Chapter Text
The telephone shrieked.
Ben Reilly flinched.
His right hand twitched toward the side of his head before he caught himself, fingers curling into a fist beneath the desk. The involuntary movement had become second nature over the past several years, usually surfacing whenever he was exhausted, overstimulated, or trying very hard not to think about everything waiting for him after sundown. It was barely ten in the morning, and already the city seemed determined to test his patience.
Business at Reilly Investigations had exploded over the past few months. Between his work as a private detective and the whispered rumors surrounding the mysterious vigilante known only as the Spider, people came through his door with every problem imaginable; missing husbands, blackmail, insurance fraud, stolen jewelry, runaways, and the occasional matter that the police preferred not to touch. The work never stopped, and neither did the telephone.
"For crying out loud," Robbie Roberson called from the next desk, "answer it!"
Ben didn't even look up. "I'm busy."
"You've been glaring at that piece of paper for ten minutes."
"I am reading."
"You've been reading the same sentence."
Ben scowled at him. The note in front of him had been written by a nervous socialite whose idea of secrecy involved opera references, coded initials, and a recipe for poisoned hors d'oeuvres hidden between the lines. Somewhere inside the nonsense was a request for help. Probably.
The telephone rang again, then again.
Ben pinched the bridge of his nose. "I hate that thing."
"I've noticed." Robbie leaned back in his chair with a grin. "You know what your problem is?"
"I have several." Ben finally looked up, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement.
"You need a secretary."
Ben let out a tired sigh. He did, desperately. Not because he couldn't investigate crimes or interview witnesses, but because someone needed to answer the telephone, schedule appointments, keep track of invoices, and politely explain to clients that, no, Ben Reilly wasn't intentionally glaring at them. He simply looked like that.
Finding a secretary, however, had proven nearly impossible.
The first applicant had burst into tears after Ben accidentally barked at her for filing witness statements alphabetically instead of chronologically. The second had spent the entire interview asking suspicious questions about Ben's mysterious disappearances at night, and the third had tried selling information about Reilly Investigations to one of the city's rival newspapers. Ben had thrown him out before the interview was over.
The telephone rang again.
"I swear," Ben muttered, "I'm going to throw that thing out the window."
Before Robbie could answer, the office door opened.
A cool autumn breeze swept inside, carrying the scent of rain and flowers.
The woman who entered looked to be in her twenties. Dark curls were pinned neatly beneath a modest hat, her dress was simple but practical, and she carried herself with the confidence of someone who had long ago stopped apologizing for taking up space. Her dark eyes swept across the office in one practiced glance, taking in the overflowing file cabinets, the stacks of newspapers, the half-finished coffee cups, and finally the detective glaring at the telephone as though it had personally offended him.
She smiled.
"Buenos días. My name is Janet Ruiz." She extended a hand. "I'm here about the secretary position."
Robbie looked delighted. "Well, Ben..." He leaned back in his chair. "I think we finally found someone brave enough."
Ben stood and shook her hand. "The position is still available."
"I hoped so."
"You understand this office is..." His eyes drifted around the room. "...busy."
Janet looked around once more. "I've noticed." She gestured toward the overflowing paperwork. "It also appears to be losing a fight with organization."
Robbie laughed.
Ben frowned. "I have a system."
Janet glanced at the pile threatening to collapse off his desk. "...Does it have one?"
For just a moment, Ben wasn't sure whether she'd insulted him. He decided she probably had.
"I answer telephones," Janet continued, counting on her fingers. "I type. I keep appointments. I organize files. And judging by the look on your face..." She smiled politely. "...I occasionally remind stubborn detectives to eat lunch."
Robbie slapped the desk. "Oh, she's hired."
"I haven't decided that."
"You decided five seconds ago."
"I have not."
"You absolutely have."
Ben ignored him. "You don't seem nervous."
"Should I be?"
"Most applicants are."
Janet shrugged. "I've worked for lawyers."
Robbie winced. "...Fair enough," Ben said, and he studied her.
She met his gaze without flinching, without fidgeting, and without trying to fill the silence. Finally, she tilted her head ever so slightly.
"You do that a lot."
"...Do what?"
"Stare."
"I observe."
"Of course." She nodded thoughtfully. "And I've observed something."
