Finding Eden (A Sign of Love Novel)(50)

"So," she said pulling away and grabbing a pair of jeans lying at the end of her bed, "this bowling thing . . . how good are you?"
"Oh," I said, sitting down on her bed, "I've never bowled. Xander and I used to go to this bowling alley on Monday nights a couple years back." I paused, recalling the shell of a person I had been, sitting there blankly watching people whoop and laugh and pour beer from pitchers. "We were dirt poor," I said, shaking my head. "They had this all-you-can-eat nacho bar." I made a gagging motion. "I swear if I never see another vat of orange cheese for as long as I live, it will be too soon."
Eden laughed a small laugh, but there was sadness in her eyes. She opened her dresser drawer to get a tank top and pulled it over her head. I leaned back on her pillows, turning my face to the side and inhaling the clean, apple blossom scent of the fabric. If I had anything to say about it, my own sheets were going to smell like that tomorrow and every day for the rest of my days.
She closed her drawer. "No more all-you-can-eat nacho bars for you, famous artist," she said. She walked to her closet and opened the door just a crack and reached inside.
I breathed out a small chuckle. "Hardly famous," I said, feeling slightly embarrassed for some reason.
She turned her head and regarded me for a few beats. "You will be though," she said, like it was just a certainty.
"I—" I sat up, my words halting and my blood running cold. "Eden, what is that in there?"
Eden grabbed a shirt and shut the door quickly. "Nothing," she said. She licked her lips nervously, holding the shirt in her hand up against her breasts. "Just, um, some research I've been doing."
I stood up and walked over to her, putting my hand on the closet door handle.
"Calder—" Eden started, reaching for my hand. I halted, but her hand fell away from mine and she stepped back, breathing out a resigned breath.
I opened the closet door and there on the back of it, covering every inch of space, were news clips of Acadia, pictures of the council members they had found and identified. There was a picture of Clive Richter—what had originally caught my attention when I glimpsed it from the bed—that she must have printed out from somewhere online, a rough sketch of who I was guessing was supposed to be Hector, and countless small notes written in Eden's handwriting. Toward the middle, there was something that looked like a timeline. My eyes moved from one side of the corkboard she'd adhered to the back of the door and all the items pinned to it and then to the other. It went practically down to the floor.
"What are you doing, Eden?" I asked, my voice sounding flat.
Color stained her cheeks and she looked away. "You don't have to sound like I'm a nutcase. I'm just . . . researching. I'm . . ." She made a small sound of frustration. "I'm gathering knowledge. It helps me feel in control. It helps me feel less scared, I guess. Less . . ." Her final words came out softly and then trailed off.
I studied her. "Morning Glory," I finally said, taking her in my arms again and hugging her to me. "What are you trying to find here?"
She shook her head against my chest, her arms trapped between our bodies where she still held onto her shirt. She stepped back a very small step and looked up at me. She sighed and pulled the black, loose top over her head. "They haven't been able to identify Hector," she said quietly. She reached back and took her hair out of the smooth ponytail it was in and ran her fingers through it as it fell over her shoulders in a beautiful cascade of light morning sunshine. I inhaled as the sweet smell of her shampoo filled the air. "And I just thought, if I could figure out who he was, where he came from, you know, it would help me see him more as a man and not a—"