chapter seven the flying squirrel slumped in a chair heavily and peeled off her cowl with a sigh she flipped it on to the wooden table before her which was strewn with test tubes and laboratory equipment

and leaned forward elbows on the table and cupped hands supporting her face. For a moment, she closed her eyes.

It was the silence that got her attention.

It shouldn't have been that quiet, even within the confines of their underground layer.

Her big brown eyes popped open and scanned the room.

She couldn't see anything, but that never

meant much where he was concerned. I know you're looking at my cowlhead, she said in as

threatening a tone as she could manage without lifting her face from her hands. As much as she

loved the life of daring do that her dual identity offered her,

Kit Baxter was always mortified by the unruly red mop that a few hours wearing the cowl turned her

hair into. She was even more mortified by the fact that it seemed to fascinate the boss.

It came across as a sort of scientific interest, such as one might bestow upon a

bizarre natural phenomena, but it was still the only thing she did that seemed to catch his eye,

and that bothered her. He stepped from the shadows to stand beside her, his own mask in his hand,

and quite pointedly looking anywhere except his partner.

"'Him? he said, pretending not to have heard.

"'You're not fooling anyone, you know,' she monotoned without moving.

He dropped his mask on the table beside hers and took off his right glove.

"'It's just this part,' he said, holding out his hand some eight or nine inches above her head and touching a remarkable spike of hair,

like a stalagmite, he thought, though he kept that comparison to himself, this time.

I don't know how it does that.

She stood and tromped wearily from the crime lab as he called after her protesting.

...