Page 87 of The Rut in the Road

“Was that part of the contract?” Raj asked, and although he kept his tone fairly even, I could hear the slightest edge to the question.

“It wasn’t,” Ward admitted. “Which I did point out, but Rayn agreed to do it when she offered to pay for both his services and mine.”

“I insisted,” I said, still not opening my eyes, but knowing Raj would blame Ward if I didn’t. Honestly, he’d probably still blame Ward at least a little, but I could have said no. “I just underestimated how much the headache would impact me.”

“And the smell in there probably didn’t help,” Ward put in. “Ihave a headache, and I didn’t get hit by a brick.”

“I did notice the smell,” Raj admitted, and I could tell that while he wasn’t happy about the fact that I was lying prone on his back seat, he was giving up some of his anger at Ward. “It’s… unique.”

“It’s a bit old-lady, yeah,” Ward agreed.

“Old lady who smokes pot and tried to cover it up with a rose-scented wax plug-in,” Raj replied.

“Really?” Ward laughed. “That would explain the faint light-headedness.”

It also explained the headache. I don’t do well with marijuana smoke, and it almost always gives me a splitting headache. Add it to a concussion, and you apparently get me in a semi-stupor on a car seat. I decided to say this out loud. “It’s also why my headache is worse,” I said.

“Pot gives you a headache?” Raj asked.

I made an affirmative noise.

“You smoke?” Ward asked him.

“I’m a federal agent.”

“It’s legal.”

“Not for me,” came the response. “But no, not my thing.”

“Catnip?” my boss asked, and I could tell he was teasing.

“We don’t talk about that,” Raj replied, and I was surprised to detect a note of embarrassment in his answer.

“About what?” I asked, opening one eye in time to get a glare in the rear view mirror.

“Ask Hart,” he grumbled, cheeks going dark. “Or, better yet, forget I said anything.”

Ward laughed.

“Mera ravi,you need to eat something.” I opened one eye to find Raj’s face very close to mine. A quick assessment of my body told me he was right.

“’Kay,” I agreed meekly. I had no idea what time it was, but it had to be at least nine or ten. Ward had warned both Vi and I that our sleep schedules were going to get completely, in his words, ‘fucked to hell’ by Halloween season, and I was starting to understand what he meant in a very real way. I’d had a big breakfast, but hadn’t eaten anything since, and my stomach had that faint gnawing sensation that it got when I went ten or twelve hours without eating.

I’d be fine if I didn’t eat—I’d gone much longer between meals sometimes at Tranquil Brook, either because they’d been dosing my food with drugs and I didn’t want to take them, because someone forgot or deliberately chose not to feed me, or because I’d been too sick or out of it to actually eat when they did bring me food. But just because I wouldn’t get sick or die didn’t mean that I shouldn’t eat. Every time I went in to St. Cyprian’s for a check-in—every six months—I was reminded that I was underweight, although not by much anymore.

“Pizza?” Raj asked me.

I nodded, rubbing at my eyes. At least the headache had receded somewhat, thanks to the combination of being out of Mrs. Van Dyre’s house, a nap, and the two pills Raj had put into my hand when he’d given me a glass of water.

“Coming right up,” Raj promised, then kissed my uninjured temple before standing and leaving the room.

I managed to get myself sitting up, then looked around the room. I’d been too out of it when I’d gotten here to really pay attention to the design choices Raj had made in his house.

He had a house, not an apartment, on the South side of the river out by the West End. It was small-ish, I remembered vaguely from whenever he’d helped me out of the back of the car.But it had been dark, so I just had a vague impression of a second story over part of the house, with an overhang that stretched across the driveway. I had a brief impression of a kitchen, then the room I was in now.

The piece of furniture I was sitting on was commonly referred to as a sectional, with thick, pillowy cushions and wide seats, curving around a corner with the same two-or-three seats of couch on the other side. The upholstery was a dark blue, and the throw pillows that covered it—and there were a lot of them—were vibrantly colored with circular or swirling patterns. There were also, I noticed, several quilted blankets thrown over the back and arms.

On each end of the sectional there was a small side table with a reading lamp and set of coasters. On the far left, there was also a small stack of books, a mug with a collection of pens, mechanical pencils, and highlighters, as well as a remote control. Two pillows were wedged into the corner of that seat.