“Let’s go for a walk. Outside.”
Chapter seven
Erik
I follow Remy, but my mind is still on what I was writing. The violin. The despair. The rage. It’s invaded my thoughts, seeped into my soul, and it’s all I can focus on.
He swings by his office on the way out, opens the refrigerator, and shoves something into my chest.
“Eat,” he commands.
I stare down at it blankly. Half a sandwich. Then the scent hits and I realize it’s a muffuletta. My stomach gives a sharp, painful rumble, and it occurs to me I might not have eaten today. Or yesterday.
He keeps moving toward the back entrance.
It opens straight into the cemetery.
I follow, taking a huge bite and trying not to make a sound as the flavors hit my taste buds. Olives, salami, oil-soaked bread, cheese. My body reacts before my mind catches up.
Remy props the door open with an old brick.
I blink against the spring brightness. The light feels foreign, almost aggressive. When was the last time I was outside?
He leads me to a bench, and that’s when I notice him tapping a black envelope against his leg.
“What’s that?” I mumble around a mouthful of sandwich.
He glances around. The sky is a hard, impossible blue. The only sounds are distant, muted, drifting from the opera house where construction continues.
I watch him inhale slowly. A warning sign. I’ve irritated him. I must have disappeared into the music longer than I realized.
“What’s the date?” I interrupt, cutting off the lecture before it starts.
He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. “April eighteenth.”
Shit. It’s April?
No wonder he’s irritated. We moved in at the beginning of March.
“Damn it, Erik.” His dark eyes are hot. “You swore you’d be present this time. That you wouldn’t lose time. That I wouldn’t be stuck handling all this crap alone. And I knew it would fall on me anyway. But there are things happening. Things I need you here for.”
Guess I didn’t derail him after all.
I push the last of the sandwich into my mouth and study him while I chew. He puts up with most of my quirks without complaint. As he paces in front of me, I notice his hair has grown out and feel a small, unexpected pang. He hasn’t even had time to get it cut. He keeps it a little longer, but it’s always maintained.
Not lately.
I watch him pace, slowing my chewing while I decide which direction to take this. He’s Creole to the bone. A hard worker. A strategist. Usually full of joie de vivre.
But every now and then, something rougher breaks through.
Right now, it’s got the upper hand.
I waited too long. The hand with the envelope makes a slashing motion.
“I got a fucking note.”
I can’t help it. “Really, Andre?”
