The 9 lives of Cats and Gods (Merry Men Book 1)

Life 2

1.
Robin
"Good Morning Serial Killer."
"Good morning, Fox, yes wasn't that bit of news diverting?" Bash asks, pleasantly, as we meet in the hall outside of calculus.
"Now I know you were trying to accuse me of murder, to divert suspicion from yourself, well played," I say, mock accusingly.
"Oh I've barely begun my opening gambit," he says, following me in to our seats in the back of the crowded room.
"I'm surprised they didn't arrest you yet."
"I and my theories are known to the local PD I'm sure they will be by presently," he says, settling down to sit cross legged in the chair, "I did want to ask you though, how did you meet your girlfriend?"
"Online," I say, it's evasive enough. And I don't want him getting anywhere near Marianna.
"Really? And what made her like you? Does she know who you are?" He asks.
"Look, I'm not really comfortable talking about my girlfriend with you, mostly because you accuse me of atrocities every fifteen minutes," I say, "Kind of a personal subject."
"Oh yes of course. I understand. I merely was inquiring because I hope to have a personal relationship someday and we're quite similar, you and I," he says.
"I'm nothing like you—no offense, I don't mean that badly, we're just pretty different. For example I've never mailed a serial killer a note suggesting they kill me."
"Oh. They published the whole thing."
"Uhuh. You moron, and I would never do something like that. So I'd say we're not at all alike," I say.
"Oh I've a feeling we are. You don't have to like that fact. But we are. Consider, we're both highly intelligent," he says.
"Wrong again, I'm not that smart," I say, resting my chin on my hands.
"You're in AP classes."
"Not easily."
"Hm. That's not true," he says.
"You're calling me a liar again?" I ask.
"Yesterday when the instructor wrote down the formula needed for the homework on the board, there was a small error. It was minor, however it would yield incorrect results. I attempted to bring his attention to the error, however three people including you told me to save any questions for after class—,"
"That makes me sound bad but it was the eighteenth time you'd raised your hand," I point out.
"—I did wait and the instructor denied the error, having already erased it. But every single person in this room is going to have incorrect answers, and the incorrect formula because they were following what was written down. Your work is correct," he taps my notebook. "Because you didn't really pay attention to what the instructor wrote, did you? You already knew the formula well enough to automatically correct it, as anyone with a higher knowledge of mathematics would as simply as reading over a typo in a document. You knew what it was meant to say."
"My foster father lets me take college classes," I say, smoothly, "That's all. Yeah I've done it before. How did you know the correct equation? You're in the system they aren't letting you take CLEP courses."
"Oh, my aunt recently graduated college, I had access to all of her textbooks," he says, calmly, arranging his book on the desk just so.
"Good for you. Both of us understanding math doesn't make us alike."
"You, like me, have a strong sense of empathy. Your foster father took you in but before that I'm sure you came from as low a circumstances as I."
"My parents passed when I was little. After that I was in care in Ireland until they contacted him, he's my closest living relative," I say. It's a smooth, practiced lie.
"Hm. Yes," he says like he doesn't believe it at all, "Also I don't believe either of us have ever had sex willingly."
"You don't—," I do stop myself in time as I realize he just said that in Portuguese, not English. And thankfully I didn't respond in kind but he has me riled; the recognition was obvious.
"Hm, and we share a gift for languages," he says.
"What is it you're trying to prove?" I ask, in French. Courdelion speaks it as fluently as English so it makes sense that I know that language. I did, in reality, learn it from him and we will occasionally speak it to each other to avoid being overheard.
"Nothing neither of us don't already know. I'm sure Mariana already told you I was removed from two foster homes after reporting sexual abuse?" He asks, calmly.
"No," that's true. She did not. More than likely that was so that I would not become attached to him. No fear there, no none at all. I hate him with every fiber of my being. So why don't I get up and walk away?
"Hm. I'm sure she knows by now. Rather good with computers isn't she?" He asks, this time in German.
"I'm leaving, because I don't know what you said but it was probably about my girlfriend and I'm very done with you," I say, not very nicely, standing up.
"Okay. I'm going to be in the library on Friday night, alone, reading," he says, going back to English.
"So?" I ask, "What does that mean?"
"Nothing at all if you don't want to kill me. If you do. I'll be there, alone," he says, shrugging and looking back down at his book.