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“That sounds like a reach, Indy.”
“It’s a legitimate psychological phenomenon.”
I tip my head towards the university doors so we can keep walking, because while I’m never gonna admit this to Della, this shit is heavy. “Okay, but carrying one less cooler isn’t going to end with you forgetting how your arms work next time you have to carry it alone. You know what I think?”
Della scans a pass on the door of the building, and it beeps as it unlocks. “I can’t wait to hear the continued formulation of this argument.”
The building is deserted inside, beyond a security guard at the front desk who greets Della as we walk by.
Once we’re past him, I continue. “I think you’ve spent so long proving you can do everything yourself, you’ve accepted something that isn’t true.”
“What’s that?”
“That it’s somehow a failing to accept help.” I bump her shoulder at the next door. “Besides, you’ve got a big biker, now, and we have limited practical applications in modern society, but carrying heavy shit is one of them.”
She studies me, for a second. “Fine. Yes, you won that argument, and you can carry my heavy shit from now on.”
I lean as close as I can get to her with all this stuff in my arms. “I’m calling this progress since you accept I’m your biker.”
She turns away to open the next door, but I catch the way her lips turn up at the corners in a smile.
It’s dark down some of the corridors, but lights flicker on as we move through them.
“The lab’s just down here on the right,” she says, but then, she stops. “There’s a sliver of light under the door.”
I put down the bag and coolers I’m carrying and reach for my weapon. “Should they be off?”
Della gestures around. “It’s late, lights are off. It’s rare for anyone to still be here. It’s not like the library that’s open twenty-four hours. You don’t need a gun.”
“Better to have it ready.” I place my shoulder to the wall and, with my other arm, nudge Della back behind me. Once I know she’s safe, I listen.
But I don’t hear a thing. No voices or footsteps or music. Just the low electrical hum that exists in older buildings like this.
Della puts her hand on my shoulder. “It’s probably just one of my graduate students working late to get a head start,” she whispers.
“Probably isn’t definitely, given everything else that’s been happening,” I reply in an equally quiet voice, especially given what is going on around here.
She gives me one of those looks that says she knows I’m being protective but doesn’t entirely hate it. Then, she fishes her keycard from her purse and hands it to me. “You’ll need that to get inside. Don’t shoot anyone.”
“Stay here,” I say as I step forward. The lock clicks, and I push the door open.
The laboratory stretches out before me beneath rows of fluorescent lights, only half of which are switched on. There are islands of brightness separated by pools of shadow. Equipment is stacked orderly on benches and shelves, and as I take in the microscopes and equipment that looks like mini turkey basters, someone jerks upright.
“Jesus Christ,” he says when he sees me, and pathetically launches whatever shit was in his hands. It lands closer to him than it does to me. Which makes me question the old adage that you won’t know how capable you are until you’re tested. Because, given how pale the guy at the bench is, he’s terrified. Yet, with all the adrenaline flooding his body right now, he could only manage to throw a tray that probably weighs nothing, about five feet.
He’s in his late twenties or early thirties. Wire-rimmed glasses. A university T-shirt beneath an open lab coat.
When the door opens again behind me, he reaches for something that looks like a heavy metal stand and launches it too.
And, shit, this time, the adrenaline kicks in, because I can see the collision between the metal thing and Della happening in slow motion.
I step sideways in front of Della, my arm coming up on its own. The edge of the projectile clips my forearm instead of her face before colliding with the lab door in a bone-rattling crash.
“Della,” the guy says, pressing a hand to his chest. “You scared the life out of me. I thought you’d come to mess with the lab or something.”
Della picks the object up off the floor. “You threw a vortex mixer at me? Evan, in case you forgot, we’ve had our budget frozen. We don’t have a few hundred dollars to replace one.”
I turn and look at her. “You care more about the cost of that thing than the fact the prick threw it at your head?”
