clarified it for me.”
“That you want to be together?”
She moved her hand across the table and on his waiting palm. “Let’s just take it easy,” she said. “I just wanted to sit with you here—in this restaurant we both like—and let you know that’s what I was thinking. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah, on some level,” Pete said, wrapping his hand around hers. Did it, though? A few days ago they were at each other’s throats. He did miss her, that he was sure of—the good and the bad. The moodiness and cutting remarks were washed away by her good heart and crackling brain. But this was moving fast; he needed to hold onto something.
He moved his hand back to his side of the table.
“Do you want dessert?” he said.
“Not here.”
***
Costello jumped on Pete’s side of the bed, rubbing his face on Pete’s arm, purring. He scratched the cat’s chin in the darkness. Costello was receptive until he decided there was more to do around the house. He hopped off the bed and scurried away, his tiny paws thumping on the hardwood floor. Pete turned to his right, where Emily was curled up next to him, her head resting on his arm. She felt him move and positioned her body closer to his. He pulled the bedsheet up over her shoulder. Pete let his head drop back onto the pillow. He looked up at the ceiling, hard to make out in the dimness. The evening had been wonderful. Pete wasn’t sure he remembered what “wonderful” was like. Dinner was good. Conversation was lively and familiar. Everything he’d wanted—or remembered wanting—had been laid out on the table for him to take. The only woman he’d ever thought to marry was sleeping in his bed. He had enough money to get by for the time being and he felt like, for the first time in years, his life had momentum. He felt recharged. He pulled Emily closer and kissed her on the forehead, smelling the remnants of her perfume and feeling her warm skin touch his.
But if everything was where it was supposed to be, why did he feel so uneasy?
His phone, resting on the nightstand next to the bed, vibrated. A text message. He grabbed it and turned on the display. Kathy.
KATHY: You awake?
Pete typed a response with his one free hand: “Yeah. What’s up?”
KATHY: I’m talking to Erica Morales’ family tomorrow. Wanna come with?
Pete paused. What was he agreeing to do? “What for?”
KATHY: What do you think? To help me figure out who’s killing these girls.
Pete moved out from under Emily and sat up. She grumbled to herself, half asleep. He responded to Kathy, typing with more speed: “You don’t need my help. You’re smart.”
KATHY: Cut the bullshit. Do you want to help me or not?
“OK. When/where?”
KATHY: I’ll pick you up in the morning. Be ready by 7:30. That means stop fucking your roommate and go to sleep.
Pete laughed and set the phone back down. He slid back into bed and turned to face Emily. Her face was focused and serious when she slept. He remembered the first time he’d told her that, how she’d laughed and called him a creep. Years later, she admitted that had been the moment she knew he was a keeper, knew that he cared.
He felt a pang of guilt as he pushed a strand of her blond hair away from her face.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Erica Morales gre w up in a tiny but well-kept three-bedroom house in Little Havana, a few blocks from 8th Street—or Calle Ocho. That’s where they were heading. Calle Ocho was the heart of the Cuban exile community of Miami—a stretch where English was a second language and people were more interested in the politics happening ninety miles from U.S. soil than what was going on in Washington. Where a comment that even remotely made it sound like you agreed with a certain bearded dictator could get you pummeled. West of downtown, Little Havana was an extension of a Cuba that no longer existed—an idealized version of a country many had left behind in haste and fear. The pace was slow, the salsa music was
“That you want to be together?”
She moved her hand across the table and on his waiting palm. “Let’s just take it easy,” she said. “I just wanted to sit with you here—in this restaurant we both like—and let you know that’s what I was thinking. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah, on some level,” Pete said, wrapping his hand around hers. Did it, though? A few days ago they were at each other’s throats. He did miss her, that he was sure of—the good and the bad. The moodiness and cutting remarks were washed away by her good heart and crackling brain. But this was moving fast; he needed to hold onto something.
He moved his hand back to his side of the table.
“Do you want dessert?” he said.
“Not here.”
***
Costello jumped on Pete’s side of the bed, rubbing his face on Pete’s arm, purring. He scratched the cat’s chin in the darkness. Costello was receptive until he decided there was more to do around the house. He hopped off the bed and scurried away, his tiny paws thumping on the hardwood floor. Pete turned to his right, where Emily was curled up next to him, her head resting on his arm. She felt him move and positioned her body closer to his. He pulled the bedsheet up over her shoulder. Pete let his head drop back onto the pillow. He looked up at the ceiling, hard to make out in the dimness. The evening had been wonderful. Pete wasn’t sure he remembered what “wonderful” was like. Dinner was good. Conversation was lively and familiar. Everything he’d wanted—or remembered wanting—had been laid out on the table for him to take. The only woman he’d ever thought to marry was sleeping in his bed. He had enough money to get by for the time being and he felt like, for the first time in years, his life had momentum. He felt recharged. He pulled Emily closer and kissed her on the forehead, smelling the remnants of her perfume and feeling her warm skin touch his.
But if everything was where it was supposed to be, why did he feel so uneasy?
His phone, resting on the nightstand next to the bed, vibrated. A text message. He grabbed it and turned on the display. Kathy.
KATHY: You awake?
Pete typed a response with his one free hand: “Yeah. What’s up?”
KATHY: I’m talking to Erica Morales’ family tomorrow. Wanna come with?
Pete paused. What was he agreeing to do? “What for?”
KATHY: What do you think? To help me figure out who’s killing these girls.
Pete moved out from under Emily and sat up. She grumbled to herself, half asleep. He responded to Kathy, typing with more speed: “You don’t need my help. You’re smart.”
KATHY: Cut the bullshit. Do you want to help me or not?
“OK. When/where?”
KATHY: I’ll pick you up in the morning. Be ready by 7:30. That means stop fucking your roommate and go to sleep.
Pete laughed and set the phone back down. He slid back into bed and turned to face Emily. Her face was focused and serious when she slept. He remembered the first time he’d told her that, how she’d laughed and called him a creep. Years later, she admitted that had been the moment she knew he was a keeper, knew that he cared.
He felt a pang of guilt as he pushed a strand of her blond hair away from her face.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Erica Morales gre w up in a tiny but well-kept three-bedroom house in Little Havana, a few blocks from 8th Street—or Calle Ocho. That’s where they were heading. Calle Ocho was the heart of the Cuban exile community of Miami—a stretch where English was a second language and people were more interested in the politics happening ninety miles from U.S. soil than what was going on in Washington. Where a comment that even remotely made it sound like you agreed with a certain bearded dictator could get you pummeled. West of downtown, Little Havana was an extension of a Cuba that no longer existed—an idealized version of a country many had left behind in haste and fear. The pace was slow, the salsa music was
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