Chapter 16

James Cooke felt a shiver across the back of his neck when he heard his name. He looked up from his Introduction to Law and Society notes to see who had spoken, but a quick pan of the library yielded no familiar faces. He knew what his grandmother in Georgia would say: either someone was talking about him or walking over his grave. He'd never given much credence to superstition, so he was inclined to favor the former theory, especially since, in this case, he was pretty sure he'd heard a voice. And it had sounded like Isobel.

"Impossible," he said aloud.

"Shhh!" A young woman with a teal dip dye and hipster glasses glared at him.

On the other hand, if the voice was Isobel's, she probably was walking - no, dancing - on his grave. He slammed his textbook shut harder than he intended and pushed it away. The hipster scowled but didn't look up. It irked him to be shushed by a girl easily ten years younger than he was, but mainly he was annoyed with himself for being a decade behind his peers. Every day, he had to pull himself back from the brink of self-loathing and remind himself that he was, after a long delay, finally on the path to pursuing the law career he'd always wanted. One day at a time, just like they said in AA. Words to live by.

He was also making an effort to push Isobel from his mind every time her expressive eyes and perky ponytail threatened to intrude. It helped that any image of her invariably included that scrawny pianist. James flipped open his book again. After reading the same paragraph three times without absorbing so much as a pronoun, he stuffed the book into his backpack and left the library. He lingered in the lobby, distracted by the smell of chlorine from the school swimming pool on the level below. He'd put in a good day's studying, and a round of laps would be a nice treat, but if he left now, he could catch an AA meeting.

He walked over on 58th Street to Columbus Circle and hopped on the 1 train. It was drizzling by the time he emerged at 116th Street, and he picked up his pace to cross Broadway. But when the light changed, he was forced to stop on the island in the middle of the busy two-way thoroughfare. A familiar lanky figure crossed the side street and turned to wait on the opposite corner. Percival Spice waved at him and nudged his companion, obscured under a large umbrella. James knew it was Isobel even before she raised the umbrella to look at him. Instinctively, he began to retrace his steps, which he knew would be interpreted, correctly, as a deliberate attempt to avoid her. He was trapped. He turned around and, for once, wished the streetlight timer would count down more slowly.

When the light changed, they waited for him to cross to their side. Of course, the sidewalk was the place for a conversation, not the island in the middle of Broadway. Although as he dragged his feet in their direction, it occurred to him that making them cross to him might have put a period on what was, knowing Isobel, likely to be a long and circuitous conversation.

"Hey," he said.

"James." The quiet way she said his name was both comforting and unsettling.

"Good to see you," Percival said cheerily. He alone seemed pleased by their chance encounter, as if he had somehow engineered it.

That was ridiculous, James thought. He didn't even know he was going to come uptown for the meeting. He almost hadn't. No, it was because he'd been thinking about her. Had imagined hearing her voice.

"How's school?" Isobel's voice broke through his thoughts, for real this time.

"Good. Yeah. You still working for that lawyer I set you up with?"

"Sarah Hollister." Isobel nodded. "I like her. It's a nice setup."

"No dead bodies?" He had intended the question rhetorically, but he felt his stomach clench when she didn't answer right away. "You have got to be kidding me."

"It wasn't on the job," Isobel said quickly. "I mean it was - but it was an acting job. Nothing to do with Sarah or Temp Zone. Actually, that's not entirely accurate - it turns out it does have something to do with Sarah. You see, she represented the ex-wife of the dead guy in their divorce - "

"Stop!" James wiped the rain from his face. "I don't know how you do it. I've never met anybody who attracts death the way you do."

Tears sprang to Isobel's eyes. "That's a horrible thing to say. It's not like I do it on purpose."

"That came out wrong. I'm sorry." James turned to Percival, who was watching their exchange helplessly. "You know what I'm saying?"

Percival glanced sideways at Isobel. "Well, anecdotally, you have a point, although statistically, the results would seem to be random."

"Just tell me you're not playing detective again," James said.

Isobel sniffed. "Come on, James, you know me better than that."

He pulled his jacket closed. "Well, you better have an exit plan this time that doesn't include me."

Isobel glowered at him. "Nice to know you have so much faith in me."

"I do," he said grimly. "That's the problem. But last time, you almost got killed. So I'm just saying, if you need backup, I'm not it."

The rain pattered harder on Isobel's umbrella. James wanted to pull his from his backpack, but he was afraid doing so would send the message that he was settling in for a chat.

"That's okay," Isobel said icily. "I have other people I can call on in a pinch."

"You still seeing that pianist?" James hated himself for asking, but he couldn't help it.

"Yes, I am," she said curtly.

"You think he's man enough to knock heads together for you?"

"That's my job," Percival joked.

James shook his head. "I'm serious, you two. Let the professionals do their jobs.

Isobel's fingers tightened around her umbrella. "Oh, because they did so well the last two times?"

"Okay, forget it," James said, exasperated. "But hey, congrats on getting an acting gig."

She begrudged him a smile. "I didn't think you were listening."

"You could have a little more faith in me," he said. "See you around." He nodded good-bye and continued down the street toward the community center, pleased to have had the last word. With Isobel, that was nothing short of a triumph.