Research
1070 Words
The problem with living with someone you’re planning to destroy is that you have to keep pretending you’re not studying them while very obviously studying them.
Anne had been in the penthouse for six days.
In six days she knew that Derrick Cavell left for the office at eight fifteen every morning without fail, that he used the same chair at the kitchen island every single time, that he came home by seven unless something went wrong with the board, and that he read for exactly one hour every night in the armchair by the living room window before he went to bed.
She knew all of this because she’d been watching.
She told herself it was research. Which it was. Completely.
****
He knew things too, though he hadn’t told her he was paying attention.
By Wednesday he’d clocked that she left for her firm at eight, that her client calls ran between ten and twelve and she didn’t like being interrupted during them, and that when something was bothering her she worked past midnight and then came downstairs the next morning acting like she’d slept fine. She never slept fine. Her eyes gave it away.
He filed all of this under useful and moved on.
****
Dinner on Thursday was the first time they sat down together after the last dinner they had on the day she moved in. It was just the two of them, the dining table, and food that Anne had ordered in because neither of them had thought about cooking.
“How long have you had the firm?” Derrick asked.
Anne looked up from her noodles. “Three years properly. Before that it was me and a laptop and one client who paid late every month.”
“Which client?”
“Not telling you that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you probably know him and it’ll make things weird.”
Derrick considered this. “Fair enough. Is it going well now?”
“Well enough.” She pointed her fork at him. “Why?”
“I’m asking.”
“You’re gathering information.”
“So are you,” he said. “You’ve asked me three questions about the board structure in the last ten minutes.”
Anne opened her mouth. Closed it. “That was professional curiosity.”
“Mm.”
“It was.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”
She looked at him. He looked back at her and ate his food with the calmness of someone who had won an argument without technically winning it, which was somehow more irritating than if he’d just said something.
“The board structure is genuinely interesting,” she said.
“I believe you.”
“Stop agreeing with me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re humoring me.”
“I’m not humoring you. The board structure is interesting. Humphrey Brew is a walking conflict of interest and everyone knows it and nobody says it.”
Anne put her fork down. “How has he not been removed?”
“Because removing him requires a vote and he has two allies on the board who vote with him on everything including their own lunch orders.”
“That’s…..” She shook her head. “That’s genuinely terrible governance.”
“Welcome to my life.”
“How are you not losing your mind?”
Derrick picked up his water glass. “Who says I’m not?”
Anne looked at him for a second. Then she picked her fork back up and went back to her noodles and said nothing else about it. But she filed it, the board, Humphrey, the two allies, all of it, in the part of her brain that had been quietly building a map of Derrick Cavell’s world since Saturday.
He was doing the same thing with hers. She could tell by the questions he asked, not obvious ones, just small ones that fit naturally into conversation but added up to something if you were paying attention. She was paying attention.
She just couldn’t tell yet if he knew she knew.
****
After dinner she cleared the table and he dried without being asked, which was the second time he’d done that. She still hadn’t commented on it. He still hadn’t explained it.
“You read every night,” she said, handing him a glass.
He dried it. “You’ve been watching my schedule.”
“I notice things.”
“So do I.”
She handed him another glass. “What have you noticed?”
He put the glass away. “You tap the table when something’s annoyed you that you’ve decided not to mention.”
Anne’s hand went still on the dish in her hand.
“I don’t do that.”
“You did it twice during dinner.”
“I was thinking.”
“With one finger, rhythmically, against the table.”
“That’s just…. that’s a habit.”
“That’s a tell,” he said, and put the last glass away and folded the dish towel over the oven handle and left the kitchen before she could respond.
Anne stood at the sink.
Looked at her right hand.
Looked at the table.
She did not tap the table.
She absolutely did not tap the table.
****
At eleven thirty she was at her desk in the guest suite going through client files when she opened the notes document on her phone. She’d been adding to it all week, his schedule, the layout of the apartment, what she’d learned about the company, Humphrey, the board situation. Clean, organised, purposeful. Exactly what she needed.
She read back through it.
Everything made sense right up until the last entry, which she had added during dinner without really thinking about it.
*He finished my sentence. I was explaining the Wheeler account restructuring, the thing with the overlapping asset classifications, and he finished the sentence. Got it right. Wasn’t showing off. Just knew what I meant.*
She looked at that entry for a while.
It wasn’t relevant. It had nothing to do with the plan or the schedule or the board or anything she actually needed to know. She should delete it.
She didn’t delete it.
She sat there looking at it and then, before she could talk herself out of it, she added one more line underneath.
The line said ……
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