Page 20 of Before This Ends (Before)

“I’m sorry. Do you wanna talk about it?” She stands, taking the blanket with her.

“No.” The response is instant and maybe even spoken a little harshly, but then again, I would never subject her or anyone other than my brother to the shit I have to deal with while working a case. Not that ignorance is bliss, but sometimes it’s better for people to believe murders are solved as quickly and efficiently as they are on TV. That there is no waiting period, no backup at the labs, no dealing with jurisdictions or any other bullshit.

“Okay,” she says softly, tossing the blanket she folded to the arm of the couch, then turns toward me and wraps her arms around her middle. “Did you eat?”

“This afternoon.”

Without a word, she lets her arms fall to her sides and walks past me toward the kitchen. I follow, and she pops open the microwave, pulling out a plate covered with foil.

“We made lasagna.”

“You made lasagna?”

“Yeah.” She puts the now uncovered plate back in the microwave and sets the timer for a minute and a half. “It’s not the best I’ve ever made, but it’s not bad.” Her eyes come to me as she opens the fridge. “Do you want salad or green beans?”

“Salad.” With a nod, she takes a bowl from the fridge and places it on the counter. “You don’t have to feed me, Em.”

“I know,” she says simply, moving to the cupboard to get a smaller bowl.

I watch her for a minute as she moves around the kitchen with ease, then drag my eyes off her. “How was Winter today?”

“Perfect,” is her response as I go to the fridge and pull down a bottle of Scotch from the cabinet above it. “Don’t be surprised if she asks you for a kangaroo in the morning. We must have spent an hour in their enclosure, and the only reason it wasn’t longer is because I bribed her with cotton candy so she would leave.”

I pour two fingers of Scotch in a glass while smiling, then look up to find her watching me with a look on her face I can’t decipher. “Do you want a drink?”

“No thanks,” she says quietly, turning to the microwave that has begun to beep. I watch her as she takes the plate out and places it on the island, then grabs a fork from the silverware drawer. “My dad drank Scotch. When I was sixteen, I had friends over for a sleepover, and we all decided we wanted to try drinking.” She walks the plate and the bowl of salad over to where I’m standing.

“Ouch,” I mutter.

“You can say that again.” She grins turning her back to the island and jumping up, placing her bottom on the counter next to where I’m standing. “The three of us spent the night puking our guts out, which was one of the most horrific experiences of my life.”

“I bet it was.”

“Worse, my dad knew, since we added water to what was left in his bottle of very-expensive Scotch to try to hide what we did, but we had taken so much it turned the dark-amber almost clear.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing. He said that he planned on making us clean the house and mow the lawn, but after finding the state we were in, he said our hangovers were punishment enough.” She laughs softly. “I didn’t have another drink until I was twenty-one, and I’ve never drank Scotch again.”

I smile at that, then dig my fork into the lasagna, cutting off a chunk. The second it hits my tongue, the pasta, meat sauce, ricotta cheese with mozzarella melts in my mouth.

“You don’t think this is your best lasagna?” I swallow and pick up another forkful.

“No. Normally, I make the pasta. I didn’t have time or the stuff here, so I had to use the boxed kind.”

“How did you learn to cook like this?”

“My nanny, who was my dad’s mom.” She watches as I chew another bite. “She always had me in the kitchen with her growing up. She taught me how to make sauce, pasta, and every Italian dish you can think of from scratch.” Her smile is fond.

“You’re Italian?”

“My dad is first generation from Italy. My mom’s family was from Scotland. My mom can’t cook to save her life, much to the horror of my grandmother, who is old-school and convinced the only way to get and keep a man is to make him fat and keep him fed.”

“She might be wrong about the first, but I’m not sure she is about the second.”

“Yeah,” she agrees quietly, watching as I take another bite. “Are you working tomorrow?”

“I’m gonna work from home.”

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