She sipped her coffee and watched as he took two plates from a cabinet, utensils from a drawer, and plucked napkins out of the holder near the stove.
It felt odd to be doing nothing. Joe had always been the breakfast chef, but in the old days she and Sadie would have been setting the table. Cleaning up after him as he went.
It was a strange sensation, being in the home that had been hers but wasn’t anymore. Seeing that he had left some things organized the same way she had, but that others had been moved.
She wondered if her lame hovering felt odd to him, as well?
Kitt shifted her gaze. It landed on the plates. She and Sadie had picked out the stoneware pattern. White with a sunny-yellow-and-black geometric pattern on the edge.
Like bumble bees! Sadie had exclaimed.
When they divorced, Kitt had given him everything. She hadn’t wanted the reminders of their life. Their family.
A lump in her throat, she ran her fingers along the plate’s patterned edge. Now she found herself hungry for those reminders. For the memories.
She found Joe watching her. “Sadie picked these.”
“Yes.”
“These, too.” She picked up the Mickey Mouse and Pluto salt-and-pepper shakers. “From our trip to Disney World. Remember?”
“I remember everything, Kitt.”
Something in his tone took her breath.
She couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. She scolded herself for being a coward, a ninny. What was she afraid of?
The moment passed and he spooned scrambled eggs-he’d made them with mushrooms, onions and cheese- onto her plate. “Bacon?”
“Silly man. Of course, bacon.”
He laid two strips on her plate and pointed her toward the already toasted and buttered English muffins.
While they ate, they talked about nothing of consequence. The weather. Food. News of mutual acquaintances and family members. When they’d finished, Joe said her name softly. She lifted her gaze to his.
“Are you ready to talk about what brought you here?”
It all came crashing back. Brian. The call from Peanut. His questions. She felt the euphoria of the last hours slipping away.
She fought to hold on to it, at least for a few more moments. “Besides the promise of great sex and a real breakfast?”
“Don’t do that. Don’t make it all a joke and shut me out. That’s what you-”
He bit the words back and pushed away from the table. He carried his plate and utensils to the sink, then turned back to her. She saw that he shook. “You broke my heart, Kitt. We lost Sadie. Then I…lost you.”
“I know. I’m sor-”
“No,” he cut her off, “you don’t. You can’t imagine what it was like for me to watch helplessly as you self- destructed. You can’t imagine how it hurt to have you close enough to touch, but a million miles away. I needed you so…much.”
His words hurt. She pressed her lips together, wishing she could deny them. Defend herself.
But how did one defend herself against the truth?
“I grieved for a long time,” he continued. “Then I became angry. So angry, I…I thought it would consume me.”
He’d never revealed that anger to her. Not through words or actions. Or maybe she had been too absorbed in her own feelings to notice his.
Last night’s pretty dream of a happily-ever-after with Joe seemed ridiculous now.
In the heat of self-realization-then passion-it had been easy. Simple. She loved him. He loved her. This morning, in the harsh light, she saw how difficult-and how complicated-that dream really was.
“You must hate me.”
“I discovered,” he said, “that the line between love and hate is thin, indeed.”
Kitt held his gaze, though it hurt to look at him. She felt she owed him that. “I don’t know what to say besides I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too.”
Tears choked her. She fought her way past them. Even without a happy ending for them, she was so much better off than she had been twenty-four hours ago.
Now, at least, she recognized her feelings. Had the ability to love again.
“Brian’s dead,” she said quietly. “He was murdered last night.”
“Brian? My God.”
“I can’t go into the reasons why, but I believe his murder is related to the Copycat killings.”
Joe crossed back to the table and sat heavily. He looked dazed. She went on. “The one claiming to be the Sleeping Angel Killer called again last night. He asked me to tell him about you. About us. Our courtship and marriage.
“In return, he promised to give me the name of the Copycat killer.”
“Did he?”
“No. He gave me another clue instead.”
“And you ended up here?”
“In the process of telling him about us, I opened a door. And everything I’d locked away came spilling out.”
This time it was she who needed to stand, to walk away. When she had organized her thoughts, she turned back to him. “I always knew I still loved you. But I didn’t think I could let go of the pain enough to really love you. The way you deserve to be loved.”
“And now?”
“Remember at the leukemia event, how you told me you wanted to live again. I want to live again. To let go of the pain and stop hurting.”
He caught her hand, curled his fingers around hers. It reminded her of that day, so long ago, as they had faced Sadie’s doctor. Bracing themselves for whatever came next.
Together. Always. Irrefutably.
“Things are more complicated than you and me,” he said. “You know that, right?”
She knew that. Valerie. Her child.
Too much time had passed to catch their happily-ever-after.
She held his hand tightly. “Just tell me, can you forgive me, Joe?”
“I already have.”
57
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
9:20 a.m.
Where was Kitt? M.C. checked her watch for what seemed like the dozenth time since she had considered Kitt undeniably late. She had expected her in first thing, considering the events of the night before.
A pall hung over the department. One of their own had been cut down.
M.C. hadn’t slept much, for a complicated set of reasons. Every time she’d closed her eyes, she’d relived the murder scene. She recalled Brian in life, that he had a family. She worried about her argument with him and what she should do. Go to her superiors, come clean about her and Brian’s history together and their argument, or hope they never became wise to it.
Brian’s murder had her spooked. If he had been killed because he’d asked a fellow officer the wrong question,
