A Killer's Mind (Zoe Bentley Mystery #1)(83)

“You should buy olive oil,” Andrea said. “It would really improve the salad.”

Zoe cut a piece of omelet and speared it on the fork. She added some cream cheese and ate it, closing her eyes and breathing through her nose. The hot egg and the cool cheese rolled across her tongue, feeling sublime.

“Hahtishsho good,” she said, her mouth full.

“When did you last eat a normal meal?” Andrea asked.

She’d hardly eaten anything for breakfast and had had something tasteless in the airport, and before that, it had been two days of hospital food. “A long time ago.”

“Next time you feel like crying in the shower, maybe grab a bite first,” Andrea suggested.

Zoe teared up.

“I’m sorry,” Andrea blurted. “I was just kidding. You can cry. Oh, damn it, just ignore me and my stupid mouth.”

Zoe ate another bite of the omelet quickly, the taste mixing with the tears in her throat. She stabbed some vegetables, and they followed the omelet. Slowly, she got control back. Andrea was focusing on her plate, saying nothing. Zoe cleared her throat.

“There’s soda in the fridge,” she said. “Would you mind getting it for me?”

Her body ached, and she knew asking Andrea for help would calm her sister down. Win-win. Andrea bounded off her chair and hurried to get Zoe the soda.

She drank gratefully, then had another bite from the omelet. Life was beginning to look up. The hopelessness from earlier was gone—or at least much faded. Thank God for food.

“If you want to talk about what happened in Chicago, you know you can tell me,” Andrea said.

Her sister had picked her up from the airport and had nearly fainted when she’d seen the shape Zoe was in. Zoe had shaken her head when she’d asked her what had happened and had said she couldn’t talk about it. It was true, though not because it was confidential. Simply because it had been too raw to talk about.

But now, after resting a bit, she thought it might help to talk to Andrea about it. The envelopes Glover had sent her all these years, his recent victims, their encounter, his fingers on her body as she clutched at her throat, desperate for air . . .

But Andrea had her own memories. Talking about it might help Zoe, but she had no idea what it would do to Andrea.

“Thanks,” she said. “It’s fine . . . I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I promise you that it won’t happen again.”

“Okay,” Andrea said, looking unconvinced.

They ate the rest of the meal. Andrea talked most of the time about troubles at work. Her shift manager was apparently a bitch and hated Andrea. Zoe wondered how bitches who hated Andrea always seemed to pop up wherever Andrea went. It was almost as if Andrea had something to do with it.

Finally, Zoe pushed away the plate. “That was an amazing meal.”

“I have a special desert for you.” Andrea grinned.

“Oh, thanks. I think I’m full.”

“Really?” Andrea looked at her in mock disappointment. “I guess I’ll have to finish up the Snickers ice cream all by myself.”

Zoe felt a surge of love for her sister. “You know what,” she said. “I might be able to stuff another bite down.”





CHAPTER 57

Tatum sat in his car, frozen by indecision. He knew he should probably go home, but he wasn’t sure it was habitable yet. He had arrived the night before, taken one look at the living room and bedroom, and left, locking the door behind him. He had slept in his car, which was totally fine by him. People underestimated the joy of car camping. The throbbing neck, the freezing cold around four a.m., waking up when the homeless guy knocked on your window . . . good times, good times.

He had called Marvin in the morning and yelled at him for several minutes, the old man listening patiently to his enraged grandson. His grandfather had apparently slept at a friend’s house and was in a cheerful mood. Finally, when Tatum had run out of words and rage, Marvin had promised to send someone to clean the place up. After seeing the ungodly things that had been done to his couch, Tatum was pretty sure they would need a flamethrower and an exorcist to really get the job done. Come to think of it, an exorcist with a flamethrower would make an awesome movie. They’d call it Burn, Demon, Burn. The exorcist would be played by Dominic Purcell; that was nonnegotiable.

He sighed, focusing. The real reason he wasn’t home was that he was worried. He had spent a whole week with Zoe, and though the psychologist could be incredibly frustrating, he’d developed a taste for her company. And there had been something . . . off about her ever since the incident. He scrolled through his contacts, located her name, and called her.

She answered after three rings.

“Hello?”

“Zoe, it’s Tatum.”

“Yeah, I know. I have you in my contact list.”

“Right. Uh . . . I wanted to ask how you are.”

“I’m fine.”

“How’s your hip? Are the stitches—”

“I’m fine, Tatum. Thank you for calling.”

“Wait.” He drummed on the steering wheel in frustration. “Listen, I was hoping I could drop by.”

“Why?”

“To see that you’re okay.”

“I just told you I’m okay.”