Double Cross [2] by Carolyn Crane Page A

part of me is terrified to let go.
    I officially rise at seven, exhausted and shaky. It’s a fear hangover, which is where your source of fear is gone, but the fear was so strong that the chemicals and adrenaline are still in you, surging around. I’d get them off hypochondria all the time.
    I measure coffee into my coffeemaker and pour in the water. Then I turn on the power and I just stand there watching the drips merge into a film that covers the bottom of the glass carafe.
    Until my cell phone rings, startling me out of my stupor.
    Otto. I hate talking to Otto before I’ve had my coffee. But what if he needs me? What if there’s news about Covian?
    I answer on the last ring. “Hey!” I say.
    “Hey,” he says, his warm, confident
Hey
. “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”
    “No,” I say. “It’s fine.”
    “You sound a bit—”
    “I didn’t sleep so well is all. Who cares. How’s Covian?”
    Otto updates me on Covian’s condition. Apparently the bullet chipped his thighbone. There’s some microsurgery technique they have to perform, and he’ll be in abrace for a while, but he’ll likely be able to jump back onto his soccer team by the end of summer.
    “Ooh, I bet he’s happy about that.”
Drip drip.
“I’m so glad.”
    “I wish I could’ve stayed with you,” Otto says. “I know that’s why you didn’t sleep well.”
    “It’s not really why.”
    “Justine. You were involved in a shooting.”
    “I wasn’t hurt or even the target.” To push us off the subject, I report to him that watched coffee does not make itself fast, then we discuss our day. I tell him I’m going to work on Ez later on. I’m thinking maybe I ought to tell him about the dream invasion problem, but then I decide it can’t be over the phone—it has to be in person.
    “You know, Ez did give me a very interesting piece of information.” I say this in my “something-scrumptious” voice, knowing he’ll be intrigued.
    “Oh?”
    I’d been planning on saving this tidbit for a perfect moment that never came last night, so I spill it now. “She told me that ingesting crushed diamonds can rip up your intestines.”
    “What?”
    “It kills you.”
    Silence. Then he whispers, “Could that be true?”
    “She has a thing about internal organs.” Which means she’d be the one to know. Hypochondriacs tend to be maniacally well informed on the subjects of their obsessions.
    “My God! I’ve heard of people swallowing metal. But diamonds?”
    “Remember that guy in the news who swallowed a whole car bit by bit?”
    “Right. The VW,” he says. “Could it be true? A man can swallow an entire car, but not tiny diamonds?” I knew he’d react this way; this is the sort of thing we can discuss for hours.
    “Maybe you should ask at the hospital today when you visit Covian.”
    Otto laughs his warm, wonderful laugh. “What would it look like if the mayor began quizzing the medical staff on death by diamonds?”
    “It would look like you’re interested in a wide range of things.”
    “Justine. The mayor needs to maintain a certain amount of decorum with the citizens.”
    I smile. “I hope not with all citizens.”
    “Oh, no, I assure you …” Here Otto lowers his voice. “The mayor entertains distinctly unmayoral thoughts regarding a specific citizen.”
    My pulse races.
    “The other citizens,” he says, “would be scandalized.”
    “Well!” I say. I can’t think of a clever comeback. Sometimes I’m like that with him.
    “Be careful with Ez. She’s dastardly.”
    “Dastardly?”
    “I never thought I’d use that word about a woman, oddly.”
    I can hear the smile in his voice as he says this, and it makes me smile. And then I jump at the loud buzz of my doorbell.
    “Is that your door?” Otto asks.
    “Damn!”
    “What is it?”
    “Ally. Our rollerblading date—I totally forgot. We’re doing the whole circuit.”
    “Good Lord, I hope you didn’t drink too much of that coffee yet,” he