The flyer drew my eyes back to it. To that dove with its wings spread wide, to the name that seemed to echo in some hollow space in my memory that I couldn’t quite reach.
And then, all at once, I could.
Tom was saying something about the onions, about timing, about when to add the wine, but his voice seemed distant. Muffled almost, like I was hearing him through water.
I nodded without really hearing him.
That was the name of Alfred Thorne’s church.
“Shay?”
“Hmm?”
“You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m just—” I picked up a carrot, turned it over in my hands. “Just thinking.”
He came up beside me, close enough that our shoulders touched. “About what?”
“Nothing important.” I shook my head, smiling up at him. “How much longer until dinner is done? I’m wasting away here.”
“Ten more minutes.”
I moved to the sink, ran water over my hands just to have something to do. Behind me, Tom started plating the food, the scrape of spatula against the pan cutting through the quiet kitchen.
Alfred Thorne continued to circle through my mind. The church. There was also a coffee shop he liked to visit, wasn’t there? Yes. Harlowe’s Café on Charles Street. I could picture it in my mind with sudden, crystalline clarity—brick exterior, green awning, a cold and rainy day.
I dried my hands and turned back to face the kitchen. Tom had finished plating—two servings of risotto with perfectly circular carrots (his) and chaotically shaped ones (mine) scattered on top. He’d even added fresh herbs, the green bright against creamy rice.
“Looks great,” I told him.
Tom shrugged, but I could see he was pleased by the compliment. He carried the plates to his small dining table, and I followed, settling into the chair across from him. The first bite was perfect—rich and savory with just enough bite from the wine.
Martin Baker…
The name surfaced unbidden.
Martin Baker was killed on the 16th of January. The first time Tom and I had slept together. What had made him come to me that night? I’d always wondered, in the quiet moments when my mind wandered. It had seemed a bit out of character, to just appear like that, out of the blue, and ask me out for a drink.
I took another bite. Chewed. Swallowed. “It’s delicious. Seriously, where did you learn to cook like this?”
“I’m self-taught. But it’s mostly practice.”
I let out a small hum in response.
Linda Fell… Tom had always been interested in Linda Fell. More so than the others.
I looked at him from across the table, and for the first time, really let myself see him. I took in the strong line of his jaw. The breadth of his shoulders beneath his immaculately pressed shirt. The way the light hit his eyes, making them appear darker than they usually were, almost a completely different color.
Seemingly sensing himself being observed, Tom glanced up from his plate.
Our eyes met.
There was a moment.
Not an obvious one. Not a loud one. Just a quiet, suspended beat where everything settled into place.
I moved first.
