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Catherine
I can feel Aiden watching me.His gaze is deliciously heavy on my skin, like a warm blanket on a cold, rainy morning. It’s not invasive or suggestive. It’scomforting. Almost as if he’s trying to peel the layers of me away so that he can see my true self beneath the façade.
After Harry’s warning, when I first saw Aiden standing at the door, I felt momentarily panicked. But then he asked for Antoinette and the panic instantly calmed. Still, I shouldn’t have invited him in. I shouldn’thave brought him into my space. I can see now how that was a mistake, but it felt so natural to talk to him, to try and ease the discomfort in his eyes once mine had subsided.
I’ve thought a lot about what he told me the last time that we met. That he thinks I’m a survivor. And even though I haven’t mentioned it to the girls, I did take his card off the porch railing. I hid it in my hope chest, a little box in my vanity where I keep important memories. A single photograph of me and my dad that Winston took, mementos I’ve collected from the girls throughout the years, and now, Aiden Flint’s phone number. I don’t know why I kept it—only that I couldn’t throw it away.
He's so quiet as I ice the remaining six cupcakes that I imagine he’s daydreaming. But when I sneak a glance at him, his eyes are focused on my arms, on the weeks-old bruises mottling my skin.
His dark gaze doesn’t scare me now. It reminds me exactly what the pad of his thumb felt like as it whispered over my skin: Completely, enticingly erotic. And, although I try not to let the memory affect me, my arms break out in goosebumps.
I’m almost certain that Lieutenant Flint did not think about the interaction in quite the same light. He’s a protector. An idealist. And still, my stomach feels empty against my nerves and my hands tremble a little as I take the remaining cookies and decorate the tops of the cupcakes.
“Whose birthday party are you practicing for?”
Aiden’s question slices through the building tension. I flounder for a small moment as I think about what to tell him. I don’t know if Toni told him about Cassidy. I don’t know if it matters. But I find myself lying anyway. “Aneighbor’s kid. She’s hopeless in the kitchen and knows I love it.”
“Not Antoinette’s little sister who turns five in a month or so?” he asks.
My head shoots up, but Aiden is smiling softly. “You tricked me.”
“You don’t trust me,” he counters. But his voice is disappointed not judgmental.
“I didn’t know how much she’d told you,” I insist. “And I feel uncomfortable giving out personal details that aren’t my own.”
“That’s fair.”
My hands falter on the last cupcake. “You’re not going to accuse me of withholding information? Or harass me about lying?”
“Not unless you want me to.”
“No.” I look down at my hands as I quickly wrap up. “I don’t do well with law enforcement,” I say, finally. “I still feel like I’m going to break out in hives when I see a cop. It can be anywhere, in the most casual of settings. A café. Walking on the street. Passing me on the freeway. It’s like my mind instantly goes back to being on the street and seeing them pull up.” When you know you’re guilty, the fear is so much worse.
“I understand.” He pushes to a stand so suddenly that I take a hurried step back when the movement brings us almost chest to chest. Aiden frowns. “Don’t be afraid of me, Catherine. I would never intentionally hurt anyone, especially you.”
“I know that. Ido,” I insist when he looks doubtful. I do not say anything more. Telling this man that his proximity clouds my brain is absurd. And cruel. He’d see it as a ploy.
Aiden runs one big palm through his hair, causing it to fall in a myriad of directions that make his face look surprisingly boyish. “I should go.”
“Okay.”
“It was nice seeing you, Catherine.” He casts one last look down at my arms. “Look after yourself.”
“Here.” I hold out the Tupperware with the cupcakes. “For your nephew.”
“Thank you.” And then he’s gone, the Tupperware in his big hands.
It’s only when the front door clicks shut that I realize neither of us called Toni.
Chapter 11
Catherine
June 25, 2008
At five minutesto eleven, I make my way downstairs for Debrief. Toni and Juliette are already sitting down at the dining room table, talking. A half-finished Bloody Mary sits in front of Toni. Jules nurses what is probably her fifth cup of coffee. Lyla is nowhere in sight.
None of us has been on a date in the two weeks since Lizzie died, and I can’t help but wonder, if, like me, the girls have enjoyed the freedom. It’s been like a mini vacation in some ways, just time off to sleep and read and think.
