“With supervision, I hope,” he said.
They both knew how easy it would be for an unsupervised someone to mess with the database.
“Yes,” she said, “as long as we wipe my information when we’re done.”
“We can do that,” he said. “Follow me.”
They went through the door he had come out of, and down a flight of stairs. The temperature was lower here, and the air had a tang of chemicals that she didn’t recognize.
Most of the doors off the lower corridor were closed and labeled by the function inside. The stairs went down farther, and, according to the building map that had appeared in the corner of her left eye, led to storage pending notification.
In other words, if her sister were in this morgue, she’d be at least one more level down.
Goudkins glanced that way, then forced her brain away from contemplating what lay below.
Alfonso led her into a room in the back, which had a lot of equipment she couldn’t identify, and one thing she could. A quick-look DNA analyzer. The Investigative unit had dozens of those. The results from the analyzer always needed double-checking as it had a small error rate, but if it found a match, that match was usually positive. It was the negatives that sometimes got overturned.
She walked over to it, but didn’t touch it. “How do we keep my information separate?”
“We add this.” He took a small chip out of a package of chips. “Everything we do goes on that chip and you can take it with you.”
“Forgive me for being paranoid, but I’m required to ask: How do I know you’re not making extra copies?” Usually she didn’t apologize for asking that question, but she felt a little less powerful than usual since she wasn’t here on Earth Alliance business.
“I’ll let you check the system,” he said. “I assume you’re familiar with DNA analyzers.”
Good assumption and stupid decision. Normally, she would warn him about letting someone else tamper with their machines, but she wasn’t going to say anything on this day.
She sank into the chair and grabbed one of the swabs. He put the chip into the machine as she did so.
“Thank you for taking time out of your day to do this,” she said.
His gaze met hers. He had deep circles under his eyes.
“I’m not taking time,” he said. “Ever since last week, this sort of thing has been a crucial part of my day.”
She knew he didn’t mean keeping someone’s privacy, but helping locate bodies for family members.
“I greatly appreciate it,” she said softly.
“I know,” he said and ran a hand over his face. “Believe me, I know.”
TWENTY-SIX
BERHANE AND Ó BRÁDAIGH (“Call me Donal, please”) settled in a coffee shop a few blocks from the train station. Berhane had never been to this coffee shop before, which really wasn’t much of a surprise.
She hadn’t spent a lot of time in this part of Armstrong. Her father would probably lecture her severely if he found out where she was.
She sighed inwardly. She was a grown woman who worried about what her father would think about her whereabouts. She really had allowed other people to run her life.
She had just been starting to step into her own before her mother died. And then it had been as if Berhane had frozen in time.
“Is this okay?” Ó Brádaigh—Donal—asked. “I mean, we can go somewhere else if this place makes you uncomfortable.”
She looked at him, trying to figure out what he meant. Was he worried that this place was too cheap for her? That she was the kind of woman who wouldn’t be seen in a place like this?
That might’ve been unfair to him. He might have thought she just didn’t like the ambience.
But only a few weeks before, she would have worried about being seen in a place like this, because she doubted that her father or Torkild would approve.
She smiled at Ó Brádaigh—Donal. Donal. He wanted her to call him Donal.
“This is lovely, thank you.”
Lovely was probably an overstatement. The coffee shop was small, with dark wood walls and lovely plants that she couldn’t identify hanging from the ceiling. The plants had viney leaves that trailed to the floor, and they probably created a lot of oxygen.
Even so, the place smelled of coffee and chocolate, and because of that, seemed incredibly decadent. The smell probably made the patrons less likely to notice the worn booths or the chipped edges on the tables.
Berhane ordered a chocolate espresso, just because this place smelled so much like one, and Donal raised his dark eyebrows, looking amused.
“You’ll never sleep,” he said.
She shrugged. “It’s the middle of the day. I’m not worried.”
She didn’t want to tell him that she hadn’t slept well since Anniversary Day. It brought back all of the nightmares she’d had since her mother’s death.
A serving bot brought their drinks. Donal had ordered a raspberry latte. It arrived, an alarming shade of pink.
“My daughter got me hooked on these,” he said as he took his drink off the tray. “She ordered it because it’s pink.”
“But that’s not why you ordered it,” Berhane said with a smile.
“Certainly not,” he said. “I ordered it because it tastes good. Want a sip?”
She did. Normally she would have said no—such things just weren’t done. And the moment that thought crossed her mind, she said, “Sure.”
He offered her the glass, then took her espresso off the tray. The espresso was very black.
She took a small sip from the latte. It tasted of raspberries and rich cream and was probably one of the most decadent things she’d tasted in years.
“Wow, yum,” she said. “I’ll remember that.”
“It’s why I come here,” he said. “These things are deadly, but delicious. Everyone needs something like that in their life.”
He put his hand on top of the tray and the tray trilled. He had just paid for their drinks.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said.
