He did something a long time ago and her mother put the pieces together. I’m not sure Delilah is following the little breadcrumbs I’m giving her. She’ll blink one day and see it all. Tonight I think she’s simply looking for a distraction.
Her mother wouldn’t have been able to, if he hadn’t started up again. If I hadn’t helped her along. Not that I added that last little piece out loud for Delilah. She doesn’t need to know. All she has to fully accept is that he had done something bad and that her mother didn’t mean it. Just like the sweet alcohol, it offers her the smallest sips of peace.
“Don’t cry,” I say, consoling her as she sniffs again, closing her eyes and pretending like she isn’t on the verge of breaking down. I’ve seen so many men and women respond to death. It’s almost always the same. Delilah’s different. I attribute that to her cases and how hard it tried to make her. Or rather, how hard she tried to make herself so she could continue. So she could make it all make sense.
We all have our limits, though.
“Ask me something else … something about us.” Her dark chestnut gaze meets mine. Every time she looks at me, she centers. More than likely refusing to let go of this opportunity where she can use me. She could have so many questions answered, resolve so many of those cases that keep her up at night. And the riddles between myself and Cody would be revealed if only she asked the right questions. If only she could pull herself together. If only she could trust me enough.
We have time, little mouse. She’ll get there.
She doesn’t ask me any of that, though, as she grabs the bottle, eager to pour the last bits. “You watched me?” she asks with her back to me. The thin pajama pants hang loose on her hips and the burgundy tank top hugs her tempting curves.
“Yes.”
“You stalked me?” she says and the empty bottle lands with a clink on the dresser. She sips her drink with her back to me.
“Yes.”
“For years?”
I hesitate only a moment before saying, “Yes.”
Finally, she soothes my anxiousness, turning around to face me and she leans against the dresser. She’s gorgeous when she’s full of accusations.
“Why?”
I can’t help but smile at her. Years … she knows. But how many years? is the question she’s still lacking.
I answer her the only way I know how. “If only I could tell you.” Why do any of us torture ourselves with the things we can’t have?
“Tell me something.” For the first time, she gives me a demand and it makes me harder for her than I’ve ever been.
“And you’ll tell me something in return?” There’s only a slight movement from me in response to my eagerness. The tips of my fingers slip against the bedsheets. As if that would be enough to ground me … as if it would hold me back.
“Of course,” she says, whispering her answer and then biting down on her bottom lip. My cock stirs at the motion. I’ve never been a giving soul. There’s always a selfish reason.
“You saw them for what they were.” I speak without thinking.
“What do you mean?” Curiosity knits her brow.
“Just like the case last month … Ross Brass.” At the mention of his name, Delilah stops the cup midway to her lips. A coldness flickers in her gaze.
“It’s not all black and white. It’s covered in as much gray as it is blood. But once you see them for what they are, you don’t let go.”
Perhaps she’d rather I talk about anything other than herself because her mind wanders. I’m certain she thinks of her mother again. Or her father. It’s given away by the drop of her gaze and the slower rate of her breathing.
“Do you want to know what I think?” I ask her and my throat is suddenly tight.
Confusion is apparent in her dark brown eyes and I’m certain she almost asks, about what?, but instead she only nods a yes. Maybe two cups have already been two too many.
“I think it will all be all right but it will take a few days and you’ll be just as anxious every day. Each day more anxious than the last until they have another name. Someone else to blame for your father’s death. I think that’s what you’ll need to move past the worry.”
“It will be all right?” Skepticism laces her question. It’s almost sarcastic.
“With the note I left, no one will want to pin it on your mother. They’ll have someone else in mind.”
“Who?” she asks in a single breath.
“Someone who deserves to die.”
“You’re an angel of death,” she says as if it’s fact and I can only laugh. “That’s what they tell me.”