Please Do Not Taunt the Octopus by Mira Grant

a thank-you note, but we didn’t so much have a mailing address.”
    “I was thanked in spirit,” I said. “Is Alaric around? I need to ask him some questions.”
    “He’s working right now, but I can get him if it’s important.” Maggie paused. “What am I saying? You picked up a phone . This isn’t just important, it’s cause for a ticker tape parade.”
    “I don’t think they have those anymore,” I said dryly. “As to the rest, I take your point, and will try to be in touch more often, if only so you don’t decide to mount some sort of expedition to my place of work and take me out. Now, can you please put Alaric on the phone?”
    “Just a second.” There was a soft click as she put the phone on mute. That was something I actually missed from working at the Canadian branch of the CDC. We had all used heavy handset phones, holdovers from the pre-Rising world that could be hit with a hammer and still function. With those, putting down the phone would invariably make a loud clunking sound, keeping everyone aware of what was happening around them. I didn’t trust phones that could be put on mute. They created too much opportunity for plotting.
    A few seconds passed before the line beeped, and Alaric’s familiar voice said, “Dr. Abbey? Is that really you?”
    “You should learn to trust your wife,” I said. “She said it was me. Ergo, it was me. Why is that so difficult to believe?”
    “Because you never call. You write sometimes, but you never, ever call. Not even when we got married. You sent a fancy blender via courier. It would’ve been nice to hear your voice.”
    “You’re hearing it now, and all you’re doing is complaining about it.” I sighed. “It’s nice to talk to you, too, Alaric. Now, what can you tell me about the Monkey and his girls?”
    “What?” Alaric sounded genuinely baffled for a moment. His tone turned quickly wary as he continued, asking, “Why do you want to know? Why are you calling me?”
    “Because I can’t call Mahir—it’s too difficult to synchronize time zones, and even voice over IP is risky when you’re bouncing it between continents. No one has a number for the Masons. Becks is dead. That leaves you.”
    “No, not just me. Hold on.” There was a soft scuffing sound; he hadn’t put the phone on mute, he had put his hand over the receiver. “Maggie! Come in here, and bring the splitter.” The scuffing sound was repeated, and his voice was suddenly back in my ear. “Maggie’s getting the headphone splitter. You need to talk to both of us. Her because she has data, me because I’m not going to sit here eavesdropping in my own home.”
    “I love how suddenly my actions are being dictated to me,” I said sourly. “Why am I talking to Maggie, and not to you? You’re the Newsie. She writes smut for a living.”
    “I write excellent, extremely literate erotica, thank you very much,” said Maggie primly, her voice coming through as clearly as her husband’s. “It pays more of the bills than his reporting ever will, so you should respect the pornography.”
    “Your father pays all your bills,” I said, without rancor. “Since Alaric says I should be talking to you, what can you tell me about the Monkey and his girls?”
    “He was a controlling narcissist who didn’t allow for any resistance or deviation from the relatively narrow roles he dictated for the women who came into his orbit,” said Maggie without hesitation. “He’d had extensive plastic surgery at some point: No one looks that generic unless they’ve designed themselves to look that way. I wish I’d been able to get the number for his surgeon. That work was amazing.”
    “You’re perfect just the way you are,” said Alaric. “You don’t need a plastic surgeon.”
    “Maybe I don’t right now, but it’s always good to have a few numbers on file,” said Maggie serenely. “I may want to cover the scars on my stomach someday. Pancake makeup and concealer are good for a