Page 55 of Enforcer's Obsession

I saw the wariness again, saw her trying to figure out what to say, trying to gauge my response.

“Trouble, you can speak your mind,” I said.

She gave me an indulgent smile. “If you say so,” she said.

We sat in silence a few moments longer, and then breakfast arrived.

Waffles, mine with pecans, hers plain.

I watched as she took a bite, then smiled, this one genuine.

“So this mother, who loves waffles, where is she now?”

I knew the answer, at least the version that had been put on paper, but I wanted the details.

Hope faltered, but then quickly regained her composure and locked her eyes on mine, the brown dark with emotion.

“I think you know the answer to that question, Nico,” she said.

“You think I ask questions I already know the answer to?” I said.

“I think you like to play games. I shouldn’t have said that, but,” she shrugged, “I did. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to eat my breakfast.”

Clearly a sore spot, and one I intended to push.

“I do mind. Answer the question,” I said before taking a bite of my own waffle.

“Which question is that?” she asked, having regained her composure.

“Where’s your mother?”

“Dead,” she fired without hesitation. “Does that make you happy?”

“Mine is too. And no, your mother being dead doesn’t make me happy. How did she die?”

When I finished speaking, it struck me that I had mentioned my own mother, something I never,everdid. But it felt natural with her, or maybe it was just my attempt at giving her something to keep her from feeling so adrift.

And again I was left to wonder why I was so preoccupied with how she felt.

“They say she killed herself,” Hope said.

“They say?” I responded.

“Yeah. It was open and shut as far as the investigation was concerned, if you could call it that,” she said.

The lack of emotion in her voice only underscored the pain I was sure she felt.

She spoke the words like she had rehearsed them a thousand times, and there was a hint of truth of them in them.

“What happened to her, Hope?” I asked, not sure if she would answer.

“Her disgusting, piece of shit husband killed her,” she said.

Again, there was no emotion in her voice, but her eyes were ablaze.

She hadn’t shown this much emotion when she was terrified, or when she was worried about her friend’s well-being. But when I looked into her eyes now, I saw fury and hatred. The kind sodeep and so fundamental that it wasn’t hot. It was cold, solid, like a lead weight that was weighing her down.

“Tell me,” I whispered.

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