strange for him to share something so personal. Then again, I was the one who’d encouraged him to share, wasn’t I? “I’m sorry, man,” I finally said.
“I remember, you know,” he said abruptly. “I remember disconnecting. Floating. Seeing you.” I glanced over at him. He was staring it me intently, curiously. “You were crying.”
There wasn’t much I could say about that. Simon squirmed in the seat, trying to find a comfortable position despite the bandages he probably had on under his clothes. I changed the subject. “So in case someone asks me, what kind of biology do you do?”
Some of the tension smoothed off his face. Back on familiar territory. “Officially, I’m an associate curator at the Natural History museum on campus, and I teach undergraduate classes in biology. My specialty is mammalian vertebrate systemics.”
When I had untangled that particular phrase in my mind, I asked, “And unofficially?”
“I’ve spent most of my career trying to understand Old World systemics,” he explained with a little shrug. “Why we evolved the way we did. But the police don’t need to know that, obviously.”
“Got it.”
I knew the way to the massive, concrete-and-glass Public Safety building that housed the police department in Boulder—not because of my arrests, after which I was sent straight to the county jail, but because I stopped by every now and then to bring Elise some lunch or shoot with her in the basement firing range. The range wasn’t technically open to civilians, but sometimes Elise talked them into letting her ex-military cousin help her train for the firearms qualification.
When we arrived I parked in the small visitors’ lot in front of the main doors and showed Simon to the marble-floored lobby, where the receptionist called Elise for us. My cousin rushed through the security door a moment later, dressed in her street clothes: slim-fitting dark khakis and a lavender button-down. Her shift must have ended at six, which meant she was here on her own time now. Stifling a yawn, I made the introductions, and Elise shook Simon’s hand with enthusiasm. “Thank you so much for coming, Dr. Pellar.”
Simon shook back, subtly cocking an eyebrow at me to say See, she treats me with respect . I tried not to chortle. Teacher or not, it was too weird to think of Simon as a doctor of anything. He was only a couple of years older than me.
Elise used her ID card to swipe us through the security doors and led us down a long, narrow corridor. I looked around with interest. Though I’d been downstairs to the shooting range and upstairs to the dining area, I hadn’t spent much time on the ground floor. I had to admit, I didn’t hate the decor: some brave and optimistic interior designer had dared to pair the usual institutional beige with accent walls of a gorgeous deep teal. The hallway was lined with photos of cops: men and women who’d earned medals or other accolades, or who’d been killed in the line of duty. I wanted to stop and read some of the placards, but Elise was hurrying us along at a pace Simon could barely match.
We turned a few corners, enough for me to know I’d need help to find my way back out again, when I began to notice the smell, like vomit that had been left out in the sun for days. The deeper we got into the building, the worse it was. “What is that?” I asked Elise. “Did something die in the ventilation system?”
She smiled wryly. “I wish.”
Finally we turned one last corner and entered a small room dominated by an enormous table. A teeny cubicle office was attached, and Elise poked her head in. “Natalie? The expert’s here.”
There was a mumble, and then the sound of chair wheels squeaking. Elise backed up to make way for a Caucasian woman of around forty, with a cropped haircut and smile lines in her golden tan. I had been expecting a lab coat, like in the movies, but she was dressed in neat charcoal trousers and a boatneck sweater that
“I remember, you know,” he said abruptly. “I remember disconnecting. Floating. Seeing you.” I glanced over at him. He was staring it me intently, curiously. “You were crying.”
There wasn’t much I could say about that. Simon squirmed in the seat, trying to find a comfortable position despite the bandages he probably had on under his clothes. I changed the subject. “So in case someone asks me, what kind of biology do you do?”
Some of the tension smoothed off his face. Back on familiar territory. “Officially, I’m an associate curator at the Natural History museum on campus, and I teach undergraduate classes in biology. My specialty is mammalian vertebrate systemics.”
When I had untangled that particular phrase in my mind, I asked, “And unofficially?”
“I’ve spent most of my career trying to understand Old World systemics,” he explained with a little shrug. “Why we evolved the way we did. But the police don’t need to know that, obviously.”
“Got it.”
I knew the way to the massive, concrete-and-glass Public Safety building that housed the police department in Boulder—not because of my arrests, after which I was sent straight to the county jail, but because I stopped by every now and then to bring Elise some lunch or shoot with her in the basement firing range. The range wasn’t technically open to civilians, but sometimes Elise talked them into letting her ex-military cousin help her train for the firearms qualification.
When we arrived I parked in the small visitors’ lot in front of the main doors and showed Simon to the marble-floored lobby, where the receptionist called Elise for us. My cousin rushed through the security door a moment later, dressed in her street clothes: slim-fitting dark khakis and a lavender button-down. Her shift must have ended at six, which meant she was here on her own time now. Stifling a yawn, I made the introductions, and Elise shook Simon’s hand with enthusiasm. “Thank you so much for coming, Dr. Pellar.”
Simon shook back, subtly cocking an eyebrow at me to say See, she treats me with respect . I tried not to chortle. Teacher or not, it was too weird to think of Simon as a doctor of anything. He was only a couple of years older than me.
Elise used her ID card to swipe us through the security doors and led us down a long, narrow corridor. I looked around with interest. Though I’d been downstairs to the shooting range and upstairs to the dining area, I hadn’t spent much time on the ground floor. I had to admit, I didn’t hate the decor: some brave and optimistic interior designer had dared to pair the usual institutional beige with accent walls of a gorgeous deep teal. The hallway was lined with photos of cops: men and women who’d earned medals or other accolades, or who’d been killed in the line of duty. I wanted to stop and read some of the placards, but Elise was hurrying us along at a pace Simon could barely match.
We turned a few corners, enough for me to know I’d need help to find my way back out again, when I began to notice the smell, like vomit that had been left out in the sun for days. The deeper we got into the building, the worse it was. “What is that?” I asked Elise. “Did something die in the ventilation system?”
She smiled wryly. “I wish.”
Finally we turned one last corner and entered a small room dominated by an enormous table. A teeny cubicle office was attached, and Elise poked her head in. “Natalie? The expert’s here.”
There was a mumble, and then the sound of chair wheels squeaking. Elise backed up to make way for a Caucasian woman of around forty, with a cropped haircut and smile lines in her golden tan. I had been expecting a lab coat, like in the movies, but she was dressed in neat charcoal trousers and a boatneck sweater that
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