She sank onto the edge of the claw-footed porcelain basin. Her hand stretched out to turn the brass knob and watch the water flow. Zasha often found tranquility in her vintage-inspired bathroom. She had handpicked every aspect: from the pale pink walls to the round antique mirror that hung above the tub. The fact that peace eluded her now was a sad one. She moved away from the faucet and stood to slip off what was left of her lingerie.
The underwear had been lost to the room, and the bra she could never wear again. It would only remind her of Phelan. As it was, the memories of last night seemed burned into her brain. Each moment replayed behind her lids on a loop. Sick of the masculine smell that tantalized and incensed her anger, Zasha stood and moved to the glass jars that lined her vanity.
Inept fingers twisted the metal top off the rose-scented bath salt. She’d soak until she pruned and do her damndest not to think about Phelan D’Shar, and what could have been.
****
An hour later, she was wrinkled, floral scented, and still focused on the night before. Clad in a pair of worn jeans and a faded black Jack’s Mannequin shirt, she should have been relaxed but instead she was at odds. A part of her found her abrupt exit an act of cowardice. The other part saw it as self-preservation. God, she needed a distraction. Her body rotated to face the small closet she had turned into a make shift office.
Her hazel eyes closed as she inhaled air into her lungs and let her belly expand. The tension in her muscles felt good and she savored the burn before she allowed a slow release. A few more inhales and exhales later, she was ready to put in work. Bare feet padded over the wooden floor. Each step heavier than the one before as she made her way to the room, spun the knob, and stepped into her own personal hell. Newspaper clippings, faded pictures, and sticky notes covered the walls on the left and right.
But the pièce de résistance was the map of the U.S. that spread across the wall above her desk. Red push pins scattered across a myriad number of towns in each state. Each connected by red twine. The last tip she’d received had been two years ago. There had been a murder of a widowed woman in Santa Fe, New Mexico. The killer’s description had matched Tavel’s to a T, and it seemed like his mode of operation.
A few months after she’d made the connection, the trail had gone cold, and she’d been left with zilch. That was years ago. As far as the Covington, Kentucky police department was concerned, the case closed years ago. The files packed away in a box where they had become dusted and forgotten by everyone but her.
Zasha pulled out the rollaway chair and fired up the laptop. Content, she became lost in her search for signs that could lead her to the man who’d murdered her mother.
****
The insistent ringing of the phone drew her attention away from the laptop. A quick glance in the right hand corner of the screen stunned her; it was well past noon. She had been here for over four hours. Swift fingers flew over the keys to save her work, and shut down the computer before her mad dash to answer the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hey, girl, sorry I bailed last night, but you looked like you were doing just fine,” Taye said.
“No worries, girl. I knew the minute you two laid eyes on each other, I was on my own.”
“That’s all you have to say?” Taye asked.
“Yes?”
“No teasing or lecture? What’s wrong, Zasha?”
The mirth left Taye’s voice as silence fell between them.
“What do you mean?” Zasha asked.
“You’re not acting like yourself, and your voice doesn’t sound right. Cut the bull, or I’ll head over there now.”
“I slept with Phelan.”
“WHAT?! Why the hell didn’t you tell me! Here I am about to run on about Bastian, and you lost your v-card! How was it? Are you okay? Why are you home instead of with him?”
Her voice crackled like a weak radio frequency. “Because I fucked up,” Zasha whispered.
“Why? Beca
use you finally had sex? You’re thirty, and we both know this has been a moment in the making for years.”
“The way he makes me feel is too much, Taye. I didn’t think about the consequences of my action. It was my mother all over again! What about my job? And what do I really know about Phelan D’Shar anyway?”
“Zasha,” she began. Her voice sounded somber as she sighed. “Listen to me. You have to let the past go. Phelan is no Tavel. Tavel was a sick and twisted individual. Just because he managed to fool your mother doesn’t mean Phelan isn’t exactly who he claims to be.”
“I owe to my mo–”
“No. The only thing you owe her is so to go on with your life, which you’ve done. Don’t let Tavel ruin anything else. Whether or not you want to admit it, you could be happy with Phelan. I saw it.”
She grew silent as she turned Taye’s words over in her mind. Had she punished Phelan for her own hang ups?