I laugh. “Thanks, I think.”
“But good for us girls, right? We can still kick ass.”
“We can.” The bad feeling winds deeper, and I look out at the street behind her.
“I should go,” she says suddenly, and takes a quick step back. Her face tightens, and I’m finally able to place the look in her eyes.
Regret.
“Thank you.”
“Sure,” I say, voice lost as she hurries away.
* * *
I setthe bag of takeout on the dining room table and go back into the kitchen to grab a stack of plates. Now that the sun sets later, I start getting dinner ready so the guys can eat as soon as they wake up. They’re always hungry, and once we get eating out of the way there’s time for other things before I have to go to sleep.
It took a couple of weeks, but I finally adjusted to a new sleep schedule. This whole only being awake at night thing sucks ass. After setting the table and filling up glasses with ice water, I go outside and look at the sky.
The sun won’t set for another ten or so minutes, and the humidity brought out every single mosquito, driving me back inside. Settling in the library, I pick up the one book I keep out on the coffee table. The cover is worn and the spine has seen better days. I can’t actually bring myself to read this copy of Jane Austen’sEmma, and I can’t be certain my mother even held this copy in her own hands, but the book has enough significance to me on its own.
I was so young when my parents died, and my mom was a minimalist before it was trendy. I don’t have much to remember them by, just a box full of old photos and two sealed jars full of their ashes. I never found a good place to spread them, and keeping the ashes sealed off and hidden away in a box became easier over the years than continuing to search for a place for them to rest.
The one framed family photo I have of us sits on the fireplace mantel. The photo was taken a month before my parents were brutally murdered. Jacques found the frame when I was unpacking my belongings and told me I should honor the memory of my parents. I think it was his way of telling me repressing the past isn’t going to get me anywhere.
I bringEmmato my chest, eyes shifting to my mother’s face. Tears brim my eyes, and I shut them tight, refusing to cry. Crying doesn’t solve anything. It’s a waste of time and energy.
Nothing is going to bring them back.
Nothing can block out the memory of finding my mom and dad lying in a pool of their own blood.
I clench my jaw and tighten my grip on the book, turning my sadness into anger. Their case is still cold. Swept under the rug like it’s nothing. I vowed to solve the case, but going back means reopening my own wounds. But for them, I’d cut my own heart right out of my chest.
The front door opens and closes, echoing throughout the large house. I set the book down, run my hands over my face, and get up, holding onto the anger.
Being pissed is easier than being sad, after all.
“Hey,” I say to Jacques. His deep brown eyes meet mine, and his brow furrows ever so slightly. Damn him for being so perceptive.
“Acelina.” His voice is deep, rattling something inside me. “Is everything all right?”
“Yeah, fine. Hungry? Food is ready.”
He knows I’m lying, but won’t push me. The rest of the guys come into the house after that, and sitting around the table with them makes me feel better almost instantly. It’s been a while since I’ve had a family, but being here with the guys, who know me—the real me—and don’t judge a single thing I do, it feels like one.
“How was work?” Gilbert asks, spooning fried rice onto his plate. “Find any bodies?”
“Try to show a little empathy, brother.” Thomas eyes Gil.
“Fine. Did youempatheticallyfind any bodies?” Gilbert says again with a smirk.
“Actually, yes. And it’s an interesting one.” I break my egg roll in half and dip it into duck sauce. “It was set up to look like some sort of occult-related murder, but everything was a mess.”
“Aren’t murders usually messy?” Thomas quips.
“Not if they’re done right,” Hasan says matter-of-factly, not looking up from his food.
“Everything about death is messy,” Jacques counters.
