Page 29 of Her Gluttony
Fifteen minutes later, I struck out half of the cases on the public-interest list. Shaw has her arm resting on the table, her forehead resting on her fingers in complete disbelief as she comes to understand the extent of my activities.
“You are kidding,” she says as I hand her the list.
“Do you see me laughing? I am quite proud of that list.”
“You were twelve when the Book of Horus disappeared!” she says loudly.
“Learned from the best,” I say smugly.
Our food arrives.
Shaw stares at her plate and pokes it.
“Not a fan of things you don’t know?” I ask her.
“Not at all,” she says through gritted teeth.
“You would probably have caught me years ago if not for your rigidity,” I say. “Eat and overcome.”
She stares at me.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re following the rules like an Evangelical follows the bible. Do you think every agent sticks to the protocol? They don’t. That’s how they close their cases.”
“I have the highest closure rate in decades,” she says defiantly.
“Yes, quantity sounds good, but the quality matters, doesn’t it?”
“I got you in the end.”
“True, because I let it happen. I am here because I want to be. You wouldn’t have caught me otherwise. Well, or rather kept me locked up.”
“Gods, your arrogance is staggering. Do you ever slip on it?”
“Not that I am aware of,” I say, taking a bite of my food. I chew it and add, “The thing is, I know what I can do and how handsome I am; the arrogance comes as a default setting.”
“You know,” Shaw says after a moment's pause, “I almost pity you. What horrible thing you must have gone through to become such a cold-hearted bitch.”
I touch her. She is reacting emotionally.
The corners of my mouth tug into a smirk as I say, “I’m not a project, Shaw. I love being one for those who don’t know me.”
She takes a bite from her risotto out of pure spite—exactly what I counted on.
“Okay,” she says, “That's actually pretty good.”
“It is,” I say. “You can trust me with taste.”
She snorts and chokes on her food, and when her coughing has calmed down, she hisses something that sounds like “I wouldn’t trust you with a hairpin.”
“I wouldn’t either,” I say and take another bite of my lunch, before I add sardonically, “I could pick a lock with it, obstruct justice, or stab someone’s carotid.”
“Have you?” she asks.
“Have I what?”
“Stabbed someone’s carotid.”