Ben folded his arms. "What?"
"You twitch."
Silence.
Ben blinked. "My pardon?"
"Your hand." She pointed. "And your eye. Occasionally your shoulder."
Ben instinctively tucked his hand behind his back. "I do not twitch."
"You just did."
"I most certainly did not."
Robbie tried. and failed. not to laugh.
Janet wasn't mocking him. If anything, she sounded genuinely curious. "You look tired."
"I sleep."
"When?"
"...Recently."
"That's not an answer."
Ben opened his mouth, then closed it again. Robbie leaned over from his desk.
"Congratulations."
Ben looked at him. "For what?"
"You're the first person I've ever seen win an argument with him before being hired."
Janet smiled. "I haven't won." She walked over to the coffee pot. "May I?"
Ben blinked. "...Certainly."
She poured a fresh cup, uncorked a tiny bottle from her handbag, and added several drops of a dark amber liquid before stirring it carefully. Then she set the mug in front of him.
"For you."
Ben eyed it suspiciously. "...What is it?"
"A family recipe."
"For?"
"Helping overworked detectives who haven't slept enough."
Robbie leaned away from the mug. "I'm not drinking that."
"It isn't for you."
Ben lifted the cup cautiously. The aroma reached him first, earthy and warm, with the unmistakable scent of alcohol beneath it. He took one careful sip.
Almost immediately, the lingering fog behind his eyes began to lift.
He looked at Janet, then at the mug, then back at Janet. "...What exactly is in this?"
She smiled. "If I told you, it wouldn't be a family recipe anymore."
Ben stared at her for another moment. He was either about to be poisoned or about to discover that she possessed some kind of miracle cure. Either way, he respected the confidence.
He set the cup down.
"You're hired."
Robbie grinned. "I told you."
Janet smiled warmly. "Excellent."
She picked up the ringing telephone before either man could move.
"Reilly Investigations." She listened. "Yes, ma'am. I'll schedule an appointment."
She hung up and reached for a notepad. Without missing a beat, she looked between Ben and Robbie.
"Now then... which one of you knows where the appointment book is?"
Silence.
Ben looked at Robbie.
Robbie looked at Ben.
Janet sighed. "Oh." She rolled up her sleeves. "So that's the kind of office this is."
For the first time that morning, Ben smiled.
Just a little.
---
The next few weeks were a revelation.
Janet Ruiz was not merely a secretary. She was an enigma wrapped in a firecracker. She handled the phones with an efficiency that left Ben and Robbie speechless, typed with a speed that made their heads spin, and organized their chaos with a serene, unwavering calm. She did it all with a sharp wit and a disarming smile that could probably have stopped a charging bull.
Ben's tics, the telltale signs of his stress and his secret nocturnal activities as the Spider, still made their unwelcome appearances, but Janet had a way of dealing with them without making him feel as though she was watching for every little movement. Sometimes it was a gentle touch on his arm, sometimes a quiet suggestion that he should go home and get some sleep, and if he was particularly stubborn, a pointed look that threatened to involve Robbie.
She never questioned his late nights, his sudden disappearances, or the faint residual scent of something metallic and slightly acrid that sometimes clung to his clothes after he returned from wherever he went at night.
She simply ensured his coffee was always "revitalized" and that his desk remained relatively tidy.
Then came the case.
The city was gripped by a series of baffling thefts, and these were not ordinary burglaries. Priceless jewels vanished from locked vaults. Rare artifacts disappeared from heavily guarded museums. The thief, or thieves, left no trace, no witnesses, and no fingerprints.
The newspapers, naturally, were having a field day.
They had given the phantom culprit a name.
**The Shadow Weaver.**
Ben and Robbie were on it almost immediately. The pressure mounted as New York's wealthy elite began locking themselves behind increasingly elaborate security measures, only to discover that none of it seemed to matter. The Shadow Weaver continued to slip through every defense as though the city itself had been built to accommodate the thief.
And Ben, beneath the cloak of darkness, was doing what he did best.
Operating as the Spider, he moved across the rooftops of New York, following threads the police couldn't see and listening for clues hidden beneath the city's ordinary noise. But the dual life was taking its toll. His tics were more pronounced, his temper shorter, and his sleep even more elusive. Worse, the growing frustration of the Shadow Weaver case was beginning to follow him home.
