Girl, 11

by Amy Suiter Clarke

With her arms still around his waist, she looked up at him. “What has you keyed up?”

  He gave her another squeeze and then turned back to the food. “I’m having trouble identifying the cause of death on a body that came in today.”

  She put a hand between his shoulder blades as he basted the meat with more homemade achiote paste. “Too distracted taking everyone’s money in poker?”

  A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “I did do that. Although we don’t bet money—just paperwork duties.” After flipping the meat, he turned to face her, resting his backside on the edge of the counter next to the stove.

  “So, what’s the deal with the body?” she asked.

  “Young guy, in his thirties. His roommate found him dead after realizing he’d never gotten up on Sunday morning. As far as we can tell, he didn’t have any preexisting conditions, nothing that would explain a sudden death. He didn’t have a heart attack, stroke, or aneurysm. There’s nothing to indicate suicide. His parents are devastated, naturally. I want to be able to give them answers, but I’m not sure there are any.”

  Elle met his gaze with a rueful smile. “People think it will make them feel better if they have an explanation for why their loved one died. But knowing doesn’t really make it any better, does it?”

  Martín shook his head. “No, it doesn’t. Anyway, don’t worry about that. Maybe it’ll come to me in my sleep, something I missed. I wasn’t exactly focused this afternoon.”

  Elle’s eyes flicked to the pan of sizzling chicken, then to the pot of polenta he had covered to keep warm. “Right, of course.” She went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of white wine. Martín set two glasses out on the island where they usually ate dinner when it was just the two of them.

  “Any luck with your case?” he asked as he dished up the plates.

  She sat down and poured them each a glass. “We’ve got a suspect in custody, a real creep, but unfortunately I think I just proved it wasn’t him. I left a message for Ayaan, but I’m guessing she’s gone home to get some sleep.”

  Martín set a plate in front of her, then came around the kitchen island and sat down next to her. She tilted her lips up as a peace offering. He leaned in and kissed her, his hand trailing down her cheek when he pulled away. “Tell me about the suspect.”

  She took a bite of creamy polenta and her eyes rolled back, which made him smile. “The Jordans were sure it was him,” she said as she chewed. “That’s the parents of the girl who went missing. He’s a registered sex offender, worked for the girl’s father. But I found evidence on social media that he was in the middle of a conversation at the time of the kidnapping, so now basically the whole day of investigation is down the tubes, and she’s already been missing for over thirty-six hours.”

  “If anyone can help find her, it’s you.”

  She looked up, surprised, but Martín was studying his plate intently. “You’re just saying that ’cause you know I was pissed before,” she said after moment.

  “I’m not just saying it. I was worried earlier.” He picked at the chicken with his fork. “I still am. But I also think I get why you need to be on this case. I work with detectives every day, but you’re one of the best investigators I know. You know more about child abduction than most, even if you are still new to investigating it. If you think I’m just saying that to make up for before, you’re selling yourself short.” Finally, he looked back up, meeting her gaze. “I’m not sorry for being concerned about you, but I am sorry I made you feel like I didn’t think you could make your own decisions.”

  A small part of her wanted the decision to be out of her hands, though. Maybe it was the wine or the rich food, but the exhaustion from the last few days was hitting her hard.

  “You think better of me than I am,” she said at last. The words brought up a surprise knot of emotion, and she had to blink tears away while she looked at him.

  “No, Elle.” Martín’s voice was firm. “I just know you are better than you think.”

  Halfway through washing the dishes after dinner, Elle saw her phone light up with a message. She wiped her soapy hands on the dish towel and opened it to find a text from Natalie.

  MOM SAYS YOU’RE MAD AT HER.

  Elle sighed and typed back. I AM NOT.

  DOES THIS MEAN YOU WON’T PICK ME UP FROM PIANO FRIDAY?

  OF COURSE I’LL PICK YOU UP. AND I’M NOT MAD AT YOUR MOM.

  Natalie sent back a girl-shrugging emoji.

  I’LL SEE YOU FRIDAY AT FIVE. BE NICE TO MS. TURNER.

  NO PROMISES