She felt him tense under her fingers; he'd done so before, though now there was a different possible explanation. She let go.
Jarod's observant eye took in the suitcases, Gwen's evident discomfort, and Parker's urgent expression, and consented to be led away. Gwen hadn't moved. Behind his back, Parker mimed at her to tidy away the evidence.
"So that's how they're getting it onto the train," Jarod mused, once they were back at the house.
"Gwen said — wait, getting what onto what train?" said Parker, brought up short.
"The Serene Few are planning an attack on a pharmaceutical company in Ontario. The same company our client works for. They're heading out on Friday, by train."
All Parker's myriad suspicions fell into place with an underwhelming thud.
"And how long have you known all that?"
Jarod took an apple from the bowl on the counter and bit into it. "I've known they were taking a trip for a couple of days now. Found out yesterday they're planning on bombing Modesci Pharmaceuticals."
In other words, he'd solved her pet project before she had, behind her back and ahead of the curve.
"What the hell?" she said. "Why am I only hearing about this now? Just because I'm on-site doesn't mean you get to stop reporting to your handler."
She hadn't thought of herself as his handler in over a month, yet here she was, pulling authority to get the upper hand. Using her power over him, in short. From the look on his face, he noticed.
"Oh, I don't know," said Jarod coldly. "Might have to do with you avoiding me for days now."
"What are you talking about? We spoke yesterday."
Jarod snorted. "You tossed me my counteragent shot. There wasn't a lot of time between when you threw it and when I caught it to get you up to speed."
He was right, now that she thought about it. Not that she'd ever tell him so. Without putting any calculated effort into it, she'd been spending less and less time around him since her trip into Fredericton. It had begun as a kind of test, a semi-deliberate one. Sydney had opened up the possibility that Jarod had slept with Parker only because he was under duress; so, if she left it up to him and he still sought her out, Parker would prove Sydney wrong.
But Jarod hadn't sought her out. He'd kept working, kept making friends among their fellow cult members, exchanging civil greetings at the door with Parker whenever he saw her. Like they were roommates, or… well, coworkers. Which is what they were.
So what did that make her?
Jarod bit into his apple again. The casualness of the gesture got on Parker's last nerve, so she grabbed the apple and threw it in the nearby trash can.
"You could have tracked me down if you wanted to," she said. And again, she said it in her head. You could have tracked me down if you wanted to. But you didn't. So what does that make me?
Jarod made a noise of exasperation. "You know now, isn't that enough? The bottom line is, I can't convince everyone to leave The Serene Few before Friday. I'm close with Sothea, Maggie and Charlotte, but that still leaves plenty of hands to destroy the Modesci labs. We need to arrange for a bust at the labs. Everyone…" He winced. "Everyone but Gwen will go down."
The idea rankled. It felt like throwing in the towel. They could have smuggled Gwen out at any time — willing Gwen or unwilling, a good sedative and a roomy van would do the trick. The selling point of bringing in a Pretender was that he could dismantle The Serene Few with subtlety; he'd create no grudges and avoid turning Gwen into a potential target for reprisal. A quick kidnap and deprogram could be done by any half-component cult deprogrammer. For the Centre's fee, the Boyces wanted finesse.
"The Centre won't like that. We could sabotage the attack on Modesci, delay it for long enough to convince more people. If we can get a couple of our neighbours on our side, they could even help stop this."
"It'll take too long," said Jarod, shaking his head. "They're all too committed right now, with the concrete goal of the Modesci attack to band together around. They'll dig in harder."
She'd never known Jarod to give up so easily. What was it about this mission that made him want to go for the easiest, fastest option available?
"So they dig in harder. So it takes a little longer," she said. "So what? I'd bet it'll take six weeks, tops."
Jarod wasn't looking at her, but down at the countertop. He shook his head again.
"Won't last that long, won't last much more than a month."
"What, are you homesick? The assignment can last however long we need it to last."
Jarod's composure cracked, and from within, his temper unfurled.
"Not the damn assignment, Miss Parker. I won't last much more than a…" His voice failed him and he dropped to barely above a whisper. "Much more than a month."
Parker stilled. Her gut twisted and jerked like a cork pulled from a bottle.
"What do you mean?"
She knew what he meant, or she would if she let herself think about it. It was a big "if". Most days, she ignored their looming deadline.
Jarod lowered himself onto one of the kitchen stools and ran his palms down his thighs, still looking everywhere but at her.
"I haven't had the chance to run any practical tests," he said. "But as a ballpark, I'd say I have about five weeks until counteragent production at headquarters can't keep up with how frequently I'll need a shot to stay sane. And that—" He took a deep, shaky breath. "That will be it."
With every word, she wanted to stop him, to shut him up. She grabbed blindly for a chair and sat down before her leg gave out.
"Until they fix it," she insisted. "Until they find some way to fix the immunity problem. Okay, so… we'll have to tie up this assignment early. But after that, they'll fix it."
But a voice in her head insisted: like they fixed Angelo? If they'd figured out how to fix counteragent immunity, Angelo would have been first in line.
Jarod shot her a pained smile.
"I hope so," he said. "But I'm not counting on it."
She scowled at the hopelessness in his voice. How dare he give up?
"No, you're counting on losing your mind," she said, rallying. He couldn't only have five weeks left. It couldn't end that soon, with so much left unfinished. "Don't catastrophize, Jarod, we don't have room for any more drama queens at the Centre. Cox is working on it. He'll find something."
Jarod didn't answer, didn't crack a smile at the drama queen comment. Something over her shoulder caught his eye. She followed his gaze; it was a mirror. There was nothing out of the ordinary in his reflection, no redness in his eyes at all, but it wouldn't take much imagination to picture what he'd look like in a month or so.
She was reminded again of the inarguable fact that they were not friends. A friend would see Jarod as he was now, visibly the most terrified she'd ever seen him, and be there for him, talk to him, even — heaven forbid — offer a hug. She did none of those things. Her own terror, stamped so far down she couldn't even recognize it for what it was, drove her from the room, leaving him (and her) alone.
