“Most of the time.”
She walked into the kitchen and glanced at the empty pen where her dog had spent so many hours. Her heart ached and it wasn’t just for Roscoe; no, that old painful hole in her heart, the one for her lost child, a rupture that had never completely scarred over, ripped a little more. Her hands shook a little as she found cups and the prepackaged holiday blend, then somehow managed to brew the coffee. “It’s flavored,” she said as she poured them each a cup. “My aunt thinks that makes it Christmasy. I don’t have any creamer.”
“I drink it black anyway.” He’d pulled out a chair at the small, glass table and she noticed that he’d aged in the past few years, but the lines around his eyes and the tiniest bit of silver in his coffee-colored hair made him seem only a little more interesting, adding to his rugged appeal.
Geez, she had to quit thinking that way.
“I’m going to have to file a report, along
with Pescoli, so tell me more about the suspect.”
“Not much to tell. I’m not close to him, nor really, my cousin. Aggie’s a few years older than I am, her husband, Dave, is an accountant. They live outside of Helena. Aggie couldn’t have kids so they adopted. The oldest, Leo, he’s like a dream kid. Athlete, straight A’s, already talking about Stanford, and the youngest, Josie, she seems to be on the straight and narrow, too. But Gabe, square in the middle, he’s been difficult from the get-go. A fussy baby. Colicky, I guess. In grade school he was an out-there kind of kid, a little rough around the edges with this chip on his shoulder. He got into some trouble in junior high, started running with the wrong crowd and had all the earmarks of a JD in the making. Just last year, in an effort to break him up from his friends, they forced him to go to a private school. I guess it backfired because he and his friends tried to rob a house, get this, of a judge, no less. The judge’s daughter just happened to go to the same private school with Gabe. He, it appears, was the link to set up the crime.”
“The mastermind?”
“Trust me, it was anything but masterful. Gabe’s lucky he didn’t get shot.” He blew across his cup, took a sip and pulled a face. “Wow. Your aunt can really pick ’em.”
“I warned you.”
“I should have held out for a beer.”
“You would’ve been holding out for a while.”
“Not the first time,” he said, his eyes finding hers before shifting away and an awkward silence ensued. “So, what’s with your hot water?”
“I don’t have any. I haven’t been able to figure it out and the complex’s handyman is MIA. Not unusual for Jon, let me tell you.”
“Let me take a look.”
She wasn’t sure this was a good idea but was sick of being without hot water, so she led him first to the half bath downstairs, where he tested the water, and then did the same upstairs.
Alvarez felt her stomach tighten as he stepped into her bathroom and turned on the shower, feeling the spray, reminding her of another time and place that she had locked away in a forbidden part of her mind. She felt it then, that he, too, remembered that night, and the air in the small bathroom seemed suddenly heavy.
“Okay. Where’s the tank?”
“Under the stairs.” They made their way to the first floor, where he walked to the closet tucked beneath the staircase and snapped on the overhead light.
As she stood in the hallway behind him, he eyed the settings, then frowned and shook his head. He checked switches and gauges and finally shrugged. “You’re right, you need a hot-water guy.”
“So much for your plumbing skills,” she said.
“Yeah,” he admitted with a chuckle. “They’re pretty limited.”
O’Keefe stepped out of the closet, his hair slightly mussed, and she remembered what it had been like to lie in his bed, to hold him close, to fantasize. She’d thought, with him, she could finally let go.
She’d been wrong.
Almost fatally so.
She found him staring at her, as if he could read her mind. Which was ridiculous. Of course.
Back in the kitchen, she cleared her throat and removed the cups from the table, dropping them into the sink. “Look, I want you to know that I’m sorry about what happened in San Bernardino. My mistake.”
“Forget it.” He was already zipping his jacket. “Water under the bridge.” But his features had hardened once more and she only hoped she wouldn’t have to deal with him again. Theirs had been a complicated and hard-edged relationship, filled with raw emotion, denied sexual chemistry and a battle of wills. Neither had been able to give an inch and it had blown up in their faces.
She didn’t mind that he was leaving.
In fact, she was glad.