Page 2 of Date Night

She knew I’d need it after she was gone. I press the familiar fabric to my face and inhale. I’ve washed it, but I swear I can still smell her perfume.

“Oh, Mom, I miss you,” I whisper to no one in particular.

I collapse onto the bed and wrap the quilt around my body.

Closing my eyes, I let the tears I’ve been trying to hold back wet the musty-smelling pillow under my head.

“Just a minute. I’ll lay here for just a minute,” I promise myself while I sob at the thoughts of my mother’s final days.

Images of her sunken face lined with pain and exhaustion flash behind my eyelids, and I cry harder.

She fought so hard for so long. When she first passed away, I’d been angry at her. I couldn’t understand how she could let herself get so sick.

My mother made sure I had everything I could ever want and need, but she did it at her own expense. She never bought herselfanything new, she never splurged on a pretty piece of jewelry, and she definitely never went to the doctor.

Not until it was too late.

By the time she made her appointment, her ovarian cancer was already in stage three.

She fought hard, but after two years of pain, she died.

Now that I’m a little older, I know she didn’t die on purpose. I’ve let go of the anger, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let go of the grief.

The tears blur my vision, and I blink to try to clear my sight.

As the room comes back into focus, I look down at my bag; papers are sticking out from the side.

Research from the Date Night Killer case.

“I’m going to make you proud, Momma. Just wait and see.” I wipe my tears with the corner of the quilt as I reach down with my free hand and pull out the papers.

My mother sacrificed her entire life for me; the least I can do is give this my all.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have anything to say.” The door closes in my face.

It’s the third house Braylon and I have been to—the third house where the door was closed in my face.

“This is impossible.” Braylon shuts off the camera in his hand and stuffs it back into the small protective bag.

“It’s like he’s their personal Beetlejuice or something. Like if they talk about him, he’ll reappear.” I shake my head, forcing some of the frustration to seep out of my body.

“Well, you know they never actually caught him. He just stopped,” Braylon wags his eyebrows.

“Of course I know.” I shove his arm and point to a small café on the corner.

It’s no use knocking on any more doors today. No one is going to talk to us.

The smooth, warm scent of freshly brewed coffee slams into my nostrils as Braylon and I make our way inside.

There’s no line, so we walk right up to the counter.

“What can I get you folks today?”

My eyes track up to the menu, and I mentally do a tally of how much budget I have left.

It’s definitely not enough to splurge on any extravagant empty calories.

“A medium black coffee,” I answer quietly.

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