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Melinda had long ago exchanged the condo’s modern pendant lighting for pierced brass pendants, and as she flipped their switch, she met their dappled illumination like a familiar acquaintance. Beyond the carpeted living room was her round-tabled dining nook, and adjoining it, her kitchen.
Her kitchen. Looking at her kitchen again was like seeing a loved one after years of painful estrangement. Had she betrayed it? Moved beyond it? Forgotten it? Why was she getting emotional again?
Kuttar bachcha.Her kitchen reminded her of Grant.
While the living room and the dining nook shared the western-facing wall, the kitchen spanned the length of both of them. Unlike the boho-modern chic of Paul’s cabin, Melinda’s kitchen had the feel of a professional culinary zone. Cream cabinets softened the sharp steel of the fixtures and appliances, and she’d brought the space to life with rich jade green, robin’s egg blue, and aqua—the colors of her strainer, stand mixer, utensil jar, stacking bowls, and drawer pulls. She stared in horror at the refrigerator, stocked with all manner of ingredients. Her gaze dropped to the butcher block-topped island, and she steadied herself on it. She’d bought this place because of the kitchen, and now food reminded her of Grant.
This was robbery.
“Would you like me to put away the groceries for you?” Melisa asked, and Melinda jumped. Would she? Would she like someone else to open her cabinets and pull out crisper drawers, the way she had done in the mountains?
“No, thank you. It’s something I have to do myself.” She cringed at how odd that sounded. But she had to reclaim her kitchen. There was nothing else to do. She couldn’t call Melisa back tomorrow because she was frightened of the cold-cuts drawer.
“Okay.”
Melinda watched in surprise as the other woman walked into the kitchen like it wasn’t covered in landmines and deposited the groceries on the counter. “Tea?” Melisa offered.
Melinda sighed—whether from relief or exasperation, she wasn’t sure. Apparently Melisa intended to stay a while.
~
Grant was back in his rig. The engine chuffed along with its comforting hum and the wheels gripped the road. The snowfall had officially stopped, but blowing snow kept his wipers busy. Heat piped steadily through the truck’s vents to wick moisture from his chapped face.
The road was in good shape, plowed mostly clean. Only tracks of compressed snow remained. The road. That was it. His mind was on the road. It had to be. There’s no way he could function if it were on her. Her. After she had stalked out of the cabin without so much as a peace sign, Paul had wasted zero time getting to the heart of the matter.
“What the fuck?” Paul said in time with Grant’s “Dammit.”
“What the hell happened up here?” Paul demanded.
“I sure as shit don’t know, man.” Grant rubbed first one and then both hands roughly over his face.
“Please tell me you guys didn’t hook up while you were up here. Are you trying to get life in prison?”
“I’m not telling you anything, DiMario,” Grant snapped, but he knew he was doing exactly that: telling him everything. His poker face had always been a joke. He slumped into the chair’s forgiving embrace.
“Christ, man. I thought I was a dumbass. You made me look like a good Samaritan! Or worse, a pimp.” Paul’s eyes seared him alive.
“You got us into this mess, DiMario. Don’t go shifting the blame to me.”
“Okay, okay.” Paul’s hands went up. “At least we’re sharing culpability now. Can’t say I’m not grateful. It was lonely in the gallows.”
“Things got wild,” Grant said, eyes closed, head tossed back against the chair. “I may owe you a new couch.”
Paul’s eyes widened. “Are you fucking kidding me? Out here? In front of the fire? Could you get any more trite?” He rubbed his temples. “If she tells Melisa, she won’t have to call the cops—Mel will do it for her.”
“What are you talking about?” Grant asked, head still thrown back and ignoring the ceiling.
“You had sex with someone with whom there was a very clear inequity of power. For all you know, she thought sleeping with you would prevent her being murdered.”
They had been Grant’s thoughts as well, but hearing them from a trusted source was not heartening.
He had to talk with her.
No, he had to leave her alone. And find legal representation.
But she said I could call her.He was a madman grasping at nothing. She had also said, “Please stop, please, I’m not who you think I am.”
Grant groaned.
