He cupped her chin, his thumb brushing lightly over the shallow dent in it as he studied her face. Then nodded as he could see she was. “You’ll want coffee then.”
“As much as my next breath.”
He got up to fetch it, and to give her another moment to settle.
She sat, replaying the dream as she stroked the cat.
“All the vics, sitting in a circle,” she told him when he came back in. “The ones we haven’t ID’d had my face.”
“Disturbing.”
“Weird, but . . . apt, I guess. The lost and nameless. That’s what I was.” She took the coffee he brought her, drank some down—strong and black. “Mostly Shelby Stubacker had her say, being she’s really pissed off. Who did she trust? Who did she trust enough he or she or they got by her defenses, because I’d think her defenses, her survival instincts would’ve been pretty sharp.”
“Someone she trusted, or someone she thought she could manipulate. Like she did Clipperton.”
“Looking to score. Yeah, it could’ve been.”
She glanced over to the sitting area where the screen ran its financial reports on mute. “Been up long?”
“A bit.”
“I better catch up. Thanks for the coffee service.” She rolled Galahad over, gave his pudge of a belly a rub, then slid out of bed.
When she stepped out of the shower, warm from the drying tube and the cashmere robe, she found him on his pocket ’link with two covered plates and a pot of coffee on the table—and the stream of numbers and symbols still scrolling by on screen.
The man was the god of multitasking, she thought.
She sat beside him, cautiously lifted the dome over the plate. Then did a little butt-on-cushion dance when she found thick slices of French toast and a pretty bowl of mixed berries instead of the oatmeal she’d feared.
She popped a raspberry, poured more coffee—and he ended transmission.
“I thought a morning mind fuck deserved the French toast.”
“It might be worth waking up with one every day. Did you just buy a solar system?”
“Just a minor planet.” He passed her the syrup, watched her drown the bread. “Actually, just a quick conference with Caro, some schedule juggling.”
His über-efficient admin could juggle schedules while balanced on a flaming ball. “You don’t need to shift your stuff around for mine.”
“I wanted a little more time this morning. You’ll be starting in your home office, I assume.”
“That’s the plan.”
“Mine’s to do the same. Things can be rescheduled further if I can be useful. We can’t resume work on the building until you close the case,” he added. “And on a less practical level, I couldn’t begin it until you close the case. These girls aren’t mine, Eve, as they’re yours. But . . .”
“You found them.”
“And need to know their names, their faces, see their killer dealt with as much as you. What we hope to accomplish in that place is to keep the young, the vulnerable, the wounded safe. Those twelve girls epitomize the purpose.”
She wanted to give him the closure, she realized, almost as much as the dead and those they’d left behind.
He wanted to build something good and strong and needed. She wanted to give him those names, so he could.
“It’s going to be someone who lived or worked there. That’s playing the odds, but they’re good odds. It’s not that big a pool. Added to it, it stopped—if DeWinter and Dickhead are right on the estimates, and the remains were all sealed in there approximately fifteen years ago. So the focus starts on someone who lived or worked there who died, relocated, or was put in a cage shortly after that time.”
“Or moved his burial grounds.”
“I thought of that.” She ate while the cat watched her with a mixture of hope and resentment. “But why? It’s working. It’s locked up, no buyers, no plans. And it symbolizes the girls. It’s whe