If she could have chosen dandelions, she would have.
A light dusting of snow dotted the ground, barely enough to cover the brown winter grass in the field. The frosted tips crunched with each step. Cosette stomped, making a pathof boot prints as she crossed the cemetery, weaving among headstones, and repeatedly glancing over her shoulder with a wide grin.
“Suis-moi, Papa.”
“I am following. Watch where you’re going.”
I carried her flowers that morning, since bulky mittens compromised her grasp. After dropping them twice and veering toward tantrum territory, I’d offered to help. At two and a half, Cosette rarely accepted assistance, but that morning, she relented.
The bare branches of the deciduous trees creaked and moaned as they bent and swayed in the breeze, but the sky was an endless stretch of blue. No snow in the forecast. The holiday approached, and with it came festivities abound. Skating on the river, markets, and parades. Most people wished for a white Christmas, but I was content with scarce flurries. I didn’t need more.
Celebrating hurt. I did it for Cosette but would much rather have skipped Christmas altogether.
Our routine was the same as it was every Sunday morning. Cosette arranged her flowers on the headstone, chatting and singing. She traced the letters in her mother’s name, mixing up a few. When she wandered to find treasures, I had a moment alone with Angelique. Ordinarily, I use that private time to say what I needed to say, except that morning, I found myself devoid of words.
Kobe remained forefront in my mind. Speaking his name felt like a deception. I buried a hand in my pocket and clutched my phone, recalling our brief text exchange.
The conversation, drinks, and food we’d shared at the Apothecary all came back to me.
I couldn’t explain to Angelique what I was doing because I didn’t know. Guilt and fear consumed me.
Before Cosette tottered back with her treasures, I whispered, “I love you, Angel,” and “I’m so sorry.”
My thoughts were insidious, but I couldn’t stop them.
I closed my eyes and pictured Kobe. As he analyzed a crime scene. As he asked questions in the autopsy suite. As he smiled with dimples over a candlelit table, hope blossoming in his eyes. The press of his leg against mine. The sound of his voice as he shared stories about his little brother.
My phone rang, shattering the images, and I startled.
Cosette was several rows away, stomping snow paths again and singing as she brushed the white dust from the headstones along her journey.
My heart thundered as I pulled out my phone, half wishing I would find Kobe’s number on the screen but knowing I was wrong.
Work.
A combination of relief and trepidation filled me as I answered the call.
It took longer thanI expected to snag a last-minute babysitter, so I arrived late at the Sandy Hill Outdoor Rink. Several police cars lined the surrounding streets, their lights flashing and painting the nearby trees and buildings crimson and blue.
A crime scene investigator tied one end of bright yellow caution tape to a tree as I approached the park. She waved with a smile. I didn’t recognize her, but she clearly knew me.
“Good morning, Doctor. You’ll be happy to know I’ve managed to keep the pesky detectives away from your crime scene. They’re not happy, but they know the rules. I have two colleagues photographing the area. Otherwise, we just got started.”
“Thank you. I didn’t catch your name.”
The woman offered her hand. “Erin Nevermore.”
“Thank you, Erin.”
I found the officer responsible for the sign-in procedure. As I collected protective gear and ducked under the tape, I surreptitiously scanned to see who was present. A few members of the CSI team were familiar. The constables dealing with crowd control were not, but it was the detectives I was most interested in finding. Had the PD sent detectives? I’d been told on the phone that it wasdefinitely a homicide, so I assume they had been dispatched. Erin had mentioned them. Where were they?
Then I saw him. The cold day no longer touched me as my heart skipped. I didn’t like the way I continued to react to the young detective. No, thenot-as-young-as-I-thoughtdetective. Kobe was older, more mature—despite his playful edge—and incredibly intelligent. He sponsored an underprivileged boy and coached baseball in his free time. He smiled with dimples and ventured to underground jazz clubs.
Kobe stood beneath a nearby tree on the other side of the police tape, bouncing on his toes and hugging a takeout coffee between his palms. An OPD beanie sat low on his brow, covering his ears and the mop of unruly brown hair I’d admired. His partner paced nearby, talking on the phone.
Rue Hayashi noticed me first. I earned a not-so-subtle once-over before she smacked Kobe’s arm and pointed in my direction.
The moment Kobe spotted me, the boyish grin I remembered all too well appeared, carving brackets into his cheeks. It wasthat smile and the look in his eyes that was the cause of my initial assumption about his age.
