Face of Death

“I am not hiding any information from you,” Zoe snapped. She was tired of this already, wanted it over. Wanted Shelley to just shut up and let them alert the local authorities, get people in place for a stakeout. They were wasting valuable time. “We have to act now. Do not argue with me.”

Shelley stood, and Zoe almost flinched, ready for the confrontation to ramp up. She could not show weakness, not now. She had to maintain the confidence, use her position as the senior agent. It went against everything she told herself to do in normal situations, but lives were at stake. She clamped her lips together in a firm, straight line, determined not to bend.

Shelley moved in front of her, sat down on the edge of the table. “Z… it’s okay,” she said. “I’m not trying to fight with you. I just want to understand.”

Zoe said nothing. Inside, however, her resolve flickered. No one had ever reacted this way. Whenever she revealed any hint of her gift—or her curse, whichever it was—she was treated with suspicion and accusation. Not this. Not the open, soft expression Shelley was giving her, the quiet voice, the words of encouragement.

“You can see something I can’t, somehow, can’t you?” Shelley took a breath, then reached out to touch Zoe’s arm. “I was warned by the Chief that you’d had a lot of different partners before. That they called you things—made accusations. I’m not here to do that. You can tell me, and I’m not going to demand a transfer. I like working with you.”

Zoe hesitated, looking down at where Shelley’s warm hand rested on her arm. A gesture of comfort. There was something motherly about it. Not that Zoe had real experience of how a mother was supposed to act, but she could guess that this would be it. Like the mothers on television in old sitcoms, reaching out an olive branch to their confused and frustrated teenagers.

Maybe it was the comparison, making her feel young and defenseless again. Maybe it was just the fact that Shelley sounded genuine, as if she really would accept Zoe, warts and all. Or maybe it was simply the almost-symmetrical lines on her face, the reassuring angles and axes that Zoe saw in numbers all over her skin. But whatever it was, something made Zoe open her mouth and speak.

“I have a condition,” she began. “It means that I see things… differently.”

“Differently, how? Like… apophenia?” From any other person, it might have sounded like an accusation. Zoe would have expected them to want to send her away to a psych ward, get her taken out of the Bureau. But Shelley was only seeking to understand, without judgment.

“Not quite. The patterns I see are—real. It is not just patterns, though they are a part of it. I see the world in numbers. I can tell you the distance between markers on the map without measuring it, the degree of angles between them. From there, the pattern follows.”

“What else can you see?” Shelley’s tone was one of wonder and excitement. Positive emotions, Zoe felt sure. Not the negativity she usually heard. Even still, she braced herself for a sudden switch, a smile transformed into anger and resentment. Even as she carried on.

“Everything,” she said, gesturing around helplessly. It was difficult to explain it all fully to someone who had never experienced it. Like trying to explain what it was like to see in color to someone who only saw black and white. “I know the number of millimeters that prevent your face from being exactly symmetrical. I count the chairs and desks in the briefing room the moment I enter, instantly. I can read footprints in the sand and know the height, weight, and running pace of the suspect. A knife wound tells me the dimensions of the blade. I see the numbers in everything.”

Shelley was silent for a moment, digesting it all. Zoe wanted to close her eyes. This was it—the moment when Shelley turned on her. It was coming now, the calm before the storm.

“Wow,” Shelley breathed. “Z, that’s amazing. You have a serious gift.”

Zoe blinked.

“I mean, this is amazing. No wonder you’re so good at catching people. With such a good solve rate, I wondered how you couldn’t keep partners. I thought you had to be arrogant or something, but this?” Shelley shook her head, a smile bursting and lighting up her face. “With a gift like this, you can do so much. Save so many people.”

Zoe reached for a chair and sat down, winded. “You are not angry with me?”

Shelley half-laughed, reaching to touch her arm again. “No, Z. Why would I be angry?” A moment passed, and there was a flicker across Shelley’s expression, something that Zoe could not read. “Oh. Because—because you’ve been made to feel like you’re… different? In a bad way?”

Zoe studied her own hands, lowering her head. “My mother said it was a gift from the devil.”

“That isn’t true,” Shelley said. “I know it isn’t. Jesus, no wonder you don’t like Christians. I mean—excuse my word choice.”

Zoe had to laugh, even if it was a small and quiet one.