She entered the kitchen almost fifteen minutes later, looking a bit frazzled and stressed but a lot better than last time I saw her, her phone still clutched loosely in her left hand.

“Olivier needs you to kill about some import stuff.” She started, not even glancing in my direction.

“Call.” He flipped the kettle back on. “What about?”

“Some wine barrels.” She sighed, “Apparently it’s a bit legally itchy because it used to be alcohol.”

“All right.” He pulled out another mug. “Not a big deal, right?”

“No, but-” She groaned, “Tris called, after. He’s convinced someone is- Actually.” She looked at me, finally. “Do you drive?”

I do. “Yes.”

Carlyle scoffed. “How high is your idiot tolerance?”

She rolled her eyes at him, took the mug of tea. “He’s misguided.” She fully turned to me. “Are you up for a little test drive? We can talk business in the car.”

The decision was already made for me, it felt like, so I just nodded.

“You’ll need a decent PC.” She’d brought a file but hadn’t opened it since we’d stepped into the (incredibly cool, more expensive than anything I could ever afford) car. (Later, while on a trip to the Isle of Man, I learnt exactly why; she explained it to me in detail between heaves over the ferry railing.)

“I’ll leave the details up to you, but from what I’ve found, you’ll need a decent processor.”

“What am I doing, then?” I was relieved to finally ask it knowing I’d get a straight answer.

(Though I should’ve known, even then, nothing she ever did was straight.)

“Day to day, it’ll be information gathering.” She pulled out a paper, glancing at it for a brief moment. “I’ll give you access to some databases, and I’ll need you to gather intel on some people.” I glanced over, and I noticed that the paper was a small list, about fifteen names.

“That’s it?”

“I might also need you on side projects, or jobs like this.” She tucked the paper back. “I’ll always ask if you want to come along, though, and you’re always entitled to say no.” She frowned at something. “I’d rather you be honest than be miserable.”

(I should’ve realised, then. I should’ve realised how much she was laying bare with just that, but I didn’t pick up on it. I guess I’m a bit of an idiot, too.) (Not nearly as much as Tristan, though. No one is.)

“Got it.” I assured her, “So, Tris?”

“Thinks someone is tracking is computer, should be a quick job for you. But he’s a minor government official, so you might be able to plant a backdoor.”

“Hence doing the exact thing he fears.” This seemed to be one of those legally dodgy things Peter had mentioned.

“Yes.” She shrugged. “But I doubt he’d notice.”

“Do you think someone is tracking him?”

“I doubt it.” She rolled her head, and something popped. “He calls me at least twice a month with something like this. He’s a bit...”

“Misguided?”

“Oh, he’s a dim as a broken lightbulb.” She smirked. “I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of agreeing with him.”

I realise something now that I didn’t then; at the time, I wrote it off as mean-spirited joking. Now, though, I realise she doesn’t make those kinds of jokes. She was just stating a fact.

Tristan is really, really dim. And I was about to find out for myself.

If anyone would ever ask (not that anyone would), I’d say that first case with Tristan was a bit like my first day of work at the supermarket, when I was fourteen. They’d told me I’d be stocking shelves and maybe work the register, but during my first shift, I found out how much of the job was actually smiling politely and pretending customers weren’t idiots.

Dealing with Tristan took me right back.

He was objectively handsome, tall with blond hair, blue eyes and a chiselled jaw, but without a shirt for some reason. He hugged Shay even though she made a face at his sweaty torso, and for a moment, I wondered whether I should gear up to punch him. (Or give him a talking-to. I haven’t punched anyone since I was ten, and I probably be terrible at it.)

He introduced himself to me with the same joviality, though, and it made me realise he’s just one of those people.

Shay introduced me as her new IT person, and he brought us to his computer.

Then, just waited expectantly.

Shay sighed. “Tris, this is a lot easier if you log in.”

“Sorry.” He bent over me and almost slammed his keyboard. he was blocking my view, but from the noises, it seemed that his password was something along the lines of qwertyuiop.

“Did you-” Shay groaned, “That’s your password?”

“Clever, right?” He beamed, proud of himself. “You told me it’s better to pick something long than something complicated.”

“Yeah, but I- I didn’t- merde.” She rubbed her eyes, roughly. “I meant your mother’s maiden name, or your favourite show, not-” She took a breath. “Never mind. Someone’s tracking you?”

“Yeah, I- Oh!” He slapped his forehead. “I didn’t offer you tea!”

“We just had some.” She waved him off, “Your story?”

“Right, my stalker!” He pulled out his phone, flicking through his camera roll. “So, she gave me a shirt-”

“Whoa, back up.” She leaned against the desk but stood up when the weight settled on her shoulder. "Back a few steps. Stalker?”

He had the brains to pull up a chair for her, at least. While I half-heartedly looked for any traces of anyone else while I looked for a way to access the system later on, I caught about half of the conversation, but it went slow enough (surprise) for me to follow. Tristan apparently worked at a gym, and a girl that used to frequent it had suddenly followed him on social media, and started showing up again, and then that morning, she’d shown up with a shirt he’d been looking at the night before, and he’d freaked out.

I tuned

She groaned, a long, fed-up sound. “Did you give her password advice, by any chance?”

“No, I-”

“Guys.” I frowned up at my new boss. I’d found a good place to build in a back door, but there was one minor issue. There was already something there.

And it was wide open.

Shay took one look at my face and discerned something. “Oh, crap.”

Tristan frowned, not quite catching on yet. “Yeah, she’s a really nice girl, but I just-”

“Not that.” Shay had jumped up and was peering over my shoulder. “You were right. She actually broke into your computer.”

“And checked his search history.” I traced her steps, found her fingerprints everywhere. Sloppy. “What now?”

She shrugged, “We go after her.” She thought for a moment, “Get me her phone number.”

Wait, what? “Do you have a plan?”

“Maybe.” She glanced at Tristan. “Yes.”

“Oh, is it a good one?” Tristan seemed far too excited. “Like the one you told me about with the rope and the paint bucket and that thing you stole from Home Alone?”

“Better.” She smirked, the plan obviously blooming in her brain. “You get to be in this one.”

“Oh, fun!”