The police had officially made it to the top of her list of Unhelpful People With Ridiculously Limited Vocabularies. And, for someone who knew an awful lot of daft people, that was quite an achievement in Tessie's book.
She was sitting on the kitchen counter, legs crossed underneath her, glaring at the opposite cabinet as if she could liquidise it with her gaze. For all Jackson's gibbering and wailing, the police had found no trace of the stolen files, and Tessie hadn't left the house since. She daren't. If the thief took it into their heads to read what they had found . . .
I never should have left Swansea, Tessie thought, snuffling miserably into her sleeve. She'd felt like crying with frustration ever since this mess began. She doubted she would be able to keep it in much longer.
Desperate to distract herself from her numbing melancholy, she shuffled across the counter top and turned on the radio. She hadn't touched the thing since the abandonment of her sandwich - an event in itself which seemed to come from a different age - so she really had no idea what to expect. What she heard, however, nearly sent her toppling to the floor.
A theft. High-security convention. Unknown thief making off with unknown, but clearly very important, artifact. FBI all over the place. A note from Snake Eyes.
If there had been any note found, she had never heard of it, but Tessie hadn't been following the cases for as long as she had for no reason. No fingerprints. No visible signs of a break-in. No other objects stolen, just the most valuable items targeted and vanishing without a trace.
But no return. Just like this one.
Tessie knew she was probably imagining things, but she didn't care. She was across the hall and out of the door in seconds, teleporting in no particular direction, heading for the site of the convention. She knew the city well enough by now, and she could pick up directions from her surroundings as she went. Security wouldn't be a problem, but how to find someone who would listen to her?
Just jump on the nearest man who looks like he knows what he's doing, she decided, porting out of the road just as a taxi swerved around a corner. She might be spotted, but she didn't care. She was more than used to being written off as a trick of the light, an errant shadow or a sign that someone really had drunk far too much last night. Despite herself, she found herself humming the Mission Impossible theme tune under her breath as she ported closer and closer to her destination.
Snake Eyes had all been very amusing until they'd decided to pick on her.