Checkmate by Steven James

“I’ve had days when I felt more ready to take on the world.”
    She came into the room wearing a black bra and panties.
    Seeing her in that, I wished we didn’t need to take off this morning and could spend a little time reenacting last night’s rendezvous.
    After wiggling into a pair of pants, she said, “You didn’t sleep much last night.”
    â€œI’m sorry if I kept you up.”
    â€œNo need to be sorry.” She held up a shirt, studied herself in the mirror, then chose a different one—silky and shimmering blue—and slipped it on. “So, was it more your dreams or those stitches?” She was well aware of how my cases often wouldn’t leave me alone, even when I slept, so her question didn’t surprise me.
    â€œDreams.”
    â€œDo you want to talk about them?”
    â€œI’d rather do my best to forget ’em.”
    â€œFair enough.”
    â€œI should get moving.” Careful to keep from twisting too much, I stood. “So, what’s your plan for this morning?”
    â€œWe’re meeting at the Academy—the profilers are. Call me when you’re out of your briefing with Margaret. I want to hear how it goes. And don’t tussle with her.”
    â€œI wouldn’t dream of it.”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œJust call me Mr. Tact.”
    â€œWell, then, come here, Mr. Tact.” She drew me close, gave me a kiss. “I gotta go. I love you.”
    â€œYou too.”
    Moments later she was on her way.
    Realizing the obvious—that we were both going to be gone this morning, I made a call to put something into play, then I cleaned up, replaced the bandages, and tugged on some clothes.
    Normally when Tessa doesn’t have school, she’ll sleep in until around noon, so I didn’t expect her to be up yet, but I found her sitting at the kitchen table, finishing a bowl of organic granola in soy milk and a plate of chocolate cake—her one vegan vice, since it’s made with animal products. Yes, there were plenty of vegan cake options out there, but she’d just never warmed up to any of them.
    A cup of steaming coffee sat beside her elbow.
    â€œThere’s more in the pot.” She yawned and I caught it from her, yawned myself.
    I filled a mug. “Thanks.”
    â€œI’m not going to ask you about your side becauseyou’ll just tell me it’s fine no matter how much it’s hurting. But let me ask you this . . .”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œYou have the choice: either a leech sucking on your eyeball or your side all stitched up like this, what would you choose?”
    â€œSeriously? A leech sucking on my eyeball?”
    â€œIt just came to me.”
    â€œI’d have to say my side.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œYes. Definitely.”
    â€œWell, then, that’s good to hear.” She sighed. “So, basically, I got zero sleep last night. There was . . .”
    She yawned again.
    So did I.
    â€œDid you ever wonder why yawns are contagious?” I asked, somewhat hypothetically.
    â€œNo one really knows,” she muttered. “Emotional bonding maybe, social empathy, but that’s all conjecture. Kids younger than four don’t typically catch yawns. Autistic people usually don’t either. Dogs can catch yawns from people—more often from their owners than from strangers. So that’s pretty weird. And disgusting. The last thing I’d want is for a dog to yawn in my face.”
    My daughter: Passionate animal lover. Ardent dog hater.
    â€œThat’s very informative,” I told her.
    â€œWhat can I say? I’m a wellspring of useless trivia. Anyway, I didn’t hardly sleep at all. You know. A lot on my mind.”
    â€œI know the feeling. Is there anything I can do for you?”
    She shook her head. “Naw.”
    I glanced at the time. “Listen, I have a meeting at HQ. I’m not sure when