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“A child.” Possibly a murderer, but she needed to collect more evidence on that. Those laptop messages from Concerned gave her a new place to start.
“My brother,” Harris said at the same time.
No yelling. Harris rarely yelled or even raised his voice. His work involved emergencies and delivering difficult news. Between that stress and the pressure of running a business itwouldn’t be a surprise to see his frustration turn to explosion, but it never happened. He possessed a wealth of self-control. When he walked in the door each night, even when he was on call, he did so as a father and husband. The rest fell away.
All those stories from friends about difficult husbands and warnings in magazines about men being shitty had kept her noncommittal dating streak alive and scared her away from serious relationships for years. Then she met Harris through a colleague at the hospital where she used to work. The woman lived next to Harris when he was single and she made the introduction. That led to a ten-month courtship that ended with a white dress in Las Vegas and Josh as the witness.
Elisa shifted around to face him. “I don’t want to fight.”
She made the announcement because she didn’t have any resources left. She felt depleted and empty. Pummeled by all the questions in her mind and exhausted by the need to steer away from them to give her family a good day.
His gaze slipped down to the gap in her robe and her bare skin underneath before inching back up to look at her face again. “Hard agree.”
She understood his amused tone because she understood him. He liked peace. Craved it. He grew up in a volatile household. Not violent, but loud. His parents drank and fought and then drank again. Harris described them as careening from problem to problem, pretending they were fine all while insisting their children be perfect to shore up the public façade.
All that fighting, all the drinking, culminated in a car accident that killed them both and injured the innocent, unsuspecting driver they hit. Harris had been twenty-three, and left to sort out the family finances and struggle with a sixteen-year-old, emotionally messed up Josh.
When the worst happened, Harris doubled down, asserting more self-control and ratcheting up his determination to have a stable, successful life. Elisa understood how the tragedy shaped him. She also hated that he’d been forced to be so responsible for so long.
“I don’t want to think about Abby tonight.” The words slipped out, but Elisa meant them.
“Yeah, about that.” He sighed as he sat down on the arm of the chair he used as a makeshift closet. “I hope it’s possible for you not to dwell, but I kind of doubt it.”
Dwellstruck her the wrong way. “You have to admit her disappearance doesn’t make sense.”
He tapped his fingers together. “I know you think that, but—”
“Fine.” Nope, they would not fight. She would not let Josh mentally slink into the bedroom with them. “Maybe spending a little time with Rachel will make me feel better. She seemed nice. Not intimidated by Josh. Maybe a bit young, but I’m almost six years younger than you and no one squawked about that.”
“Five years and four months, but who’s counting.” Harris laughed. “And the cause-and-effect loop you’re drawing is a little fuzzy.”
Because it was nonsense. A stall tactic. But she did have one legitimate non-Josh question to ask him. “Does a redhead work for you?”
For a few seconds Harris just sat there, looking at her.
“Well?” she asked as she took out her moisturizer and smoothed a dollop on her legs, then on her arms.
He watched every move. “We’re changing subjects?”
She nodded. “We are.”
“Okay, so...” He cleared his throat. “Is there a specific redhead we’re talking about?”
“Tall with shoulder-length auburn hair. Deep red. Pretty.” Elisa tried to remember her face, anything specific, but she couldn’t call up a picture in her mind.
Harris groaned. “Is this a test of some sort?”
She stopped shifting around. “Huh?”
“You’re sitting there, probably naked under that robe, and making your skin all shiny and smooth while asking about some random woman? This feels like a test.”
She hadn’t even noticed. “Pretend it’s not.”
“Honestly? I’m having some trouble concentrating right now.”
She loved the way he lightened difficult situations by highlighting something funny or absurd. It was this dry tone that some mistook for seriousness. She knew better, but her question about the woman was real and actually didn’t have anything to do with him.
“But, no on the redhead.” He made a face but added, “I don’t think so.”