One evening, as Ben was preparing to slip out for his nightly patrol, Janet called after him.
"Mr. Reilly, you haven't left yet? It's nearly closing time. And you've been..." She hesitated, choosing the word carefully. "...particularly fidgety today."
She gestured subtly toward his right hand, which was exhibiting a pronounced tremor.
Ben sighed. He was exhausted, and the familiar pressure had begun building at the base of his neck again, the early warning of a migraine-like pain that usually meant his spider-sense was trying to tell him something he couldn't yet identify.
"Hm. It's why I'm going now," he lied. He reached for his coat and forced his voice to sound steadier than he felt. "Janet, don't stay too late. Good night."
She watched him go.
Ben hated that she noticed. He hated even more that she was so perceptive.
But she was good at her job.
---
The Shadow Weaver's crimes continued.
Each one was more audacious than the last, and Ben and Robbie were chasing shadows, following leads that evaporated like mist. But Janet, from behind her desk, was piecing together a different kind of puzzle.
She noticed patterns.
Not in the thefts themselves, but in Ben's behavior.
The days he was particularly agitated. The nights he seemed to disappear for longer stretches. The faint, almost imperceptible scent of ozone that sometimes lingered around him after he returned.
She had a hunch.
That was all.
She had worked for Ben for a couple of months now, and the Shadow Weaver case had him more on edge than anything she'd seen before. He twitched more. He slept less. He grew increasingly irritable, and with the stress came another habit she had begun to notice.
He supplemented it with booze.
It was one of those nights when Ben had stared at the case files for hours, drinking himself steadily into oblivion while Robbie had eventually gone home.
Janet had remained behind.
She sat at her desk surrounded by mountains of files, so absorbed in her work that she'd lost track of time. Eventually she glanced at the clock and realized how late it had become.
She assumed Ben had already left.
Or perhaps he'd slipped out while she was working and she'd simply failed to notice.
Either way, she needed to go home. Her bed was calling for her.
Janet tidied the remaining files, gathered her things, and prepared to turn off the lights and lock up. There were still a few items she needed to put into Ben's office before she left, so she opened his door and switched on the light.
Then she shrieked.
Ben turned around.
He was drunk.
Very drunk.
He was wearing a fedora.
And a very familiar pair of spider goggles.
"AY, HIJO DE TU MADRE!"
Ben gave her a stupid, drunken grin.
"I'm the Spider, Janet."
Janet stared at him.
"I'm Spider," he slurred, as though repeating the statement made it somehow more convincing.
She stood completely dumbfounded for a solid minute.
Then she sighed.
She was far too tired to begin contemplating the revelation her drunken employer had just dropped into her lap.
"Of course you are."
Ben smiled proudly.
Janet turned off the light, left him in the dark, and made absolutely certain she locked him inside the building before leaving.
The last thing she needed was for a drunk vigilante to decide to start swinging through Manhattan.
---
The next morning arrived far too quickly.
Ben woke with a splitting headache, his mouth tasting like stale whiskey. His neck ached from sleeping awkwardly in his office chair, and every beam of sunlight that slipped through the blinds felt like a personal attack.
He groaned.
"...Never again."
That was a lie.
He'd said it before.
Somehow, after every difficult case, another bottle always found its way onto his desk. He straightened his tie, splashed cold water on his face, and shuffled into the front office.
The rich smell of fresh coffee greeted him first.
Then donuts.
Janet sat behind her desk typing with her usual impossible speed while Robbie thumbed through the morning edition of the Daily Bugle. Both looked up when Ben entered.
"Morning," Robbie said with a grin. "You look terrible."
"I feel worse."
"I believe it," Janet replied pleasantly. She slid a steaming mug across the desk toward him before he could even ask. "I thought you might need this."
Ben accepted it gratefully. "...You're a miracle worker."
"I've been called worse," she joked.
He took a long drink. Whatever Janet put in her coffee worked wonders. The pounding behind his eyes eased almost immediately, and he sighed with relief.
"You've saved my life."
"For the moment." Robbie snorted. "Give it an hour."
Ben glared at him over the rim of his mug. "I could fire you."
