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Now a new shampoo bottle lived in its place. A different brand for a different woman. A younger woman. One who probably didn’t challenge him so often, one who likely didn’t argue so much, one who could take him home to meet her mother.
Lila took off her clothes in the cold room, stepping past the chipped counter and the cracked sink. After a quick shower, she donned black trousers and a cream-colored top. Even if she wanted to wear the crimson colors of the Randolphs, she couldn’t. She hadn’t brought any of her old clothes with her when she moved out of the family compound.
Leaving her hair to air dry, she returned her things to her bag and ventured out of the bathroom. Dixon stood at the stove, spatula scraping against metal as he stirred something vaguely yellow and red. A cutting board filled with tomato ends, green onion tips, and cracked eggshells littered its surface.
The scrambled eggs might not have looked as pretty as Chef’s, but they certainly smelled delicious. She sat on the barstool while Dixon pulled the pan from the stovetop and spooned two portions onto waiting plates. The toaster clicked, ejecting a few pieces of toast. He added them to the mix, taking out a pad of butter from the refrigerator.
“I didn’t know you could cook.”
Dixon waggled his eyebrows and sat beside her at the counter.
Lila’s legs swung back and forth as they ate. She stole several long looks at the closed door to Tristan’s room. He hadn’t even bothered to come out and see her off.
Her hunger waned.
Before Lila could finish her breakfast, Dixon ate his last bite, set his plate in the sink, and strode to the bathroom. Water rushed through the pipes as he showered. Moments after the water stopped, a razor smacked against the edge of the sink. When the door opened again, the smell of aftershave filled the room.
Dixon was strangely absent, though. A wizard had transformed him into someone new. He’d put color aside for once, donning black trousers and a gray sweater. A light black scarf hung around his neck. He’d traded his dark red boots for black ones. Only his green shamrock bracelet revealed his character, but even that disappeared as he tucked it into the pocket of his workborn clothes.
It felt as if Dixon had lost something.
He approached the counter and shoved her plate closer, motioning for her to eat a few more bites.
“I can’t. It’s very good, but I…”
Dixon patted her cheek. He picked up her plate, covered it with plastic wrap, and slid it into the refrigerator. While the pair cleaned the kitchen, Lila cast her eyes toward Tristan’s door, giving it longer and longer looks, wondering if Tristan would come out at all.
Dixon caught her at it, and she looked away. “I suppose he’s very tired.”
Dixon stared as well. Brow furrowed, he stalked toward the door, shaking off Lila’s halfhearted attempt to hold him back. She swallowed hard as he opened it, not sure whether to be happy or frustrated or nervous.
But Dixon didn’t move. He just scratched his head.
Not able to bear it, Lila trudged to his side and peeked over his shoulder.
Tristan hadn’t even come home.
It really was over between them. Their relationship, their friendship, everything. She might be sentenced to death in a few hours, and he couldn’t be bothered to see her off, much less offer a few words of encouragement.
So much for love.
Lila donned her mesh hood before Dixon could turn back around. She threw on her gray leather coat, snatched up her bag of clothes, and jutted her chin toward the still-running computer. “Don’t forget to check when you get back. It won’t be finished, but you keep your eye on it. Once it’s done, take it to the oracle. She and Connell can go through the photos. I suspect that what’s in those files will give you all some answers.”
Us. It will give us answers. He scrawled the words over an entire page, then smacked her in the shoulder with the notepad. Shoving it into his pocket, he offered her a smile she couldn’t return.
The pair jogged downstairs into the empty garage. Shirley hadn’t emerged for her cup of coffee yet, nor had her assistants turned up to start the day. Dixon unhooked a set of keys from a peg
near the woman’s workbench, the metal rattling as he hopped into a Cruz truck. The lock popped dully, and Lila climbed inside.
She slipped off her hood a block away from the shop.
They drove to Bullstow in silence. Dixon couldn’t write while he drove, and Lila couldn’t speak even if she wanted to. Her throat had been glued shut, and her fists tightened like a newborn babe’s.
She shook them out, unwilling to wallow or give in to nerves. Snatching up her brush, she swept her hair into a bun and fixed it with a few pins. Her back popped as she craned her neck and slipped the brush back into her bag.
She wouldn’t need it or its contents in a few hours.
Where would her property go? Would it be turned over to her matron? Would Beatrice Randolph even accept her daughter’s things?
