Abracadaver (Esther Diamond Novel) by Laura Resnick Page B

doing everything he can to encourage them.”
    “I’m sorry you’re going through this.”
    “Joe Ning is turning out to be a thorn in my side even when he’s dead,” he said grumpily.
    “And I’m sorry you had to do a lot of paperwork and maybe tell some lies because I smashed in the window of your police car. Your previous police car, I mean.”
    “That was the one where the radio kept going dead,” he muttered.
    “Look, I was worried about you,” I said quietly. “So I did what I had to do.”
    “Break into my car and steal the death-ray cookie,” he said. “That was what you had to do?”
    “Yes.”
    “Okay, listen,” he said, his tone changing. “Everything else aside . . . like your crazy cookie theory, your friendship with Max, your close association with a Gambello killer, and a lot of really weird water that’s flowed under the bridge ever since I met you . . .”
    He’d called me his girlfriend a few minutes ago, but this sounded like the start of a breaking-up speech.
    “
Everything
else aside,” he said, “Esther, if you thought there was something deadly dangerous inside my car . . . why didn’t you just call me?”
    “Call you?”
    “You know, on the
phone?
” he prodded. “You’ve got my number, and I was right in the neighborhood. Why didn’t you call me and say, ‘I’m worried about this thing in your car, and we should . . .’ I don’t know—drop it into an acid bath or something?”
    It had never occurred to me to call him that night, since I knew he wouldn’t believe me—and would certainly veto the idea of taking the cookie to Max to be neutralized, which was the only safe solution.
    “The situation was urgent,” I said. “You were in danger. I had to get rid of that thing—without arguing about it with
you
half the night.”
    “Did smashing in a car window really seem like a better plan than arguing with me?” he demanded.
    “Well . . . yes,” I admitted.
    He sighed. “Okay, it’s this. Right here.
This
is why I just can’t figure out what to do.”
    “What to do?” I repeated.
    “About you,” he said. “About us.”
    My heart sank a little.
    “I can’t get on an even keel. I can’t think straight anymore . . . I try to move forward, and I wind up moving in circles. Esther, I just can’t . . . can’t
do
this.”
    I could tell he was very serious now.
    “Are you . . .” I cleared my throat. “Are you breaking up with me?”

7
    W hen asking that question, I deliberately omitted the word
again,
since it would just add humiliation to my hurt.
    “Breaking up with you?” he said. “Are we even together? I don’t even know
that
much.”
    I didn’t know, either. But whatever the right word was for what was between us, I had a feeling that it wasn’t
together
.
    We’d slept with each other, but only once. The closest we’d ever come to going on a date was when he bought me a chili dog in the park on a cold December night. Since we’d met—no, since he’d first broken up with me—months at a time passed without any contact between us. Recently, we’d gone several weeks without even being on speaking terms.
    Sounding frustrated, he said, “I have no idea what’s going on with us.”
    “A few minutes ago, you called me your girlfriend.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them.
    “I did?” He sounded puzzled.
    Ouch. That hurt.
    I decided not to pursue it. Instead I asked, “What exactly are you trying to say to me?”
    “Good question.” He was silent for a moment. “I think there is something I’m trying to say, I just don’t know what. But, uh . . .”
    “But?”
    “I have the feeling that this isn’t a phone conversation.”
    I frowned. “Yes, it is. We’re on the phone.”
    “I mean, I think if we’re going to talk about us—and it seems like that’s something we need to do—we should do it in person.”
    Right. Where I could see him. So that losing him would hurt even