lantern and rummaged through my bag, looking for a shirt. “You want to talk journals.”
“Among other things.” Grace paced the length of the barn. “I called our field command on your phone.”
Oh, what I would have given to be a fly on Dale’s wall. “And how many microseconds did it take before recruiting called back? Could you hold your breath longer?”
“The director called me. She wants to recall me to Portland.” A nervous edge ran through Grace’s voice, and she jumped every time thunder shook the building.
“I’m sorry. You said it yourself: You weren’t cut out for fieldwork. So take your Deliverator and your badge and go be the hero of the Portland office. Most people leave the field with trophies sewn into them.”
The set of Grace’s jaw, the way her eyes narrowed told me her answer before she spoke. “I can’t leave.” She looked up, the lantern light making the shadows under her eyes dark black. I knew the look. Weeks of not sleeping. “I need this job. I need the field pay.”
“Why?”
She clenched her fist and turned away. “I have a bunch of bills I need to pay, and this job will let me do it. I spoke to Director Bismuth.”
Poor Grace. The director wasn’t fun to deal with on a good day. I felt bad for her having to deal with the mess I’d made. “I’m sorry.”
She took two steps closer, out of the lantern light. So close I could smell her perfume, and beneath it, the scent of her skin. “I need your help with the journals.”
That might have been the worst thing she could have said. “Brynner, you’re very attractive.” Or “Brynner, I know I shouldn’t.” Those were phrases I knew by heart. Dad and his damned journals. “I don’t read hieroglyphics the way you do. I know how to write rooster, donkey, dog, and cat. Oh, and shitty. Which is about right for my translation skills.”
“I’ll do the reading, thank you. But reading co-org-affected ideographs isn’t just about symbols and words. At least, that’s only the bottom layer. Think of it like a pyramid. The symbols, the sounds, those are the bottom. On top of that, we have sentences. On top of sentences, meaning.”
She spoke in circles, losing me. Or maybe it was her eyes. I stood a better chance of staring at her breasts and remembering what she said than looking into those eyes. “You lost me.”
She laughed and jumped at the same time, thanks to a thunderclap. “There are different levels to their meanings. It happens in all languages. Ask me a question I’ll say no to.”
I knew exactly what I wanted to ask, and exactly what she’d say. “May I kiss you, Grace Roberts?”
Whatever answer she had ready died in her throat. She blinked at me over and over, her face slack with surprise. Her voice came out a whisper. “Sure you can.”
It wasn’t the answer I expected, but it was absolutely the one I wanted, and I’d learned not to question a woman. And I did kiss her, a fleeting kiss, pressing my lips to hers for just a moment before I stepped away. I hadn’t noticed how hot the loft was, or how loud the rain against the window sounded.
Grace turned away, walking to the window. “That was . . . sarcasm.”
If by sarcasm, she meant “electrifying,” I couldn’t argue.
Grace’s voice trembled when she spoke. “You can’t understand the real meaning without understanding the first two parts.” She held her hand to her mouth, looking out into the rain. “Thank you for checking on the horse. I’m sure the Donaldsons will feel better knowing the co-org isn’t going to kill another one of their livestock.”
“Yeah— Wait. What?”
“I need to go.” She lifted the loft door to climb down.
Outside it still looked like God turned on a faucet. It always looked like that in the desert when it rained. “Grace, you can’t go out in that. Where did the sheriff want me to look?”
She slipped her feet onto the ladder. “The Donaldsons’.” She pointed out the window. “And if they can go out in this, I can.”
I sprinted to the window, where among lightning flashes and sheets of rain, four figures approached Rory’s door. The Donaldson farm was thirty minutes in the other direction. Unless someone stuck a rocket on a corpse, it couldn’t possibly have been the same one I just killed.
A co-org at the Donaldsons’. Another at the Larsons’. A premonition, or intuition, call it what you want,