“And you know every language that’s ever been spoken on Earth?”

Thankful for the change in subject, I replied, “Every single one.”

“Even Farsi?”

“Even Farsi,” I said with a grin.

“Oh, my goodness!” she almost shouted. A thought must’ve popped into her brain. Then her features changed, darkened, and she pointed an accusative finger at me. “I knew it. I knew you understood what that Vietnamese man said to me that day in the market. I could see it in your eyes.”

I smiled and looked back at Reyes’s image, fell into him. “He said he liked your ass.”

She gasped. “Why, that little perv.”

“Told you he had the hots for you.”

“Too bad he was small enough to fit into my cle**age.”

“I think that’s why he liked you,” I said, a bubble of laughter slipping out.

Cookie sat silent a long while after that. I gave her some time to absorb everything I was telling her. After a moment, she asked, “How is it even possible?”

“Well,” I said, deciding to tease her, “I don’t think he could’ve actually fit in your cle**age. Though I’m sure he would have enjoyed the challenge.”

“No, I mean the language thing. It’s just so—”

“Freakishly cool?” I asked, my voice hopeful.

“—mind-boggling.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess it is.”

“And you understood what people were saying to you on the day you were born?”

With my nose crinkling in thought, I said, “Kind of. Not literally, however. I had no schema, no past to relate the words to, no meaning to process it with. When people spoke to me, I understood them on a visceral level. Oddly enough, I talked and walked and did everything else at a normal rate. But when anyone talks to me, I understand them. No matter what language they’re speaking. I just know what they’re saying.”

I nudged my mouse when the screen saver popped up, forced the image back to Reyes. “I understood the first words my father ever said to me, too,” I continued, trying to disguise the sadness in my voice. “For the most part anyway. He told me my mother had died.”

Cookie shook her head. “I’m so sorry.”

“I think my dad knew. I think he knew I understood him. It was like our little secret.” I grabbed a handful of popcorn and tossed a piece into my mouth. “Then he married my stepmother, and everything changed. She figured out pretty quick I was a freak. It all started when I got hooked on Mexican soap operas.”

“Charley, you’re not a freak.”

“It’s okay. I can’t blame her.”

“Yes, you can,” she said, her voice suddenly honed to a razor’s edge. “I’m a mother, too. Mothers don’t do that, step or otherwise.”

“Yeah, but Amber wasn’t born a grim reaper.”

“It doesn’t matter. She’s your stepmother. Period. It’s not like you became a serial killer.”

God, I loved having someone on my side. My dad had always loved me without reservation, but he never really had my back like that. I think Cookie would have taken on the Mafia single-handedly for me. And won.

“So, the day you were born, that’s when he called you Dutch?”

“Yes.”

“Now, was this before or after your mother crossed through you?”

“After, but I just don’t get it. How did he know? I’d never realized until tonight that Bad didn’t say my actual name that day. He didn’t call me Charlotte. He’d called me Dutch, Cookie, just like Reyes did when I was in high school. How could he have known?” My mind started spinning, trying desperately to put the pieces together.

“Okay, let me ask you this,” she said, her forehead crinkling in thought. “The first time you saw Reyes, did you notice anything unusual about him?”

“Besides the fact that he was getting his ass kicked by psycho-dad?”

“Yes.”

I pulled in a long, deep breath and thought about it. “You know, I may have but didn’t realize it at the time. I mean, maybe there was something different, something supernatural, but all the adrenaline flooding my body had me thinking it was just the direness of the moment. He was so magnificent. So beautiful and agile and perfect.”

“From the way you’ve described it, maybe Reyes is some kind of supernatural being. The fact that he took a beating like that and just walked away like you seem to do every other week has me wondering.”

“I’d never looked at it that way.” As I thought back to that night, the memory both unsettling and fascinating, I could see Reyes in my mind. “You know what?” I asked in realization. “He was different. He was, I don’t know, dark. Unreadable.”

“Well, he sounds suspiciously supernatural to me.”

If I hadn’t been so tired, I would have laughed. “You’re suddenly the expert?”

“If it’s hot and dark, yeah, pretty much.”

That time, I did laugh.

“So how many times have you seen Bad?” she asked, seeming to come to terms with everything I’d told her. This was good. Productive. Cheaper than therapy.

“Not many.”

“Well, when you saw him, what happened?”

I picked up my cup and took a sip of the hot chocolate Cookie’d insisted I switch to.