One More Time

He squeezed mine in return and gave me a gentle smile. “I want to find this person as much as you do,” he said. “Believe me, I do.”

“I already owe you so much, Oliver. I owe you my life and I'm not sure I'll be able to repay you for that,” I said. “If there's anything I can do for you, just ask.”

He looked at me for a long moment and then his eyes lit up, looking as if a light bulb had just been switched on behind them. He looked down at me with a half-grin on his handsome, chiseled face.

“If you wouldn't mind,” he started, “there actually is something I could use your help with.”

“Anything,” I said. “After I get out of this hospital bed.”

“You'll be out next week, right?”

“Like I said, they're talking tomorrow or the next day,” I said. “Provided there are no complications or setbacks. If not, then I'd be more than happy to help you – so as long as it's nothing too brutal.”

“How about dinner?” he asked.

I cocked an eyebrow, my expression asking him to elaborate. He gave me another small smile.

“Not like dinner, dinner. Not like a date dinner,” he said. “But, I have a friend whose wife keeps doing everything she can to set me up with one of her friends, and well—”

“You need a wingwoman, that's it?”

“Yeah, something like that,” he said. “Actually, pretty much that.”

“That's asking a lot, Oliver,” I said, laughing, hoping he'd get that I was joking. “But for the man who saved my life, I think I can swing a dinner and a few hours of pretending to be his date.”

It was more than that, though. My heart still raced every time he turned those eyes toward me, and I couldn't deny that seeing him again would be nice. Especially in a less awkward place than a hospital room.

“It's on Friday night. I'll pick you up at six,” he said. “As for the here and now though, I'll head over to your place and be right back with your things.”

~ooo000ooo~

“This was all of it?” I muttered, digging through the box full of notebooks and things he'd brought in.

“Yeah, all that was on your desk, at least,” he said. “Unless you put it—”

“No,” I replied. “I kept everything in one place. Always.”

“I gathered that,” he said, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I could tell by now neat and organized everything was.”

I raised an eyebrow, wondering if he was judging me. As I looked at him though, I knew he wasn't being malicious and decided that it didn't matter anyway.

“This can't be all of it,” I said. “I know there are a few things about my last case missing – things I definitely remember having and being among the rest of my things. I distinctly recall having a green notebook like this.”

I held up a red and blue notebook, one with dates and the cases covered written on the front.

“Don't you keep anything on your computer?” he asked.

“No, computers can be compromised.”

“Apparently, so can notebooks,” he said.

“So, someone was in my house then,” I said. “Somebody stole my materials.”

The mere idea of someone entering my home – with or without me there – disturbed me on a deep, primal level. I wasn't too keen on having my workplace and my sanctuary violated like that. Or, hell, maybe my memory was still playing tricks on me and I was misremembering what I did and didn't have.

I would have sworn though, that there had been a bright green notebook for the arson cases I was looking into as well as another case that had caught my eye. Both were future topics to be discussed in my podcast, nothing more.

“And there were no tapes?” I asked.