Page 54 of Without a Clue

This is how people die in the stories.

It’s not so hard to write after all, really. You just give a person a stupid fault like mine and—bam—we kill ourselves from our pride. Or shame. Or humiliation.

Emotions make humans stupid.

Or, I guess, bowing to our emotions does.

I’ll just . . . walk quickly is all. I’ll be so quick people can’t get me even if they try.

Right. And how many victims fall prey with that genius plan?

I take another two steps toward the door.

Then feel a firm grip on my sweater.

I turn and see Nash chatting away happily with this Melody woman, his hand all the while firmly gripping the cardinals stitched onto my cardigan.

Melody’s beady eyes drift every now and again to his hand clamped onto me as she talks through the smile plastered on her face.

Nash, for his part, looks entirely unbothered.

I take another step and find myself yo-yoing back toward him.

“And . . . um . . .” Melody says, her eyes jumping to me, “with regard to . . . the origin story behind your writing . . . Do you need to . . . do something? Are you alright?”

“No, no, I’m fine. You were saying?”

I take another step. My face is prickling with a hundred tiny pins.

We are in a workplace here.

I know everything about this trip has been shattering, but we are professionals.

“Nash,” I begin, my tone expressing, I’m a very organized, very professional assistant to Hugh, creative genius, who has spent a year planning this trip, and not I’m Pip, dealing with a heat wave of overwhelming emotions and handling it like a child.

I smile politely like I’m not currently at the end of his tether. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get Gordon set up for his session.”

“What session?” Nash says.

“Gordon’s next session.”

“You’re not excused,” Nash says equally politely, eyes still on Melody. “Oh, well, I’m not sure I have the grandest of origin stories out there, but you’re welcome to ask. Somebody always does.”

Melody nods fervently.

Too fervently, as she scribbles quickly and says, “Keep the origin story question. Got it. Good. And, um . . . well, are you sure I’m not holding you up?”

“Nope.”

“Absolutely sure?” she says, eyeing me like I’m a rabid raccoon in a cage he should probably deal with.

“Can’t think of a thing.”

“Nash,” I whisper-hiss.

I feel Jackie’s eyes fall on me from across the breakfast table, see the disapproval in the little crease forming between her brows.

Her words fly telepathically from her gaze and land on me.