Gabriel

by Naima Simone

  Her stomach gave a howdy-do salute to her feet at the sound of Gabriel’s name, but she pushed on. “You told the police that Friday night the four of you went to a football game?”

  “Yes,” he continued in a flat monotone. “Gabe’s football game. Afterward we went to Mal’s house, watched movies, and spent the night.”

  His account matched the transcripts from Detective Connor. She knew they’d pigged out on chips, sodas, a few beers smuggled from Rafe’s father’s six-pack, and indulged in a horror movie marathon of all the Nightmare on Elm Street installments. They’d all had the same story.

  Word for word.

  Never say never, but that never happened. Five different people could witness the same incident and at least some details would differ. In her experience, the only time accounts matched verbatim was when they had been planned in advance. And rehearsed.

  Doubt crept into her soul like an insidious shadow. Stop it, she scolded herself. She saw suspicion and conspiracies where none existed. Besides, they’d been fifteen at the time Richard went missing—fifteen-year-old boys who had still been scared by Freddy Krueger movies.

  “Do you remember if Richard seemed troubled those last few days? Preoccupied? Anxious?”

  “Not that I remember,” Chay said. “He’d taken Gabe, Mal, Rafe, and me bowling the weekend before, and he didn’t act as if something bothered him then, either. Like I said, Thursday evening he and Mom were together. He came upstairs to say good night before he left.” His serious tone became even quieter, more subdued, as if remembering cost him a price he couldn’t afford to pay. Regret pierced Leah. I am such a bottom feeder. Richard had been like a father to Chay for almost two years. Of course remembering this time in his life would be upsetting. “Blue jacket, blue shirt. It’ll stay burned in my mind forever,” he murmured and turned his head, staring out across his wide lawn.

  A hushed silence burdened with memories descended over the porch.

  “Thank you,” Leah finally said. She reached out, covered his clenched fingers with her palm. She swallowed past the emotion clogging her throat like a rusty pipe. “Chay, I’ll find out who did this to not only Richard, but to you and your mom. I’ll try my best to bring you closure and peace.”

  Something flared in his hazel eyes, flickered across his face before disappearing as if it’d never existed. Something so hard and agonizing, Leah rocked back against the railing.

  “I hate to break it to you, Leah, but you’re a few years too late.”

  With those cryptic words, he stalked across the porch and disappeared inside the house without a backward glance.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The pages of the transcript stared up at Leah and seemed to jab a “nana-nana-boo-boo” finger in her face. They refused to give up any secrets.

  If the sheets had any to give up, that is.

  She sighed, propped her elbows on her knees, and settled her chin on top of her clasped fingers. She’d read her notes from Evelyn’s interview, studied the detective’s copies of the transcripts as well as the handwritten notes he’d preserved over the years. Other than learning Richard’s ex-wife had no idea where he could have headed if he’d left voluntarily or who would have wanted to hurt him, Leah discovered nothing new from the papers. Even the discrepancy between Richard’s datebook and the witnesses’ claim of a meeting he had Friday night hadn’t yielded new information—nothing in the box addressed it.

  Yet something—some undetectable, vague thing—niggled at Leah, whispered and insisted she should remember. It hovered just beyond her reach as if someone dangled the information inches above her grasping hands.

  Helplessness washed over her.

  Why had she believed she could crack this cold case? Such hubris. As Gabriel had gently pointed out, veteran detectives couldn’t solve it; what made her Sherlock Holmes? Was she so desperate to prove her worth? So needy? She shot off the couch.

  Damn, that paints such an ugly picture of me.

  Unable to escape herself, she fled from the living room to the kitchen. Some people smoked when upset, some shopped; she cooked. It was a wonder she hadn’t gained a ton by now. Because in the past year, she’d been stressed.

  She loved her home’s large cooking area. With its bay windows, staggered cherrywood cabinets, granite countertops, and island, the homey room had been a dream.

  And cheaper than therapy.

