“Can you talk about the bird? Or is that too upsetting?”
Again, his question stops me in my tracks. While it probably should be an uncomfortable topic, it’s stirring up sweet nostalgia. Not the sour kind.
“I can talk about the bird. It was a European bee-eater. Stunning species.”
Sounding light with curiosity, he says, “Never heard of it. Tell me what makes it so special.”
Grinning, I explain how it was on my Aunt’s bird bucket list. She was ticking off all the ones she found the most beautiful. It’s a tough one to spot because of its migration habits and the way it burrows instead of nesting in visible locations.
My volume decreases to a whisper as my thoughts drift from the bird to that fateful day. “A breeding location was found in this old quarry. It was a perfect window of opportunity for her to finally see it.”
“I see.”
The sourness I was expecting earlier appears. “Sadly, Aunt Slow Mo never saw the bird. Not that trip, anyhow. I did.” I swallow. “And Zara did.”
My next exhale quivers out of my chest, bringing some of the regret, guilt, and shame to the surface.
He comforts me, caressing me in silence for a bit before he asks, “Can I be frank with you?”
Unable to let him get away with the cliché phrasing, I quip, “I’d prefer you be Reed. If not, then how about François?”
“Walked right into that one.”
Smirking, I pat his forearm twice, encouraging him to say whatever he was planning to say.
“Earlier, you said that regardless of what was in the police report, you blamed yourself.” He pauses, and I hear and feel him swallow. “Baby, there’s no freaking way it was your fault. Maybe nothing I do will convince you of that. Will you let me try?”
“Okay, Frank,” I jest. “Give it your best shot.”
“I look at death through the lens of an investigator. It’s all I know. If this were my case, I’d ask you a few questions. And I’d study the evidence. The facts always guide me to a logical conclusion.”
Tentatively, I grant his implied request. “Fire away.”
“A lot of what I’d normally ask, I already know from what you’ve said tonight or what I read in the file. Things like why you were there, who was with you, and all that shit. Based on everything I know, I’m left wondering only a few things. Are you sure it’s okay to ask? I don’t want you to feel like you’re on the witness stand or anything.”
I twist my head, trying to peek at his face and flash him my slight smile. “This is fine. Your tone is nice and calm. You may proceed.”
“Good.” He kisses my cheek delicately. “When you and I went birding, you didn’t take any photos. Seeing the bird was enough for your list. Why did you and Zara want a picture of this bird? Was it because it was so photogenic and you wanted to remember it forever?”
“Not exactly. The photo wasn’t for us. It was for Aunt Slow Mo. We were afraid it would return to the burrow before she got up there.”
“Ah. Got it.” He pulses his arms around me. “If this were my case, that would leave me with two more questions. And honestly, I don’t need to ask them because of how well I know you.”
“Pretend you don’t know me. What would the questions be?”
After waiting a few seconds, he finally decides it’s safe to proceed. “I would have asked if you forced Zara to take the picture, either by threat of violence or malicious manipulation.”
I shake my head. “I would never force her. She offered to do it.”
“That’s exactly why I didn’t ask.”
“Out of sheer morbid curiosity, what was the second question?”
“The second question is evenlessnecessary. There’s no way you’d?—”
Sensing what he’s getting at, I answer before he vocalizes the question. “No, I didn’t push her. I tried tostopher from falling. I didn’t do anything to make her fall.”
He rubs his hand in a circle over my heart, massaging the deep ache. “Cookie, did you hear what you just said? You came to the same conclusion that I did. It isn’t your fault.”
