Sliced Bread 2: The Greatest Thing Since Sliced Bread

Spent so much time at the doctor's office today that I got to work later than I planned, so I went into work-like-fury-to-catch-up mode for a few hours. But everything was going smoothly by the time Greyghost stalked through.

I was slumped back in the chair drinking diet cream soda (I don't know--Cruickshank stocks it) while Greyghost checked his mail and other items of interest I sorted for him. He flipped through it, nodded, and turned to leave. Then he paused.

"Dennis."

Of course, I pride myself on being as clueless and emotionally stunted as any guy out there. But I do have my moments, and this was one of them. I knew, somehow, what was coming.

"Haven't spoken to Ingrid in a few days," I told him.

"Mm."

I gestured at the computer. "This thing's updating our index to all your Interpol forensic stuff, and it'll be at least another twenty minutes. So you can believe me when I say I have time to listen to you if you want to talk about it."

"No. Thank you."

"You know you screwed up, right? I mean, this isn't because of your personal qualities, or anything; it's just that you screwed up. So it might not be too late; you should go talk to her."

"I can't do that. If we're going to talk, she's going to have to come to me. Think it through."

That didn't make any sense to me, until I considered Greyghost's lie-detection ability. Any conversation the two of them had, he'd be getting more information out of it than she would. And Ingrid must know that. So, he was saying that that would only be fair if she chose it. Which, okay.

"Huh," I said. "Let me ask you something. If you don't mind, I mean. How'd you two get together in the first place, anyway?"

"I've never... quite understood," he said, and made his exit.