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I dropped my bag by the end of the futon, then turned back to look at him. He’d closed the door, and was standing in the entryway, watching me.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
I shook my head, and then he was in my arms, which went a long fucking way to making things at least a little better. I let my cheek rest against the top of his head, breathing in the mix of spice and soap that was Taavi and his shampoo.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Taavi—” I bit my lip. I fucking hated telling people that someone they knew was dead. It had been the absolute worst part of my job in homicide, and it wasn’t any fucking easier now that I wasn’t in the RPD. When I was a cop, I didn’t know the people I had to talk to. I still felt horrible every time I had to do it, but it wassomuch worsewhen the person you had to tell was someone you knew and cared about.
Taavi stepped back, looking up at me with concern on his features. “What is it?”
“Did you—know a guy named Hector Dimas?”
He had. I saw it in the widened eyes, the furrow in his brow, and the bunching of muscle in his jaw.
“Taavi—I’m so sorry.”
He stepped back into my arms, resting his head against my chest. “I didn’t know him well,” he murmured into the buttons on my shirt. “He was always in a hurry, but always said ‘hi.’ I think… I think he maybe was close with Marilee. Closer than me, anyway. Should I call her?”
I sighed. “Probably.”
A timer went off in the kitchen.
“Taavi—”
He stepped away gave me a weak smile. “Let me just pull these out, and I’ll call Marilee.”
I followed behind him, uncertain.
In the kitchen, he pulled a tray of garlic bread out of the oven, setting the slices into a basket lined with one of my mom’s dishtowels. Seeing him use it made my heart twinge a little, but it was hardly the time to comment on kitchen linens.
He bit his lip, then looked at me. “Can you…?”
“Just tell me what to do.”
“Keep an eye on the pasta and sauce? Stir occasionally?”
“Yeah, of course.”
He slid past me on the way out of the kitchenette, running a hand across my stomach as he stepped into the living area and pulled out his phone.
I could hear him talking to his boss as I periodically stirred a spoon through the bubbling pot of tomato sauce.
“Marilee, I know you’re friends with Hector Dimas, from legal aid? Yes. No, I didn’t—I just heard. No, Marilee… I’m really sorry, but—Yes. Yes, I’m so sorry. No, I don’t, not exactly. Val just told me that they found him. I don’t know, but yes, they know it’s him. Val works for a medium, so I think that’s how they know.” He fell silent for about a minute or two, and I kept stirring. “Of course. No, I don’t know anything more. Yes. Yes, I’ll be in Monday. Yes. Again, I’m sorry for your loss. Bye.”
And the he stood in the doorway staring down at his phone.
“Taavi—” I still didn’t know what to say or how to say it.
He turned to me, a sad smile flickering over his lips. “I didn’t really know him, Val,” he said softly. “Enough to know that he didn’t deserve it, enough to be sad for the people who knew him better.”
I nodded. “I’m sorry.”
He came over and hugged me again. “Me, too,” he said softly, then he leaned back and looked up at me. “I’m okay, Val.”
I nodded, but I couldn’t manage to say anything around the ball of emotion that was blocking my throat. Because Taavi had immediately understood what this meant to me—that he’d known the victim, that he’d been close enough that it could have been him, if not for me.
If not for me, Taavi would have no one—no family, no close friends in the area. It would make him a perfect mark for the Culhua, whose victims seemed to mostly be loners, people without spouses or kids, shifters who were new to the area or whose family was far away.
