“The police call me in to fix things they can’t.”
“What sorts of things?”
His eyes cut to the dead donkey for a brief instant before returning to mine. “Complex problems often require complex solutions. Solutions outside the parameters of law and order.” He paused. “You wear a badge, you operate in a world of black and white. Good and bad. That works with about ninety-nine percent of cases. But for that occasional one percent… you need someone who operates in the gray.”
“And… you’re gray?”
“I’m gray,” he concurred.
I was floored by this news. Almost, but not quite, as stunned as I’d been to step into my alleyway and find a donkey massacred in front of my dumpsters. In hindsight, I should’ve seen this coming. Not the donkey part, the handyman part. I mean… truth be told, had I thought it strange when Flo told me that Graham — Harvard-educated, uber-smart, golden boy Graham — was working as a glorified Mr. Fix-It?
Admittedly, yes.
Had I allowed myself to dwell on that information?
Absolutely not.
As with essentially everything that concerned Graham Graves, I did my utmost to expunge that factoid from my memory banks as soon as it entered. My own, personal ‘the less I know about him the better’ policy had, until this very moment, been working for me just fine.
Operative phrase being:until this very moment.
“A handyman,” he muttered, running a hand through his thick, dark hair. “Christ.”
“I can’t fathom why you’re so annoyed.”
“Really? You can’t?” His eyes narrowed on mine. “You wouldn’t be annoyed if someone you’ve interacted with regularly for the past several years, someone who moves in your social circles and shares custody of your best friends, was walking around with an entirely skewed perception of who you are?”
Okay, he had a point. That would probably grind my gears. Not that I was going to admit that to him. “You make this sound like it’s my fault! I can’t help it that Flo didn’t explain it better.”
“Oh, please. You didn’t even let her get a full sentence out before you changed the subject.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is true.”
“You can’t possibly remember the exact conversation! It was ages ago!”
“I can, actually. You were standing in the kitchen wearing some ridiculous dress with no back — dropped all the way down to your ass, even though it was barely five degrees outside. Flo was telling you about Desmond’s new teaching position at the university. Naturally conversation shifted to other professions, mine included.”
My mouth was hanging open. I didn’t know what to say so I blurted, “That dress is not ridiculous. It’s designer!”
“Designed to give every man in the great state of Massachusetts a case of blue balls, maybe,” he muttered.
“Pardon?!”
“Point is, even if I didn’t remember the exact details of that night, I’d still know what happened.”
“Oh? You’re psychic, now?”
“I don’t need psychic powers to predict your behavior. Same thing happens every time talk shifts to me or my life while you’re in attendance.” He eyed me. “You bolt.”
“I do not!” (I totally did.)
“You do everything in your power to avoid me. That includes hearing about me or learning anything about me. Every time conversation turns my way, you make an excuse to leave.”
“You’re paranoid,” I declared.
“I pay attention.”