Free Heroine Addiction by Jennifer Matarese Page B

from whatever guilty memory he might be dwelling on. He shakes his head when he figures out what I mean. “I don't think so. Not unless we're talking about someone with more advanced knowledge of robotics than I have.”
    I cock an eyebrow. “Not exactly unlikely. You haven't been allowed to touch anything electronic that's any more complicated than a garage door opener while you've been on probation.”
    Morris responds with a brilliant smile that almost forces me to rear back in confusion. “I think I may take your belief that I've been very well-behaved the past few years as a compliment.”
    It isn't, but whatever cheers him up right now, I suppose.
    “What about clones?”
    “I'm not sure,” he says. “I wasn't quite double-checking to make sure his scars were all accounted for at the time.”
    I mentally race through the other options, a lengthier list than I'd like to admit. Villains can be creative, and replacing someone with a malleable dupe who'll follow your every order to the letter is easier than it used to be. There's a reason every superhero team genetically tests every member a dozen times over the course of the day. Sometimes paranoia means people really are out to get you and replace you with an evil twin.
    “Brainwashing?”
    “Oh, anything's possible.”
    “Or maybe it could be amnesia?”
    Morris sighs, rising to his feet and stretching with a muffled wince. “My dear, if you're already trying to figure out just what is causing Everett's odd behavior, far be it from me to interrupt you. I guess now would be an excellent time for me to leave you to your investigation.”
    Investigation? Oh, he can't possibly think … but I can't …
    He grins at the play of confused emotions on my face, adjusting his bowler hat on his head in the large mirror on the wall behind my head. “Vera, I imagine it's unsettling to hear this from a reformed villain, but I know you better than you think. I'll bet you've buried yourself in work since returning from the city and have yet to discontinue your SLB registration. And your father upset you as much as he upset me.” A moment later, he gingerly runs his fingertips over one black eye and frowns in morbid amusement. “Well, maybe not quite as much as me.”
    I shift my weight uncomfortably from one foot to another. Whatever is wrong with my father, the profuse apologies to Morris when this is all over may never end.
    “I think I'll leave you to your miniature Woodstock, then,” Morris says. He turns to leave.
    “I'm astounded that you don't plan on helping out,” I blurt out. Morris has never been the sort to let others do his dirty work for him.
    Morris pauses in the doorway, not looking back. “I think I'd do more harm than good if I got involved, don't you?”
    I picture his black eyes and split lip and squeeze the slightly damp and bloodstained rag in my hand as if to remind myself it's there.
    With a subtle touch of his fingers to the brim of his hat, Morris leaves me alone with my thoughts and my coffee pots and my abandoned past catching up to me like a gathering avalanche.

7.
     
    It's only after I make a few phone calls to reassure Dixie and Tara that I'm in one piece and that I've officially closed the cafe for the night, and after I migrate to the relative safety of my apartment, that I finally allow myself to freak right the hell out.
    “Oh, for heaven's sake,” I say to the empty space in the apartment, only barely resisting the urge to kick something. I'm wearing open-toed shoes and it would only make my day just that much worse if I crack a toe, too, while I'm at it. I've never been the most reliable under pressure, and this certainly qualifies. Most of the time, I resort to tension breakers, like screaming at the top of my lungs or hitting something. That usually does the trick.
    Frustrated, I stomp into my kitchen and I do the first thing which comes to mind, fishing a drinking glass out of the drying rack and throwing it against the far