“Oh, but I did,” he said. “I owe you. Fiona loves that ring. I have to pry it off her neck every night, and she isn’t allowed to wear it outside the house. She hates me for that.”
“So you owe me because I made your daughter hate you,” Berhane said with a smile.
He laughed. The sound was as deep and rich as the coffee.
“That’s what I just said, isn’t it?” His eyes twinkled. In that moment, she realized that he was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. “I think you know what I mean.”
The shop was a little too warm. Or maybe she was.
“Yes,” she said. “I do know what you mean.”
His gaze stayed on hers a moment too long. When was the last time a man had looked at her like that? When anyone had?
She couldn’t remember.
Her mother would say that she just wouldn’t have noticed, that her thoughts were tied up in Torkild, and that had probably been true.
But Berhane hadn’t thought of Torkild as much this last year, except to resent him or dismiss him. It hadn’t been working out. She had known that, but she had been unwilling to admit that to herself.
“It’s nice to laugh,” she said to Donal. “I can’t remember the last time.”
His smile faded. He looked around the shop. The ten other patrons had been looking at them.
“Yeah,” he said. “It almost feels inappropriate.”
She remembered that feeling from the days after the first bombing. When someone laughed in public, everyone stared. It seemed like the whole city had agreed that laughing had been banned for at least a month.
And she had been grieving so hard for her mother that she had felt the same way.
“We have to laugh at small things,” Berhane said, as much to herself as to him. “We’re not alive if we don’t.”
That gaze of his was deep. She could get lost in those eyes.
What would he
r mother say? She was searching for a rebound.
And this man wasn’t someone to toy with. He had a darling child who would become too attached to anyone in his life.
Berhane didn’t want to hurt either of them.
And little Fiona had been the highlight of her Anniversary Day. The only highlight. (Unless Berhane counted the break-up with Torkild, which would only benefit her in the long run.)
She took a sip of her espresso. It was good and sweet, with a slightly bitter aftertaste. Somehow the flavor worked.
She made herself focus on Donal, not on the past. She wasn’t sure why he wanted to spend time with her, but she wasn’t going to ask him either.
Asking would make her seem needy.
“Are you going to try to talk me out of going into the field?” Berhane asked.
He rested his right elbow on the table and put his chin in the palm of his right hand. It was a young, wistful move, making her realize what he must have looked like as a boy.
Dark eyes, incredible intensity, lips that seemed to smile even when he was serious.
“No, I’m not going to talk you out of anything,” he said. “I think I understand why you want to go.”
She turned her head. He was going to say something patronizing. Torkild would have. Her father too.
Since she was attracted to this man, and it was too soon to be attracted to anyone, she decided to let him disparage her. It would be the best way to make her see him as a real person and not as someone interesting.
“Why do you think I want to go?” she asked.
He let his arm drop. He took the glass of pink liquid and pulled it toward him.
“My wife,” he said quietly, not looking at Berhane. “She died in the bombing four years ago.”
Berhane’s face flushed. Whatever she had expected him to say, it hadn’t been that.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“I know you didn’t.” He grabbed a spoon and stirred the latte. The spoon clinked on the glass. “They didn’t…find her…right away, and I kept thinking she would come back to us. Fee was only two months old. I was babysitting her that day. I should have been at work, and Laraba should have been at home. She had leave to stay with Fee. I didn’t. But Laraba had some appointment at the medical school—she was a professor there—and I agreed…”
His voice trailed off. He raised his head.
“You don’t want to hear this,” he said, his voice suddenly normal again.
“I do,” Berhane said. She hadn’t met anyone who had lost someone in the first bombing.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She hadn’t met anyone who wanted to discuss what they lost.
But the opportunity had fled. He was already shaking his head, clearly embarrassed. “Long story short, it took them three months to identify her.”
“By small amounts of DNA found somewhere,” Berhane said.
“Yes.” His eyes glittered. “Your mother too?”
Berhane nodded. “It took forever. I thought—I hoped—she had run away.”
He laughed, only this time, it wasn’t the deep-in-the-gut joyful laugh he’d had before, but a bitter laugh of recognition.
“Yeah, me too,” he said. “But I couldn’t understand how she could leave Fee.”
“And you,” Berhane said.
He shook his head. “Oh, I can be an asshole, and I wasn’t happy that day about missing a morning of work. I could understand how Laraba could leave me. But Fee was her whole world.”
Such sadness. Berhane felt drawn to it, and knew she shouldn’t.
“It sounds like Fiona is your whole world too.” She didn’t feel that she had the right to call the little girl “Fee.” That seemed like an affectionate, earned nickname.
He smiled, the warmth back in his face. He wasn’t looking at Berhane. Instead, he looked to the side, as if he could actually see Fiona.
“She is my whole world,” he said. “I didn’t think I could raise her without Laraba, but I am. I’ve managed. And Fee saved my life.”
