Roses

Chapter 26

Zoey

"I wonder if we should go to the police with this," Abraham muses. Our suspect behavior list seems ready, considering we couldn't find anything else to add to it.

"They are professionals. I bet they already have something like this on their files, that doesn't look a lot like an art project," I say.

"You're probably right," he laughs. "But my, was it fun to do this?!" We smile at each other, sharing a beautiful moment of solidarity. "So," he sits up straighter on the bed, "how's your book coming?"

"I've barely written two chapters."

"But?" It surprises me that he can sense the optimism in my voice.

"I feel good about it." I don't know if it's the story or the character, or how I have been feeling about myself lately, but I'm really excited to write this book.

"That's great." He looks down with a strange expression on his face.

"What?"

"Your mother used to have the same face when talking about books." His eyes meet mine again. "This serene, far off gaze that let the other person know she was somewhere else in her mind."

Somewhere happier, is what he doesn't have to add for me to understand.

No matter how much I think of her and the handful of her memories that survived, she will forever be a mystery to me.

"Were her last days.... painful?" I whisper the question. I remember some of my parents' fights. But I don't trust that my brain registered the full truth back then. If she confided in Abraham...

"I don't know," he smiles sadly. "We lost touch a year before her death." Something dark and chilling shines in his eyes and I have to look away. He seems to notice my discomfort so he clears his throat and adds, "She had you in her last days, Zoey. And you were the only person she ever truly wanted. I doubt she would call them painful."

I don't know why he felt the need to make me feel better, but it wasn't working. So I might as well put a stop to his efforts. "What she would call them and what they were could be two different things, don't you think?" I stare at him and he remains very still, a cautious expression plastered on his face like he's treading thin ice. "I bet she could've been happier," I mutter.

"She could have," he says with so much conviction you'd think he was friends with the Fates. "But she chose to be with a killer."

Like I did today.

A knock sounds at the door before it opens and Adam peers his head in, his eyes holding a somber glow like he knows exactly what we were talking about.

"How's everything going?" He asks tentatively.

"Very good. Zoey and I just finished making the list that describes the killer," Abraham answers.

"That's great." Adam offers him a small smile. And it is in moments like these that their relationship tugs at my heartstrings. I have caught on to the fact that Adam doesn't like his father very much, but it is clear as day he still cares about him. "You don't mind if I steal her for dinner, do you?"

"Not one bit," Abraham smiles back. Adam turns to look at me, pushing the door open wider. I nod my head at Abraham, who seems to be watching our interaction with curiosity, and then follow his son out the door.

We sit across from each other in silence as Rosa serves us several delicious foods. Her face mirrors the same curiosity I just saw on Abraham's face, albeit it is more joyful.

"How was your day?" Adam asks after she leaves us to eat.

"It was good. Your father is very pleased with our," I look up between bites of food to find him looking at me with the same adoration that unnerved me several times this morning, "investigation," I add in a whisper.

"Thanks for humoring him, with the serial killer stuff. He doesn't have much else to think about."

"On the contrary, I think he has far too many bitter things to think about. Which is why he chooses to obsess over the killer instead." It doesn't escape me that I am speaking for a man Adam has known his whole life, while I've only known him for the past few weeks.

But sometimes we confuse familiarity with understanding.

He stares at me for a moment, without saying anything. I wait for him to disagree with me but he just continues eating.

"You've been working from home a lot lately. Everything good with your businesses?"

"Mm-hmm." He dabs a napkin on his mouth before taking a sip from his water. "Everything's great. I just have more reasons keeping me here."

I know he's looking at me, waiting for me to say something, but I keep my head down. At least like this, I can pretend I'm not one of his reasons.

Seconds turn into minutes and he mirrors my silence, although looking at me from time to time.

My conversation with his father has left me feeling very uneasy about whatever's going on between us. And I need some time and space away from him to think.

We finish dinner quietly and then he tells me he'll drop me home. I don't bother arguing: he won't relent and it's just safer this way.

"I have to go away for work for three days," he says as we enter my street.

"Okay," I mutter. Relief and frustration envelop my tone equal parts. And I hate feeling so torn. Maybe this window of space will help give me clarity about my feelings for him.

He stops the car, turns to face me and asks, "Will you go on a date with me when I return?"

Our conversation when he had asked me to accompany him to Viktor Bruno's party comes to my mind.

I am asking you to play the role of a beautiful woman on my arm to a public event. The other would mean..... more.

Have we gotten around to the more part this time?

The way he's looking at me right now, like he doesn't know what he'll do if I say no, tells me we have.

"Yes," I answer.

His features transform into a breathtaking smile and I can't help but smile back at him.

And I realize with astounding clarity that a part of me already doesn't care that he killed a man today.