  She turned and whipped a chef’s knife from the wooden block. Soon the hollow sound of the knife meeting the chopping board filled the kitchen. Diced fresh green peppers, tomatoes, garlic, and onions quickly piled high in a flavorful mountain.

  The trill of the doorbell echoed down the hall and into the kitchen. Frowning, she wiped her hands on a dish towel and exited the room. She hadn’t expected company today. A peek out of the window stole the breath from her lungs. With fumbling fingers, she twisted the knob and opened the door. She stared at Gabriel through the storm door.

  For the first time, she felt uncertain in his presence. His steady, shuttered gaze and unsmiling mouth didn’t improve the sentiment.

  Mute, she pushed open the storm door and let him in. With an abrupt nod, he strode in, shrinking the airy entranceway into a rabbit hole. He was the only man who made her, with her five-feet-eleven-inches, feel like a Lilliputian from Gulliver’s Travels.

  “Hey,” she mumbled, rubbing her palms together and shifting away. “Come on in.”

  The sound of the front door closing followed her down the hall and into the living room. The spread of papers on the coffee table snagged her eye, and she hurried over. He maintained his silence as she gathered the copies and replaced the stack in the shoe box.

  Straightening, she caught him scanning the room. This space, like the rest of the house, represented her haven, her dreams. Therefore, she’d held nothing back when decorating and creating her sanctuary. Large, overstuffed chairs dominated one corner. A sofa stretched nearly the width of the room and was framed by wide tables. A sea of bookshelves encompassed one wall. She loved this room and suffered a twinge of vulnerability as his gaze took in the heart of her.

  “I missed you at Chay’s,” he said. “By the time I got there, you’d already left.”

  She shrugged. “I just figured you’d changed your mind,” she explained. “What brings you here?”

  “I wanted to invite you to dinner.”

  “Excuse me?” She blinked.

  “To take you to dinner,” he repeated. “And apologize for yesterday. I was way over the line.”

  Well, hell. Someone could have slapped her in the face with a wet fish, and she wouldn’t have been more surprised. Or hurt. What exactly did his apology blanket? Scaring the shit out of her? Yelling at her? Or kissing her?

  For the first two reasons, she would gladly shake his hand and let bygones be bygones. The third might incite her to violence.

  “A pity invite?” She scowled. “How sweet. What exactly are you sorry for?” God, she sounded like such a bitch. Correction. A bitch who’d had a Louisville Slugger taken to her heart. But believing he regretted touching her and hearing the regret…call her the Marquis de Sade, but she needed to hear him say the words even though they would drive another spike of pain into her soul.

  He silently studied her. She almost glanced away from the unnerving probing but ordered herself to stand her ground.

  “For overreacting and not allowing you to explain about the hit-and-run. I was angry and scared, but it doesn’t excuse yelling at you. I’m sorry for disrespecting you.”

  She waited—waited for him to add the reason that would shatter her. But it didn’t come. She turned away from his piercing stare. If she didn’t, he might see the relief and hope pounding in her chest.

  “I intended to tell you,” she said, cursing the emotion thickening her voice.

  “I understand why you didn’t while we were at Detective Connor’s house. I also understand why you hesitated. In view of my mind-frame these past two years and the circum
stances surrounding the incident, I can assume you wanted to spare hurting me. But Leah”—he clasped her chin, forced her to meet his gaze—“it is not your job to protect me. I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I’m handing you a pink slip.”

  Her jaw would’ve dropped if not for his hand. The man had made a joke. She’d better go grab a sweater because if hell had frozen over, surely Boston wouldn’t be far behind.

  “The benefits sucked anyway,” she whispered.

  “Leah.” He moved closer until mere inches separated them. “You could have been seriously hurt. Have you considered that someone may have come after you because of this investigation? Is this case worth your life?”

  “Of course I’ve thought about it. But I don’t think it’s related.”

  “So someone just rammed you in the back because they have a hard-on for Dodge trucks?” he demanded, his mouth thinning to a grim line.

