Indivisible. Part 38

Miles took another bite. She had the crazy feeling he was trying to protect her.

"You can sit down and wait, Miles."

"I'll stand."

"Okey-doke."

"Hey. Buster. She doesn't want you blocking the counter."

She shook her head. "There's plenty of counter."

A woman came through the door holding a bald baby who was happily sliming the eyegla.s.ses that hung on a woven lanyard around its mother's neck.

"What can I serve you, Bob?" It wasn't easy coming up with an innuendo-proof line.

"Hey." He swatted Miles's arm with the back of his ringed fingers.

With a holler, Miles flung his cinnamon puff, banging into a table that tipped over into Bob. Two chairs toppled, napkins and sweetener packets flying.

"What the-" Bob shoved the table back and raised his fists.

"No. Don't. He can't help it." Piper rushed around the counter.

The baby wailed as his mother shot out the door.

Bob had the front exit blocked, so Miles burst through the swinging door into the kitchen knocking over yet another chair.

Bob hurtled after him.

Piper grabbed his suit coat. "Let me handle it."

"You?" He spun, shaking her off. "You stay out of harm's way."

"No listen. He's fine. You just can't touch him."

"He's not fine." Bob pointed a thick finger at the kitchen door. "That is not fine." is not fine."

She got between him and the door.

He scowled. "He a.s.saulted me with that table."

"He b.u.mped into it."

"I'm calling the police." Bob pulled out a fancy phone.

"No, please."

Bob's finger hovered over his phone. "I won't call, peach, if you explain over dinner over dinner what you see in him." what you see in him."

She swallowed hard, but there really wasn't a choice. "Okay."

A broad smile pulled his mouth. "Where do I pick you up?"

"I'll meet you there."

"Peach, the ride is half the event."

She glumly revealed her address.

"Six o'clock for c.o.c.ktails."

"I'm not old enough to drink."

"Oh yes you are. Unless that's a fake ID you've been flas.h.i.+ng around."

She wished it were. "Six o'clock."

"Now I'll have those two frosted raisin rolls."

When he'd gone, Piper pushed through the swinging door. "Miles?" She hoped he'd run straight through, but she found him crouched in the pantry. "You all right?"

He shook his head, despondent. "No matter how hard I try."

"You want to come out?"

He shook his head.

"Okay."

When Tia hurried in a while later, Piper nodded toward the kitchen. "In the pantry. Bob Betters touched him."

"Oh no." Tia checked the place for damage.

"I straightened up. The only damage is dinner tonight with Bob."

Tia raised her brows. "I am am sorry." sorry."

Tia moved through a kitchen scented with yeast and b.u.t.ter and cinnamon, to the open pantry. Miles sat in the corner, knees pulled to his chest. Even though Piper kept the place clean, a true OCD germ phobic obsessed with filth and germs would not sit on a floor. He seemed to have very specific triggers and patterned reactions.

"Miles?"

"Don't touch. Don't touch people."

He'd reversed the phrase from people don't touch people don't touch. A reprimand or reminder instead of an explanation? His distress level seemed higher. Because of Piper's involvement?

"May I join you, Miles? Or would you rather come out?"

"Don't touch. People. Don't touch."

It could be a means of reminding himself of the rules as he saw them. She went into the pantry and leaned against a shelf that held bags of flour. "Piper told me what happened. I'm sorry Bob touched you. He had no right to invade your s.p.a.ce."

He flicked a glance, then pulled his knees in tighter.

"I know how much it upset you when our hands touched."

He stared at the floor, saying nothing.

"You know, Miles, everyone has things that make them uncomfortable, make them feel bad or scared. That mechanism is built into us for our protection. It's a good thing."

He swallowed.

"Chemical or communication problems in the brain can affect that natural sensor, make it react disproportionately to the threat. One result is obsessive-compulsive disorder."

His forehead twitched.

"Have you been diagnosed with that disorder, Miles? Or Asperger's?"

"I've been called a lot of things."

"I'm not calling names. Those are medical terms that help identify areas in people that aren't working right."

Miles put his head in his hands but didn't cover his ears.

"I'm not a psychiatrist, not an MD. But I should know if you've had medications prescribed and whether you're taking them. It's part of a profile I'll keep for our work together."

"Not taking drugs."

"Should you be?"

"Didn't help. Made me sick."

"The doctors took you off?"

He nodded. "Long time ago."

"That might mean it's not a chemical issue. If that's the case, therapy might be able to resolve the root of this problem. Do you want to pursue that?"

He stared at the floor, then nodded.

"I would need to work under the supervision of another counselor. Most likely a woman named Carolyn. Would you be all right with that?"

"I don't know Carolyn." He put his arms up against his head, weaving his fingers in the back and breathing hard.

"We would all sit down together and decide if you want to go forward."

"And do what?'

"We'd put together your profile, things like your last name."

"Forsythe."

Okay, if he wanted to answer now. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven."

Her age, and they were both just breaking free. "Where do you live?"

"Nineteen Pine Crest Lane." The facts. The simple facts.

"Pine Crest's a nice area. What do you do for a living?"

"I invent things. Hardware and software solutions for companies. I got my first patent at sixteen." His breathing slowed.

"That's amazing."

His hands came down to his knees. "I'm not that smart. I just had a lot of time."

"You're not fooling me. I can tell you're smart."

"Not like a child genius or prodigy. I had tutors. You learn faster when you're not in a herd."

"You didn't go to school?"

His knuckles whitened on his knees.

"We'll talk about that later. Who do you work for?"

"Lots of people. Someone tells me a problem. I make a solution."

"That's wonderful, Miles."

He looked up. "Why?"

"Because we've identified a problem. Together let's make a solution."

From her place between the trees, Liz had watched Tia leave, watched Jonah go inside, leaving the door cracked open for the animals. She had told Lucy, had tried to tell herself he didn't matter. She despised him for leading her on, his thumb on her cheek branding her, claiming her. He had loved two sisters. If he'd given her the chance, she'd have explained her plight, Lucy's plight. He'd have embraced them. Even Lucy believed it.

Liz closed her eyes. When she saw Tia's car heading toward his cabin last evening, she had known it would be there this morning. She burned, imagining them together. Of all the men Tia could have, she had taken the only one Liz dared hope for.

Lucy would remind her that Tia had him first, that it was Jonah who couldn't let go. Fair-minded Lucy. She didn't understand that women like Tia were poison to men, seeping into their senses and paralyzing their wills. Clenching her hands, she groaned.

She shouldn't be here. The less she saw and thought about Jonah Westfall, the better. The less he saw and thought about her as well. But she couldn't walk away.

Enola had sensed her now. She would remember the scent, but that wouldn't be enough to get close. She'd be hyperalert and guarded with the pup nosing the brush around the porch. The risk was terrible. But if he saw her, she had a plan: she would say she wanted to apologize.

She unb.u.t.toned and put her hand into the large pocket, drew out what she needed. It would daze Enola only for a moment, so when the dog stumbled and dropped, she hurried over. Jonah's pup was bigger and stronger than her two. He'd sucked the teats of the mother and grown fat and healthy. He'd known Jonah's touch and grown trusting. He had no struggle, no suffering. He knew no fear.

Showered, dressed, and armed, Jonah attached his badge and peeked in at Sarge, still sleeping. He silently closed the door, got his keys, and went outside. Enola loped around the yard, swinging her head side to side, sniffing the ground. He whistled through his teeth.