Berhane understood that too, that need to grab onto something. She had made Torkild that something, to his dismay. Maybe the end of the relationship hadn’t been all his fault. Maybe Berhane had refused to let him go because she couldn’t let anything go after the bombing.
Donal was saying, “I know it seems silly to say that about a two-month old, but really—”
“You had to stay focused on the present,” Berhane said. “You didn’t have time to grieve.”
His gaze was on hers again. She felt an odd jolt, as if he had actually touched her.
“Yes,” he said with a kind of wonder. “Exactly.”
“Anniversary Day couldn’t have been easy for you,” Berhane said.
“Oh, God, you have no idea—” He stopped himself and smiled sheepishly at her. “Except that you do.”
She nodded. A lump formed in her throat. She made herself take a deep breath, hoping the lump would go away without tears.
“And,” he said, as if by way of apology, “your fiancé was an asshole to you just before so you had no one to go to for comfort.”
That made Berhane smile. Whatever Torkild was good at—and there were many things (mostly intellectual)—comfort wasn’t one of them.
“He came back,” she said. “They didn’t let the ships leave, and to his credit, he tried to comfort me. The softer emotions aren’t in his skill set.”
Donal took a sip of that egregiously pink drink, then set it aside.
“Forgive me, but you two didn’t look like you belonged together. Even fighting…I mean…” Then he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m out of line.”
It was her turn to rest an elbow on the table. “No, I want to hear this. No one besides my mother ever talked to me about Torkild.”
Donal gave her a surprised look. “No one?”
Berhane shrugged. “I…my close friends, they all went to school or took jobs off-Moon. They kinda thought I was a throwback for staying here.”
And of course, she hadn’t made many other friends in the last few years. Since her mother died, at least, if not before. There were a few people she had regular conversations with at the university, but she hadn’t seen most of them after the bombing.
She hadn’t seen anyone for a long time.
He nodded. “Sometimes life just gets in the way, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah,” she said softly. Then she made herself smile at him. “Which is not going to get you off the hook. Tell me what you saw with me and Torkild.”
“Why?” Donal asked.
“I’ll tell you later, so I don’t taint whatever it is you’re going to say.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “When people in love fight, the passion spills over. Bystanders should be able to look and see the attraction. The fighting should be just as profound as the lovemaking.”
Berhane’s cheeks heated.
Donal’s eyes twinkled. He clearly saw her discomfort.
“However, you were mad. He just stood there, as if you were some off-kilter stranger. He looked at you with a little sadness, but it was that superior sadness some people get when a child is out of control and those people believe that no one should ever let their child behave like that.”
That last bit sounded like experience. But Berhane understood it.
“Of course, I might be biased,” Donal said. “I like you, and the fact that someone was treating you like that…”
He shrugged and spread his hands in a silent apology.
“And here I am, making an ass of myself,” he said.
“No,” she said. “No.”
She took a deep breath, then extended her hand. The movement felt like such a risk. A tentative touch with someone she didn’t know.
“Thank you,” she said. “For the honesty. It means—”
He took her hand and stole her breath at the same time. His fingers were warm and dry and callused and somehow electric. They sent a charge through her skin.
The flush on her face grew.
He could probably see her acting like such a school girl, and he was probably thinking she was such an idiot.
“I’ve got to pick up Fee,” he said. His hand was still entwined with hers, so she started to pull away.
He tightened his grip.
“But,” he said, as if he knew that she was uncomfortable. Embarrassed. “I’d like to do this again. I’d like to spend some real time with you. Is that something…?”
Her father would say that this man, who flat-out told her the day they met that he couldn’t afford a ring like the one she was just giving away, was after Berhane for the money. Her mother would have gently suggested an investigation. Torkild would have laughed and said that Berhane had come down in the world.
“I would like that too,” Berhane said. “I would like that very much.”
Donal grinned. He brought their entwined hands up to his mouth and kissed the knuckle beneath her middle finger. A shiver ran through her.
“Wonderful,” he said. “The end of the week, maybe? Dinner?”
Her father would want to know why she was out for dinner, who she was seeing, what her plans were.
She didn’t care.
“Yes,” she said.
“I’ll make plans,” he said. “I’ll send them to you. Do you have a link I could access…?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’ll send it, if yours is easy to find.”
“It is,” he said.
Then mine is too, she sent, using a private link that her father did not have access to. One she hadn’t used in a long time, not since her mother was alive.
Berhane wrenched her thoughts away from that.
Wonderful, he sent along those links and smiled. He kissed the knuckle on her thumb, then set her hand down gently, before disentangling.
He stood at the same time. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t be late for Fee.”
“No, you can’t,” Berhane said. “Go.”
“Remember,” he said as he headed toward the door. “Dinner!”
“I will,” she said, as she thought, How could I forget?
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