  “Gabe, think. Who knows I’m looking into Richard’s disappearance? Only a handful of people. Mostly friends. What sense would it make for the person who asked for my help to attack me?”

  “Nothing like this happened before you took this case on. Have you thought about that?”

  “Yes. But what do you want me to do? Stop? Just give up?”

  “Yes.”

  She blinked. “Tough.” She crossed her arms and grazed the hard wall of his sweater-covered chest. “I refuse to be bullied or intimidated.”

  A deep rumble vibrated from him. He dragged his fingers through his curls before pinning his intense glare on her face.

  “Richard is dead. There’s no bringing him back. But you’re here. Alive,” he snarled. “At least for now. I’m terrified for you, damn it.”

  “Is that why you kissed me?” The question burst from her lips before she could contain it. Horrified, she desperately wanted to recall the demand, but the words were out there, and she had to face the consequences of his answer.

  “No,” he said coldly, abruptly. Then nothing.

  She gaped at him. “No? That’s all you have to say?”

  “Yes.”

  She scowled. “God, you infuriate me.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “Does that mean you’re going to kiss me?”

  “Please. If I kissed you every time you annoyed and frustrated me, we would never come up for air.”

  A tense hush plunged into the room, deafening in its volume. His arctic eyes blazed down into hers, bright and hot in a face gone as still as a statue. She’d spoken thoughtlessly, but the image branded her brain. His mouth covering hers, tongues tangling and nipping.

  She inhaled sharply and stumbled back a step, her lungs filling with the air his stare had stolen.

  “I’ve already started dinner,” she blurted, then cleared her throat. “You’re welcome to stay if you’d like.”

  His brows flew up. “You’re making a habit of cooking for me.”

  The sensation in her gut accelerated from a tingle to a jolt of electricity. When he’d interred himself in that condo after his family’s death, she’d grown accustomed to preparing simple meals for him, ensuring he nourished his body. To serve him had been an act of love.

  “You wish,” she drawled, scraping the remnants of her composure together. Rational thinking wasn’t compatible with touching. Whirling on her bare heel, she headed toward the kitchen. “I’ve made grown men cry with my Alfredo sauce.”

  “Alfredo, huh?” The clip of his shoes on the hardwood floors resounded behind her.

  “Yes,” she boasted. “You may now kneel and worship at the altar of my awesomeness.”

  He snickered.

  A warm glow burned in her chest and radiated outward like the nimbus of a candle’s flame. She threw an arch look over her shoulder. “But you’re going to help me cook.”

  “Aw, damn,” he grumbled.

  A half hour later, the aroma of sautéing vegetables scented the air and chicken sizzled on the countertop grill. After viewing Gabriel’s dicing skills, Leah had consigned him to a stool at the island, ordering him to “open a bottle of wine.”

  He opened her refrigerator and withdrew a bottle of the Pinot Grigio she’d bought for this particular meal. He poured the tangy white wine into a glass.

  “Here you go.” He stole up behind her at the counter and set the wine on the granite top. She accepted it with a smile and took a sip. Turning back to the stove, she flipped several pieces of frying chicken. She glanced at him and couldn’t quell her amazement. The man she’d loved for years stood in her kitchen while she cooked for him. It seemed so…domestic.

  What was the old saying? If it seems too good to be true, it probably is. A niggle of caution wormed its way under her joy. She decided to ignore the warning, savoring the moment.

  “Thanks,” she said, cutting the heat off from under the pan.

  “I’ve always wanted to know,” he murmured, pouring himself a glass of water rather than the wine. “Why do you eat peppermints like you’ve got a crack habit?”

  “Crack habit?” She grunted. “Nice. It’s a leftover practice from my days as a cop,” she defended. “I was either in a perp’s or witness’s face on a daily basis. It made me conscious of my breath, so I started carrying peppermints.”

  “I wish all cops were so considerate,” he grumbled. He lifted the glass of water and drank from it.

  She regarded him as she whisked the pot of sauce. “Does it get easier?” she asked sympathetically.