"I don't work for you."
"I know."
"You need me."
"I dislike that you're right."
Janet hid a smile as she continued typing.
Everything seemed normal.
Comfortably normal.
Which suited Ben just fine.
---
By midmorning, the office had settled into its usual rhythm. The telephone rang constantly, clients came and went, Robbie interviewed witnesses while Ben paced before the evidence board, studying photographs from the latest Shadow Weaver robbery.
Jewels.
Museum inventories.
Guard schedules.
Newspaper clippings.
Nothing fit.
Nothing made sense.
Ben's fingers twitched unconsciously, and his head tilted as he stared at the evidence. Janet noticed and quietly placed another cup of coffee beside him.
"You've been looking at that same photograph for fifteen minutes."
"I've been thinking."
"So has the photograph."
Ben blinked. "...That doesn't make sense."
"It wasn't supposed to."
Robbie laughed. "I like her."
"I've noticed," Ben muttered, though a small smile appeared despite himself.
---
The Shadow Weaver had struck again overnight.
A priceless sapphire necklace had vanished from a locked display at the Winslow Gallery. There were no broken windows, no forced entry, and no witnesses.
Only another strand of black silk cloth had been left behind.
Robbie flipped through his notebook, going over his notes. "The police think the thief climbed in through the skylight."
"They're wrong," Ben replied immediately.
"You know that already?"
"The skylight is untouched."
Robbie frowned. "Then how—"
"Inside help."
Janet looked up from her typewriter. "You've been saying that for weeks."
"Because it's true."
"Do you have proof?"
"Not yet."
"So it's still a theory."
Ben sighed. "...Yes."
Janet smiled. "I'll mark it down as one of your very confident theories."
Ben gave her a look.
Robbie laughed.
---
Around lunchtime, Janet walked into Ben's office carrying another stack of files. She stopped beside his desk.
"You really should take a break."
"I don't have time."
"You haven't eaten."
"I forgot."
"I know." She placed a sandwich beside the files. "You always forget."
Ben looked at the sandwich, then at Janet. "...Thank you."
"You're welcome."
She started toward the door before stopping.
"Oh."
Ben looked up.
"You should probably avoid drinking whiskey while wearing your swimming goggles."
Silence.
Ben stared at her.
"...My what?"
Janet turned back with a picture of innocence. "Your swimming goggles."
"I don't own swimming goggles."
"You don't?"
"No."
Janet blinked.
"Interesting."
She walked back out into the main office as though she hadn't just dropped the strangest sentence he'd ever heard.
Ben sat frozen.
A minute later, he wandered into the outer office.
"Robbie."
"Yeah?"
"...Do I own swimming goggles?"
Robbie lowered his notebook. "What kind of question is that?"
"I don't know." Ben rubbed his temples. "Janet asked me not to drink whiskey while wearing them."
Robbie looked at Janet.
Janet kept typing.
"I don't recall saying that."
"You literally just—"
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Mr. Reilly."
Robbie looked between them.
"...I'm staying out of this."
Ben frowned.
Something about the exchange felt wrong, like he was missing a page in the middle of a book.
He couldn't remember much after opening the whiskey bottle the night before. Only scattered flashes remained: case files, rain against the window, the bottle, and then...
Nothing.
He chalked it up to exhaustion.
After all, stranger things had happened.
Janet smiled to herself as she continued typing. She had promised herself she wouldn't tell anyone, and she intended to keep that promise. Though she suspected Mr. Reilly would eventually remember exactly why she'd mentioned the goggles, watching him puzzle over his own forgotten confession was proving unexpectedly entertaining.
Outside, another telephone began to ring.
Ben sighed. "Please tell me that isn't another client."
Janet answered the phone before the second ring. "Reilly Investigations. Janet Ruiz speaking."
She listened for a moment, then looked toward Ben.
"It appears the Shadow Weaver has struck again."
Ben groaned. "So much for lunch."
He grabbed his coat. Robbie grabbed his notebook. Janet grabbed the newest case file from her desk and started organizing it before either man could object.
The two of them hurried out into the streets of New York together, completely unaware that the Shadow Weaver's next move would finally expose the conspiracy hiding behind every impossible theft.
---
**End of Chapter 1**