The Breathtaker by Alice Blanchard Page B

she explained. “We get clients coming in here all the time, wanting certification for their aboveground tornado shelters and safe rooms. This one’s called Schott Industries…”
    “More like
Schitt,
” Rick muttered.
    “Yeah, exactly. You are so witty today.” She laughed, then gave Charlie such an earnest look his heart skipped a beat. “Seriously, this product should never go on the market, Charlie. It’s supposed to protect consumers from every type of wind hazard known to man, but I swear to God, a mouse could fart on it, and
poof.
”
    “Feminine, ain’t she?” Rick said proudly.
    “We’re basically the last line of defense.”
    “There you are, you weasels.” Rick scooped his crowded key chain off the console. “Right in front of me.”
    “Where’re you going?” Willa asked him.
    “I’ll be in my office, in case anybody’s interested. Eating my tuna sandwich, buried under a mountain of paperwork.”
    “Quit pissing and moaning,” she said. “You get Friday off. Oh, I almost forgot! I need those by five, that okay?”
    “Yeah, it’s doable.” He turned to Charlie. “Nice to see you again, Chief.”
    “You, too, Rick.”
    Rick left the control room, and suddenly they were alone together. There was a brief but noticeable awkwardness between them, which she handled lightly and he handled heavily. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. He stuffed them in his pockets, then tipped back in his chair until it bumped into the wall.
    “Want a cola?” She twisted her curly black hair into a French knot, stray tendrils clouding her ears—ears as curved and pearly as the inner wall of a moon shell. “We call it our antisleeping tonic around here.”
    “Yeah, I could use some of that.”
    She opened the minifridge, scooped out two aluminum cans, popped the tops and handed him one. Their fingers touched, briefly, and he realized that her eyes were gray, not blue. As gray as dusk, without any specks or highlights. He figured a person could get seriously lost in those dusk-soaked eyes.
    “I was there yesterday,” she told him. “In Promise.”
    This nudged him back to reality.
    “I was chasing garbage storms up north when I stopped for gas and could barely open my door against the wind.” She shivered and cinched her lab coat tighter. “I could feel that icy chill that told me I was north of the cold front and needed to get south enough to feel that strong southern wind on my face. To see it collide with the cold front. I got there just in time. It had a classic barber-pole appearance. I’d guess it was an F-3. There was F-3 damage, for sure.”
    “Yeah, it was pretty bad.”
    “We heard about the murders. What a terrible day you must’ve had.” She nodded with a gentle warmth. “How’s your daughter?”
    “Fine, thanks,” he said. So she remembered their conversation from six months ago? That was promising.
    “My mother died when I was twelve,” she said. “That can be tough on a girl.”
    “She’s handling it pretty well.”
    “Trust me, Charlie. She’s not.” Except for her eyes, her face was still. “So what brings you here this morning?”
    “I’ve got a few weather questions for you.”
    She frowned and slunk way down in her chair. “Shoot.”
    “I need to know if a storm-chaser can predict with any accuracy when and where a tornado’s going to touch down.”
    She frowned. “If we could predict exactly where a tornado was going to drop, it wouldn’t be half as fun. That’s why we’re called chasers, Charlie. We love the action. We love the game.”
    “So it’s a guessing game?”
    She tilted her head to drink, Adam’s apple jutting like the whitened knuckle of a flexed finger. “Meteorology’s an imperfect science, but Mother Nature will drop a few clues. For example, the more organized a storm, the more likely it is to become severe. And since tornadoes often accompany severe weather, you make that your first goal. To find yourself an organized