"And now?"
"Now it still hurts.But it's a different kind of hurt.Less sharp, more like an ache."Miles took a drink."My therapist says that's progress."
"It sounds like it."
Their second round arrived and they moved on to other topics.Kim told him about growing up in California with her locksmith father, about the summer she spent learning magic tricks because she wanted to be like Houdini.Miles told her about his early years in forensic science, about the mentor who had taught him to look for patterns in chemical signatures.The conversation flowed easily, moving from topic to topic without awkward pauses or forced transitions.
At some point Kim mentioned a case she was reviewing and Miles felt himself starting to engage with it.But Kim caught herself immediately.
"Nope.We're not doing it.Damn…it was my fault, too!"
"Doing what?"
"Talking about work.We made it forty-five minutes.That's pretty good for us."
Miles checked his watch and realized she was right.They had been here for nearly an hour and had barely touched on anything related to the Elementalist cases.It felt strange and refreshing at the same time.
"Sorry.Force of habit."
They deliberately steered the conversation away from work after that.Kim asked about his apartment, whether he had any hobbies outside of the job.Miles asked about her family, whether she still saw them regularly.The questions were personal but not invasive, the kind of getting-to-know-you conversation that felt natural and unforced.
Miles found himself watching the way Kim's expressions changed when she talked about things she cared about.The way her eyes lit up when she mentioned her niece.The way her hands moved when she was describing something visual.There was an enthusiasm to her that was infectious, a genuine joy in small things that he had forgotten could exist.
He wondered if she felt the same pull he was starting to feel.The way she looked at him sometimes suggested maybe she did.But she never pushed, never made it awkward.She just seemed content to be here, sharing drinks and conversation with him.
By the time they left the bar hours later, Miles felt lighter than he had in months.They walked to the parking lot together, the spring night warm enough that neither of them needed jackets.
"This was nice," Kim said when they reached her car."We should do it again sometime."
"Definitely."
She smiled and got in her car.Miles watched her pull out of the parking lot before walking to his own vehicle.He sat there for a moment before starting the engine, thinking about the evening.About Kim's laugh and the easy way they had talked to each other.Slowly, he began to accept the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he was ready to feel something other than grief.
Seven months might not be enough time by some standards.But maybe there was no such thing as enough time.Maybe there was just the moment when you realized you wanted to try again, wanted to see if you could build something new without betraying what you had lost.
Miles started his car and headed home, feeling something he had not felt in a very long time: hope.
CHAPTER FOUR
Diane Rothschild stepped out of the elevator and into her penthouse foyer.The click of her heels against the marble echoed in the silence.The charity gala had run late, stretching past midnight with speeches that went on far too long and champagne that flowed freely enough to make everyone forget they were supposed to have left two hours ago.Her feet ached from standing in stilettos for six hours straight, and the diamond necklace at her throat felt heavier than it had when she'd first clasped it on.
She dropped her clutch on the console table near the door and walked into the living room.Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of Manhattan that had cost her seven million dollars, the city lights spreading out below like a carpet of stars.The apartment was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioning.Her assistant had left hours ago, and the building's overnight doorman was twelve floors below.She was alone, which was exactly what she wanted after an evening of forced smiles and pointless conversations about tax-deductible donations.
Diane moved to the bar cart near the window and poured herself two fingers of scotch.She took a sip and felt the burn settle pleasantly in her chest.The photographers had been relentless tonight, their cameras flashing every time she turned around.She knew the images would be in tomorrow's society pages.Diane Rothschild in Valentino, dripping in platinum and diamonds.The necklace alone was worth two hundred thousand dollars, part of a set that included the earrings and bracelet she was currently wearing.
She had other jewelry that was worth more, pieces passed down through her family or acquired at auction.But this platinum set was her favorite.The metal had a weight and presence that gold lacked, a cool elegance that suited her.She wore it to every major event, had worn it when she was photographed for Vogue last year, had worn it to the Met Gala three years running.
Diane took another sip of scotch and reached up to unclasp the necklace.Her fingers worked at the small catch at the back of her neck, struggling slightly with the mechanism.The thing about expensive jewelry was that it was often impractical, designed more for appearance than ease of use.She finally got the clasp open and set the necklace carefully on the bar cart.The diamonds caught the light from the city below, throwing tiny prisms across the dark wood.
She moved on to the earrings next, pulling them free one at a time and setting them beside the necklace.The bracelet came off last, sliding over her wrist with a satisfying weight.She would put everything in the safe before bed, but for now she just wanted to finish her drink and maybe soak in the tub for twenty minutes before collapsing into bed.
As she made her way to the bathroom to start running the tub of water, she heard a faint sound coming from deeper in the apartment.A soft thud, like something being set down carefully.
Diane froze with the glass halfway to her lips.The apartment should be empty.The cleaning service came on Tuesdays and Thursdays.Her assistant had her own key but never came by this late (and besides, she’d been just as worn down as Diane had been when they’d parted ways).Besides, the doorman would have called if anyone had asked to come up.
She set the glass down and listened.Silence stretched out for several seconds.Maybe she had imagined it.Maybe it was just the building settling, or sounds from a neighboring unit bleeding through the walls.
But then there was another sound…quieter this time, but definitely there.It was coming from the direction of her bedroom.
