I had no idea how long hestood there, only that I felt him take one arm away and reach out to move thekettle off the induction plate after a while. He didn’t say anything, just wentright back to holding me afterward, waiting until I’d cried myself out.
My throat felt sore andscratchy, my eyes stung, and I needed about six glasses of water, but I feltbetter when the tears dried up.
Crying against a hot privatedetective’schest beat the hell out of crying alone.
Fox passed me a paper napkinand then walked back around the counter, setting the kettle back on the plateand tapping the side of it.
What could I say now? Thankyou for letting me bawl my eyes out against your perfectly-sculpted chest?
Normally, I didn’t cry. But I’dreached mynotcryinglimit right when he’d asked if I was guilty. If Ihadbeen guilty, Iwould have crumbled like a potato chip.
“And just like that, I’veeliminated you as a suspect,” Fox said after a moment, beaming at me. It wasn’tan apology, but I could see a little guilt around his eyes.
And a wet patch on his chestwhere I’dcried on him.
“Sugar?” he asked.
“Uh. No, thank you. I’m notsure there is any.”
Would he really have liedfor me? Or had he just been trying to trick me into confessing?
I wanted to believe that he’d look out forme. Iwanteda white knightto ride in and rescue me. Someone to be onmyside, for once.
But he didn’t work for me.He worked for Harmony Records.
On the other hand… he had kickedUncle Vincent out. So maybe I could afford to extend him a little trust.
“I’ll add it to the mentalgrocery list.”
“So would you really havelied for me, or was that just bullshit to see if I’d fall for it?” I asked,knowing he might not tell me the truth, but still desperate to hear his answer.I neededsomethingto hang onto,and Fox had just become the best candidate.
Fox shrugged. “I’ll let youcome to your own conclusions about that. But if it makes you feel any better, Inever thought it was you. Just needed to be sure. There was… some emphasis puton the possibility that you were the guilty party.”
The kettle startedwhistling, drawing his attention.
I took the opportunity toplay with the teaspoon he’d gotten out, turning it over in my fingers to givethem something to do.Foxdidn’t make me nervous—theopposite, if anything—but I still had lots of things to worry about.
A looming deadline. My unclebeing mad about getting kicked out.
The fact that I’d invited a hotprivate investigator to stay in my house and now I couldn’t stop staring athim.
Fox poured two cups of teawith all the care and confidence of a man who’d done this a thousandtimes, one long finger holding the lid of the pot in place.
“Milk?” he asked.
“There isn’t any milk,either,” I admitted.
Fox gave me that look againbut pushed one of the mugs over to me.
“How do you live, eh?” heasked, taking his own mug and wrapping his hands around it. There was somethingvulnerable about the gesture. As though I was seeing the core of who Fox was asa person. Fingers curled around a cup of tea, blowing on the surface, barelyletting it touch his lip to determine that yes, it was still too hot to drink.
“If there’s anything youneed in the supermarket, let me know before you finish your tea.”
“You really don’t have to,”I said. “I normally get deliveries.”
Fox shrugged. “I’ve got to makethe trip anyway. Might as well start making myself useful.”
I stared at him for severallong seconds. “You’vealready been more useful to me than anyone else in living memory,” I said. “I’venever seen anyone talk to my uncle like that.”
