I tap a pencil on the surface of my desk, thinking. “It’s not a crime to ask questions. You’re covered in dog hair—sue me for not wanting you to walk around looking like a human lint roller.” I pull open a desk drawer and retrieve a roll of duct tape, sliding it across the surface of the mega-desk. “Here, I don’t have a lint roller, but this will do the trick. Just use the sticky side to pull off the hair.”
Phillip pushes the tape back with the flat plane of his hand. “You’re funny, ha ha.”
I know I am. Duh. “I’ll bring you one tomorrow. I think I have one lying around in a closet somewhere.”
“Please don’t.”
I put a palm up. “No thanks necessary.” I throw in a wink for good measure before pulling my top drawer open and rooting around for earbuds—if he’s going to sit and talk, I’ll have to drown out his noise. They must be here somewhere…
He stops ignoring me. “Are you putting in headphones?”
I point to my ears, which now have buds nestled inside them, cord plugged into the side of my desktop. “What? I can’t hear you.”
“Are you serious?”
I smirk at him. “Sorry, but you’re actually a bit too talkative and I have work to do.”
Phillip looks stunned, then pissed, then—he smacks his hands down on the desk, affronted. “I’m the one who told you to be quiet!” he practically shouts.
“Shh.” I hold a finger to my lips. “The door has to remain open. Don’t want everyone to hear you.”
“Oh my God,” he mumbles, and I can hear him, because I don’t actually have any music on. “I’m so over this week already.”
4
Phillip
Day.
From.
Hell.
That’s what this was.
Let me count all the ways things went wrong after I got settled into Her Majesty’s office today:
She started calling me Puker after I tossed a wadded-up piece of paper into the trash, stating that all garbage cans remind her of me and how I tossed my cookies.
When I came back from lunch, there was a small container of fresh cream cheese on my desk chair. Ha ha, not funny.
Spencer Standish hums when she’s sketching storyboards.
Spencer Standish hums when she’s using the computer.
Spencer Standish hums. Period. Not cute little songs or tunes a person would recognize—no. Her hum is more of an unquiet, out-of-tune palindrome. If she were humming outside, dogs would howl and cats would growl, i.e., terrible. Tone deaf. Dreadful humming.
She licked her fingers after eating an orange. Sixteen times. I would know, because I counted. One lick after each bite, then she cleaned her digits one by one when she was done. Use a damn napkin next time!
Spencer would not share her orange, and I didn’t even know I wanted a slice until I smelled its citrusy goodness wafting over and promptly wanted some. She refused—so not hospitable of her.
Body tired, brain exhausted, I hip-bump the front door of my brownstone open, toss my keys down, shrug off my jacket, and squat, knowing that in five…four…three…two…
One.
Humphrey lumbers gaily around the corner, swiftly as a Basset Hound can, encumbered by long ears, a long body, and an overweight midsection. He howls enthusiastically, belting out a low bleat, on guard for the moment it takes him to realize I am not an intruder infiltrating the castle he must defend, bleary-eyed and fresh from his afternoon snooze.
Humphrey finishes bellowing when he realizes it’s me, tail wagging, hard and hitting the coffee table, magazines sliding from its surface with every bang, onto the hardwood floor.
One more thing for me to clean up.
“Hey boy! Hey!” I scratch behind his ears. “Did you miss me?”
Wet dog nose drifts to my pockets, sniffing for a treat. Surely there is one for him inside!
Sadly, there is not.
“Not today, boy. I’m fresh out, but I promise I’ll have some for you tomorrow.” I give him a few more pats on the top of his soft, smooth head. “Wanna go for a walk?”
His tail thumps harder. Yes.
“Let me take a piss and we’ll go. Get your leash!” I tell him, pointing to the mudroom where it hangs. “Go get your leash!”
Humphrey does not get his leash.
Lazy bastard.
I stand, walking past him to the bathroom, and shut the door; if I don’t lock him out, his nose will be all up in my business, sniffing while I try to pee. Like a toddler who insists on being in the toilet with its mother, his body would take up half the space in the tiny room and make the simple act of peeing much more difficult.
Turning my back so it’s facing the mirror, I crane my neck to glance over my shoulder at the back of my sweater. Sure as shit, it’s covered in Humphrey hair, auburn against black and stuck straight out like porcupine needles in a few spots.
Great. Just great—this can’t be the first time I’ve walked out of the house with a body full of dog hair, and I don’t own a single goddamn lint brush.
I wonder for a split second if Spencer will actually bring me one tomorrow, like she said she would, then shrug off the idea—why the hell am I thinking about her at all? Let alone wondering if she’s going to bring me gifts.
A lint brush is not a gift, you tool.
In short order, I have the dog on his lead—a bright blue leash with small, red fire hydrants on it, though Humphrey has never peed on a fire hydrant a day in his life—and we’re out the door, briskly making our way down the sidewalk.
Instantly, Humphrey has his nose to the ground, the relentless sniffing so loud I can hear it a few feet away, his long body hard at work.
Walk, sniff, walk, sniff.
Pause.
Sniff.
I let him do his thing—he never gets straight to the deed in the afternoons (the way Spencer didn’t get straight to work this morning), not after being cooped up in the house the entire day, so I give him the freedom to poke around.
Goofy little dude deserves it.
I got him as a rescue when he was eight months old; he was a monster as a puppy, and his owners surrendered him. I couldn’t imagine why when I first saw him—he was fucking adorable with his doe eyes, and droopy mouth, and giant ears. How could anything that cute be such a holy terror?
Well. I found out soon enough—came home one afternoon after making the mistake of letting Puppy Humphrey roam the house while I ran to the grocery store and found that the devil had destroyed the living room. Tore up a pillow. Ripped a sofa cushion. And how had shorty gotten up onto the coffee table? How had he ripped up the mail that’d been sitting on the counter?
Luckily for me, as he grew, he stopped ruining shit.
Unfortunately for me, Humphrey is a taker, and he takes advantage of the leeway now, maneuvering his trunk-like body into a line of shrubs.
It’s not an easy task—Humphrey hasn’t missed a meal in years—but he manages, disappearing entirely until the only body part I can see is his tail. He pulls at the leash, determined to drag me into the shrubs, too, but I stand firm on the sidewalk, arms crossed until he finishes doing whatever he’s doing.
Sniffing. Digging. Snooping.
It’s in his blood, I have to remind myself. Be patient; it’s in his blood. A detective he will never be, but damned if he doesn’t try.