Promise: Caulborn #2 by Nicholas Olivo Page B

of that friggin’ promise. I wasn’t sure how literal Orcus would be on this. If I asked Megan how she was and she said lousy, would I be condemned to Tartarus right then and there? I didn’t want to find out.
    “Doc Ryan told me that Mrs. Rita had given you a folder full of information.” I nodded and held it up. “Good. He also said she was running some more tests and might have some better information to us in a day or so.” Megan looked down at her shoes and scuffed one on the floor.
    “Something on your mind, Meg?”
    “It’s just, well, we don’t have any leads about our grave robber, and the next bit of info won’t come for at least twenty-four hours. So is it okay with you if I don’t stakeout a graveyard with you tonight? I’ll definitely be available on my cell if you need me.”
    “Right, your dinner with Herb. No worries.”
    She beamed at me, her eyes sparkling and her dimple deepening. “Thanks, Vincent. You’re the best partner ever.” She gave me a little wave and disappeared from my door.
    Right until she said those last few words, I’d been working myself up to tell her about the promise. I’d have explained things calmly and been able to tell her that I did care about her, and that I wasn’t asking her to release me from that promise because I was going to slack off. But when she said that, something locked up inside me. The best partner ever wouldn’t ask to be released from a promise. The best partner ever would find a way to make good on that promise.
    I turned the Keeper’s card over in my hands a few times. Then I logged into the Caulborn’s main database and spent the next three hours trying to dig up anything about the Keepers. Nothing. If they had done anything wrong, even if the details were classified, I would’ve gotten some results, but every search I ran gave me the same message: “No Results Returned.” I looked at the card for a long while before I decided I wasn’t doing any good just sitting at my desk. I logged off from my computer, grabbed my bomber, and caught the T home.
     
    I got back to the apartment and walked into a rolling refrigerator. The thing looked like a giant white coffin. When I popped the lid, I found four racks of lamb and a few other cuts of meat. A second unit sat next to that. “Hey, love,” Petra said, gliding into the room. Tonight she wore her “Bring Back Firefly” T-shirt and a pair of white sweatpants. She gave me a hug and then turned to the counter, where a series of color-coded index cards was taped to the cabinets.
    “Hey, babe,” I said back. “What’s all this?”
    “It’s for when my mother comes. I need to practice the recipes,” she gestured to the index cards. “I’ve got the appetizers,” she pointed at the red cards, “the sides,” the blue cards, “the main dish,” green cards, “and desserts.” The yellow cards. “I had to rent these roll-away fridges to keep everything fresh.”
    “Hon, you’re the best cook I’ve ever met. You don’t need to put yourself through this.”
    She turned to me. “Everything has to be perfect, Vincent. The last thing I want is to listen to her whinge on about how fantastic my half-sister was.”
    “She’s going to compare you to Galatia, regardless, Petra. She always does. C’mon, let’s just chill out and watch Doctor Who . That’ll be a lot more fun.”
    She shook her head. “Can’t do it, love. I need to make sure I can do these recipes in my sleep.”
    Maybe I was frustrated by my inability to square things with Megan, but I couldn’t stand by and let Petra do this to herself. I took her by the shoulders and looked her square in the eye. “Petra, repeat after me. ‘I am an outstanding cook.’” She gave me an exasperated sigh and tried to pull away, but I held fast. If she really wanted to escape my grip, she could easily break my arms. “I am an outstanding cook,” I repeated. “C’mon, say it.”
    “I am an outstanding cook,” she said