Echoes in Death (In Death #44)(93)

“I hope to Christ you’re right. Because they’re leading me. In a couple of directions, but they’re leading me.”

“Then we’ll follow. But first, you’ll eat.”

She started to dismiss that as a matter of course, then realized she felt steady again. And surprisingly hungry.

“Actually, I could. I had the worst pocket of something earlier.” She eased back, smiled at him. “I could eat actual food of pretty much any kind.”

“That’s quite an opening. I’ll surprise you.” He shifted, pulled a little case out of his pocket, flipped it open. “Take a blocker for that miserable headache, and don’t be a baby about it. Then, half a glass of wine, I think, to smooth out the edges. You’ll work better for it.”

She took the blocker, deciding to reserve judgment on the wisdom of the wine when he wandered back into his office.

And came out with a box wrapped in silver paper.

“I think this is the right time.”

She looked at the box, at him. “Come on. Wasn’t it just Christmas?”

“No. And this is something, like the blocker, I think you could use at the moment.”

She could hardly bitch at him when she’d just blubbered all over him, so she took the box, lifted the wrapped lid. And nearly blubbered again when she saw the little music box.

When she looked at him, just looked at him, with her exhausted eyes stunned and filled with emotion, Roarke knew he had chosen well.

She lifted out a young girl’s music box, not a fancy, important one. Just a sweet little white box with some gold swirls. And the dancer, twirling on one leg, arms curved overhead as the music played.

“It’s a common thing,” Roarke began.

“No, it’s not. It’s not. Shut up a minute.” She fought back tears, even if they were hot with gratitude, full of the miracle that she had someone who loved her just this much.

“It’s not common,” she managed. “It’s beyond special. Not my style, right, not cop-style. But…”

“Even when I bought it I wasn’t sure if it was for you or for me.”

“For us then. It made you sad when I told you about it. You could’ve bought something slick or fancy or glittery, but you knew it wouldn’t be right. It would’ve looked important, but it wouldn’t be special. You took some … you took an ugly little memory, and you turned it into love. I’ll never … I can’t tell you…”

She took a long breath, watched the dancer twirl. “What’s the song?”

“A twentieth-century classic. ‘Tiny Dancer.’”

“Fits. Thanks.” She moved to him, wrapped around him. “It means … I can’t begin. I’m going to put it in here. Not cop-style, but it fits in here.”

She drew back, walked to the shelf where she’d put the silly stuffed Galahad he’d once given her, set the box beside it. “It’ll remind me there’s room for the sweet. No matter what, there’s room, and you need to take it.”

Gently she closed the lid. “And when I need the sweet, when you’re not right here for me to grab on to, I just have to open it.”

“He didn’t break you,” Roarke said.

“No, they didn’t break us. That’s why it fits in here. It’s why we fit in here. And the way we do, Roarke, the way we fit? Nothing’s ever going to break us.”

Touched by her reaction, steadier in his own heart seeing the little box on her shelf, he smiled at her. “We are what we are, and what we’ve become together. I’ll see to that meal.”

When he went to the kitchen, she gave the music box a last brush of her fingers. Then she went to her command center, brought up the list the dependable Peabody had sent her, skimmed an e-mail from Mira thanking her for Roarke and telling her she shouldn’t worry.

“I forgot,” Eve called out. “The resident corpse wasn’t in the foyer. What gives?”

“Summerset, alive and well, is off meeting a group of friends for drinks and dinner.”

“Do corpses have zombie groups or friends or—”

She swung around at the unmistakable scent.

“Pizza?”

“There are times,” Roarke said as he carried it to the table, “you need it.”

She sat a moment, afraid she’d become overwhelmed yet again. Then she rose, went to him. She slipped her arms around him, kissed him softly, brushed her lips over his cheeks, then again to his mouth, still soft, but deep.

“You make me question why I don’t offer you pizza every day. Several times a day.”

“Just the right amount.” She hugged him, swayed with it. “Just one thing?”

“Which one?”

“Tell me there’s no spinach anywhere in that pie.”

“There is no spinach anywhere in that pie.”

“That’s perfect. I think wine’s a good thing. I’ll get it.”

She looked back at him as she chose a bottle with a name she actually recognized. “It doesn’t matter.”

“What doesn’t matter?”

“How hard it gets with the job. It doesn’t matter if you’re pissed at me or I’m pissed at you, or we’re seriously pissed at each other. Because we’re always going to come back to this.”