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“Why?”
“Because you were Danny Mulligan’s daughter. And there were non-negotiable rules to keep.”
“You like breaking the rules.” She runs her fingers over the veins in the top of my hand.
“Yeah, I do,” I say, my breath catching. “Especially with you.”
Silence, and the memories are thick between us. “We had a lot of fun back then.” Her voice is soft.
“If you call spending too many hours with crime scene evidence, fun.”
“I do.” She takes her hand away to trace the sticker on the top of the file. She’s blinking. “I did.”
I look away. Because our glory days as Eve and Rembrandt, CSI and hot shot detective are over.
She gathers up the folders, and I notice she’s putting them—at least the first few—in order. Another thing she can’t help. “Eve—”
“It’s okay, Rem. I understand.”
It’s a canned, practice response. It’s okay, Rem. I understand.
She wants to, I know it. She understands loss, and frustration and even helplessness, but she wasn’t there the day when my future looked me in the eye, and I surrendered.
Wasn’t there for the fight between Booker and me. Didn’t hear the words.
I can’t go back.
But I pretend her words help, nod and help her stack the files. That’s what marriage is about, sometimes, agreeing that the lies are truth.
Leaning up to put the files away, Eve hesitates and then, cradling the stack in one arm, grabs something from inside the box. “Look at this.”
She hands me a wat
ch.
It’s a vintage watch, very old, the kind that needs winding and even as I take it, I glimpse a visage of John sitting at his desk, playing with the dial. I lay it out in my hand. It’s cool and heavy and the memory takes root. Chief Booker wore this every day that I knew him. The watch face is an old friend, see-through to the gears inside, with hatches that mark the time, bigger at the quarter hour. Almost as wide as my thumb, the band is leather, fraying at the edges, the clasp a little bent.
The tiny gears sit unmoving, hands stuck at 3:27 as I spin the dial. It moves, but nothing turns. Of course it’s broken. Turning it over, I read an inscription on the backside. Be Stalwart. The etching is written in script, and it’s faded, the edges smooth, aged.
“John gave you his watch.” It’s not a question, but more of a breath from Eve, a moment of wonder.
“No. It probably fell in there.” I start to hand it to her, but she shoves it back to me. “He gave you his watch, Rem. When did you ever know John Booker to do anything by accident?”
She’s right, as usual, but especially with John, the most serious, darkly purposeful man I’ve ever met. He never did anything without forethought.
He was my mentor, the man I wanted to be my father, and the person who believed in me when I didn’t.
“It’s his way of forgiving you,” she says, and I look up at her. Frown.
I didn’t realize she saw it that way, and it stops me, a little pinch in my gut. I’m about to retort that I wasn’t the one who needed forgiveness, but it’s late, and I don’t want a fight.
And deep down inside, I fear she’s right.
She puts the files in the box as I rub my thumb over the inscription. Stalwart. An old word that means loyal. Reliable. Hardworking.
Everything I thought I was. Or wanted to be.
Eve has terrifying mind-reading powers because she takes the watch from my hand and puts it on the desk. “He gave it to the right person.”
