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“I know you will. And with me still at Clementine Lane you have everything you need. All the information. All the facts. A point of contact with the girls. I won’t betray them,” she says, looking at me, “but I trust you not to use anything I tell you against them.”
It's humbling to hear it. Although I’d try not to hurt the girls even without Catherine in the equation, I’ll tread that much more carefully because she is. There’s one last thing I have to say. “Cat, have you considered the possibility that one of them had something to do with it?”
“Yes.” She doesn’t hesitate. “I meant what I said in my interview that day. We’re all capable of it.”
“And if it ends up being one of them?” I ask. “If I have to arrest one of your best friends? One of yoursisters?”
She doesn’t reply right away. She sits up in bed, thinking about it. “I don’t know,” she admits finally.
That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.
We’re both silent as we think about it. There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to stay on the investigation, not with Cat’s trust at stake. But I will never rest easy knowing that whoever killed Elizabeth—or didn’t—is still out there. What if he knows the girls? What if they’re still in danger?
“You know what will fix this, right?”
“Mhnm?” I answer distractedly.
“Lasagna.”
I stare at her, momentarily confused. “Lasagna?”
“Lasagna,” she confirms with a quick nod. “With extra cheese.”
“You…You want to bake a lasagna?Now?”
“Yup.” She scurries off the bed.
I sit up and watch her as she tugs my shirt back on. When she turns away from me and bends over to slide her black, lace underwear on, giving me a perfect view of her, I bite back my groan. “Lasagna,” I remind myself. “The woman wants to make lasagna.”
Catherine, hearing my mumbled words, laughs. “Are you coming or not?”
“I’m coming.” Striping back the sheets, I get off the bed, comfortable in my nakedness. I yank my boxers and my slacks back on but go sans the shirt Cat’s wearing. Half-dressed, I move towards the door, my eyes focused on her as she watches me, a slight smile on her lips.
When I get to her, she surprises me by wrapping her arms around me and pulling me close before resting her head on my chest. “I’m really glad you came,” she whispers.
Roping my arms around her, I kiss the top of her head. “Me too.”
And then we bake.
Or, rather, she bakes while I watch, occasionally snacking on one of the dozens of cookies she made earlier. Somewhere around two o’clock in the morning, we sit on the rooftop and eat a full meal, Catherine in my shirt and underwear. Me, barefoot, in slacks.
I listen as she tells me stories about the girls, and about the things they’ve done, the things they’vesurvived, together. Every time she laughs, my chest aches. Every time she snuggles closer to me, my palms itch to roam over her skin. And when she plonks on my lap with a glass of red wine in her hand and rests her head on my chest, her voice a little sleepy as she finishes a story about Lizzie falling bare-assed in stinging nettle, I fall in love for the first time.
Chapter 21
Catherine
July 2, 2008
“You can ask me,you know.”
Aiden turns from where he is standing at the coffee machine, waiting for enough of the liquid to brew before he can pour his first cup. His movements are slow, nearly languid. His dark brown eyes are framed with exhaustion. His hair, which he has yet to smooth down, sticks up in a mess that my fingers itch to run through.
We’re both in the clothes we dozed off in only hours before. I should have given him his shirt back by now. Except, I don’t want to. I kinda like having him walking around my house, half-dressed, his tall frame filling all the spaces that I didn’t realize were empty before today.
It is a revelation to wake up next to someone you’ve only spent the night with before. None of the same rules apply. None of the deep truths we learned about each other under the cover of darkness hold any weight in the bright morning light.
We are both re-learning.
