I, Spy? (Sophie Green Mysteries, No. 1) (Sophie Green Mystery)

really strong painkillers, okay?), slotted the pistol in, and felt very, very cool.
    I zipped up the hoody, concealing the gun completely, and felt even cooler.
    As well as pretty scared. Knowing me I’d probably manage to shoot myself.
    Two more pairs of socks made walking more bearable and also meant I fitted into Luke’s trainers. I found a spare key taped inside a kitchen drawer—slack, Luke, really not good at all—and locked up after myself.
    The door opened straight onto the outside world, on a metal staircase climbing the outside of what looked like a barn. There were vans and things parked in the concrete yard and piles of roof tiles all over the place.
    Curiouser and curiouser. I ventured across the yard to the driveway and the main road, saw a sign announcing Pearce Roofing, and laughed out loud. I’d driven by this place pretty much every day on my way to my parents’ house. It was maybe half a mile from where I lived. I didn’t have to worry about dodging train fares or hitching lifts or anything.
    Fantastic.
    On my way back home, feeling much lighter than I had all morning, I passed the village cobbler’s. It was completely irresistible. The cobbler was slightly surprised to be presented with a credit card by means of payment for one key copy, but I had no cash on me.
    I found my flat, my lovely flat, intact at least from the outside, with Ted standing guard and a pile of rubble on the other side of the car park.
    Actually, you could hardly tell it was rubble. Building sites sort of all look the same, don’t they?
    That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. Boy, I have a lot of stories.
    I was slightly nervous when I walked in, especially since I’d had to climb over a large box outside that had apparently been delivered in my absence. I’d open it later, when I knew my flat was okay. I dreaded to think what was inside. Internal organs?
    The flat was as I’d left it—chaotic, with clothes and make-up all over the place. It looked better to my eyes than it ever ever had. I only wished Tammy was here with me.
    Yesterday’s post was still on the floor and I didn’t need to look inside the bulkiest envelope to know I’d got another finger. The freezer drawer with the other two fingers was full of ice cream, so I put the new arrival on its own with the chips. It was well wrapped. I hadn’t even opened it.
    There was a voice mail on my Siemens phone. “Hey, Soph, it’s Angel. Says in the book you’ve got flu, poor baby! I’ll try and drop round on my way in—I’m on nine-five overtime…”
    That girl was mad.
    “…don’t worry if you can’t get to the door, flu sucks. Drink lots of water and have some chicken soup. Damn, I mean golden veg or something. See you!”
    Ahh. Lovely, lovely Angel. And lovely Luke, too, for coming up with a plausible excuse. Not that I’d never used the flu one before. Ahem.
    I got a knife from the kitchen and stood in my doorway, feeling cold, staring at the cardboard box. It was all taped up and my name had been scrawled on it. It couldn’t be a delivery, I thought, there was no address or invoice. Besides, I hadn’t ordered anything.
    Feeling slightly sick, I crouched down and slit the tape, expecting something vile to leap out at me. Nothing did. Instead, I found myself looking at seven gorgeous boxed sets of Buffy DVDs.
    For a moment I couldn’t speak. Darling sweet Angel, who shares my obsession. These are her prized possessions! If her house was on fire this would be all she’d save. This and her father’s guitar, which is worth millions. And has sentimental value, of course.
    I dragged the box inside, heated up some soup, grabbed a bottle of water, and curled up with my duvet on the sofa to watch endless hours of Californian vampires.
     
    Several hours later, I’d watched the entire first series of Buffy , complete with commentaries and featurettes, six episodes of Sex and the City , last night’s Friends and twenty minutes of Alias . And I’d cried endlessly. I cried when Buffy and her friends had to kill that vamped mate of Xander’s in the first episode. I cried when Carrie cheated on Aidan. I cried when Monica thought Chandler didn’t want to have a baby with her. I cried because Michael Vartan is gorgeous.
    I don’t know what was wrong with me. I must have really been in shock. How could Luke let me come home on my own like that? Why didn’t he lock me in? I felt so unsafe, and unloved—because it was dark already and he