  Gabriel didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “The taste for alcohol isn’t too intense most of the time.” He peered down into the clear depths of his water glass. “I wasn’t a big drinker before the…before. So I don’t believe my struggle is the same as someone who’d been at it for years. But yeah, there are moments when I’m glad I got rid of all the alcohol in the house.”

  “When you think of Maura and Ian,” she supplied softly.

  “Yes.” His gaze lifted to hers, unflinching and stark in his honesty.

  “Do you—” She stumbled over the question, and her heart pounded against her ribcage like a cornered animal. “Do you believe you’ll ever let go, heal?”

  He propped his hip against the counter and crossed his arms, staring down at the floor.

  “I don’t know.” The admission scraped her raw. “I no longer want to crawl into the grave with them, but heal? I don’t know… I don’t know what words like ‘healing’ and ‘closure’ mean anymore.”

  He shifted, and the small movement brought him closer. He lowered his arms, and his chest bumped her shoulder as he stroked the nape of her neck, repeating the caress he’d given her at the detective’s home the day before.

  “I can tell you this though, Leah. If not for you, I might actually be in a coffin next to them,” he murmured, staring at her from under a hooded gaze. An image of a gun, black and ugly, against a white sheet flashed in her mind even as heat unfurled in her belly and stretched like a lazy cat. “I’ve never thanked you for staying with me and caring for me.” He moved his hand higher, cupping her head and raising her face to his. “Thank you, Leah.”

  “You’re welcome.” She sniffed, attempting to conceal her reaction to him with nonexistent nonchalance. “Believe me, there were several times I wanted to beat you like a redheaded stepchild.”

  “Don’t do that.” The order was velvet soft but steel. “Don’t minimize what you did—still do—for me.” He turned her fully around and palmed one hip. He pressed his other hand to her cheek, brushing the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone. “Your eyes have always fascinated me.”

  All the moisture in her mouth evaporated like a stream in the Gobi Desert. Blood pumped through her veins, roared in her head, deafening her. She trembled under his touch. “They have?” she rasped.

  He nodded, his gaze like a stroke across her brow, nose, lips. “When I was a child, my mother would tell me bedtime stories about fairies that lived under the hills in Ireland. They would sometimes exchange human babies for fairies, and your eyes, they rem
ind me of those stories, and what a fairy’s eyes would look like. Fairy eyes.”

  Hearts didn’t melt—it was a biological impossibility. But at this moment, with Gabriel studying her with such desire, she could make an argument for the phenomena.

  Her fingers bit into the heels of her palms. The small sting reinforced the knowledge she wasn’t dreaming. This was real, and Gabriel—Gabriel—was whispering sweet words to her; he was touching her as if she were delicate, precious. Like a child trying to hold onto an elusive wisp of a great dream, she closed her eyes. When she lifted her lashes, fear nicked at the fragile hope unfurling its vulnerable wings. After turning back to the stove, she wrenched free of his hold, reclaimed the large spoon and scooped vegetables and sauce over the fettuccini.

  Maybe she was just conning herself into seeing what she’d so desperately yearned for, for so many years. Instead, she focused on the desolation and pain in Gabriel’s eyes when he’d confessed his doubt about healing from the loss of his wife and son.

  How many times had she sneered at women who believed they could change a man? Women who didn’t listen when a man told her the truth about his motives and intentions?

  She refused to be counted among their number.

  Gabriel had never made secret his continuing love for a dead woman. The kiss had been nothing—an emotional knee-jerk response, not a loving gesture or sign of affection. She would be a fool to pretend he wanted more than friendship between them. That line of thinking only courted more heartache, more pain.

  Squaring her shoulders, she picked up the two plates and turned around.

  “Dinner’s ready.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Several hours later, Leah walked Gabriel to the front door. She batted away the whisper of wistfulness rolling through her. The evening had been…lovely. And even she knew foolish desires only led to further hurt, she couldn’t stop her stubborn heart from wishing their time could have lasted just a little longer.

  “Lock the door behind me,” he ordered, pulling it open.

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Dad.”