Happy Anniversary:

An Excerpt from Blind Spot by Thio Isobel Moss

“You didn't ask what he had in the box,” questioned Dorrit, caught somewhere between surprise and incredulity.

Rena shook her head, tears leaking down her cheeks. “I thought — excuse me — I thought he was trying to surprise me,” she wheezed, ending in a wail.

“Oh, I surprised her,” chuckled O'Brien, his lilt having matured into a brogue after the third bottle.

“He put it in the fridge,” Rena continued, barely comprehensible. “He was acting sly. I wanted him to think he was getting away with it. Then, when I was making breakfast the next morning, I peeked.”

“You didn't.”

“She did.”

Rena, still crying, mouthed, “I did.”

“If I'd turned the blighted things in immediately, Lester, who was director then, I would have had to arrest the Bader twins. I knew they weren't guilty — creepy, you bet — but not guilty,” O'Brien explained with a shrug. “I popped a preservation charm on the pests, stuffed them in the fridge, got a good night's sleep, and was set to turn 'em in not twelve hours later. Went off without a hitch...until Rena opened that dratted box!”

“Puckwudgies! Sixteen tucked into tiny, little bags like they were camping! Three of them woke up and vanished,” Rena hiccupped, almost calm. Then she lost it again. “I thought he'd made Canelés de Bordeaux for our anniversary!”

“We were infested with the little buggers for months. Tried everything to get rid of them.”

“I understand why...but what possessed you to bring sixteen magical constructs into your home?” exclaimed Dorrit. “They're knots of malevolent magic — there’s no reasoning with them. And you didn't explain it to your girlfriend!”

“Couldn't. It was an open case,” O'Brien shrugged. “Who's for coffee and dessert?”

As he hustled back to the kitchen, Rena surprised Dorrit by seizing his hand. “I'm breaking my rule, John, but I need to know — has something happened to Darragh? Has he confided in you?”

Startled and affected by her earnest concern, he searched for an answer. “No, he's not said anything. I know the investigation is eating at him. What has you worried?”

“Rena, before I forget, could you defragment the laptop after dessert? It crashed right in the middle of something,” O’Brien called from the kitchen.

“Of course…or you could learn how to do it. It’s not hard,” she yelled back, shaking her head. “He's not been sleeping. When he does, he dreams. He's always on his laptop...”

Dorrit's mouth twisted in a wry, indulgent grimace.

“Rena, he would be micromanaging me if it were serious. You know how he gets.”

“He's been baking!” Her whispered words were sharp, and she bit her lip to leash her frantic thoughts. “He's baking and not just the odd quiche. More than when we were watching The Great British Bake Off. More than when Kohler lost the election! He's attempted phyllo dough twice!”

Dorrit fell silent. This was troubling.

“He trusts you more than anyone. John, don't make that face — he does, yes, even more than me! He can tell you things that he isn't allowed to tell me. It's more than that, though, and you know it. He's known you longer and, don't hate me, but you remind him of his son.”

Dorrit gave her an exasperated look, causing her to laugh.

“You know what I mean. He loves you. He doesn't like to be vulnerable, but don't doubt it, John. You humanize him.”

“Not doing very well, am I?” he muttered.

“Better than you realize,” she returned. “Please ask him. Don't let him carry this alone.”

He couldn't refuse her. There was something fine about Rena Amano. Although she was capable, those around her felt it; she awakened protective instincts.

“I'll ask, but he may not be able to tell me.”

“It will be enough. Thank you.”

O'Brien returned, pushing a tea trolley. “We have raspberry, lemon, and frangipane tartlets; pistachio and orange madeleines; and a chocolate praline gateau,” he announced, setting a plate with three exquisite miniature desserts before each of them. “Coffee with cream, no sugar for Rena, and cream with coffee, two sugars for John.”

Rena stared heavily at the immaculate patisserie.

Dorrit squeezed her hand.

“Very pretty, sir,” he said with a studied lack of inflection, taking a bite. His eyes closed involuntarily, but he quelled any further indication of rapture. O'Brien was quite vain enough.

After the sensory overload abated enough for the shutters to rise, Dorrit started.

“What the... Did you... Is that Puckwudgie?”

He thrust a finger at the decorations topping the gateau and slid down the banquette in the same motion.

Rena's eyes popped even as she shrieked, searching the spread for tiny imps. When nothing moved, vanished, or reappeared, she swatted him.

“Don't do that!”