Page 37 of Defend Me

I guess she’s not going to let her hair down around me. What a metaphor.

I get out two plates and load each one up with chicken, onion, and potatoes. Then I grab the bottle of wine from the fridge because Von’s glass is empty like she chugged it when I wasn’t looking. I can’t really blame her. This must be even weirder for her than it is for me. I put everything on the large white table on the far side of the room. It seats six. I put Von at one end and myself at the other, thinking she might want some space between us. Then, at the last minute, I grab a glass and pour myself some wine.

Von looks up, a tiny dent between her eyebrows. “What are you doing?”

I gesture to the table. “Dinner’s ready.”

“Oh. I…I’m okay, thank you.”

“Come on. I can see you drooling from here.”

She looks affronted. “I do not drool.” But her hand twitches toward her mouth and I hear her stomach give a faint rumble. “Fine,” she mutters, getting up from the couch. She’s much shorter without her heels, I notice, as she walks over to the table. And her body moves differently. Less angular and more graceful. She sits down at the opposite end of the table and I dig in. The meal is simple and filling, just like I’d hoped. I chance a glance at Von and her face has relaxed as she focuses on the meal. Shemakes such precise cuts of food, ensuring each bite has a little bit of everything.

When we’ve finished, she tops up her wine and leans back in her chair. “Okay, that was really good,” she admits. There’s a bit more color in her cheeks.

“You’re very welcome,” I say in my best Sean Connery voice.

She smirks. “Let’s get to business, Mr. Bond,” she says in a stunningly awful German accent.

“Was that your Blofeld?”

“Yes, and it was spot on.”

“It was something, that’s for sure.”

“Says the man with the terrible Connery impression. You know he’s Scottish, right?”

We’re grinning at each other and suddenly it doesn’t feel quite so strange, to be having dinner alone with Von.

Then her face turns serious. “We need to talk,” she says. “It’s time to finish the interview from this morning.”

The weight that had lifted since my arrival plops back down on my sternum. My full stomach gives an unpleasant lurch. How was that only this morning? It feels like a lifetime ago.

It’s time to come clean about where I was on the morning Marion was murdered.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

VON

The soles of my feet tingle in anticipation.

I didn’t know what to expect on my ride home this evening, knowing Noah was there. But that incredible smell—I had no idea he could cook. The meal was deliciously wholesome. I mostly eat out. Or order sushi. This was…better. Jazz music was playing on his little phone speaker. I should show him how to connect with the sound system.

He’s wearing a fresh white tee, and my eyes linger over the cords of muscle in his forearm as he reaches for the wine bottle. He runs a hand through his shaggy, dark hair, as he refills his glass, his jaw twitching. It’s one of his tells. Noah is so easy to read. He’s nervous to tell me what he was doing that morning. And that makes me worry about what exactly was going on.

He takes a long drink of wine before he starts. I hope he’s appreciating it. It’s Everton’s top tier chenin blanc.

I’ve never looked at his face this much before—stubble darkens his jawbone, and his brows are pulled together, creating along dent between them. There’s something very symmetrical about him, the way his lower lip perfectly balances out his upper one, the precise slant of his nose. His eyes look even darker in this lighting, like endless black pools.

I press the record button on my phone and say the date and time. “Second interview with Noah Patterson.” I look up at him expectantly. “The morning of my mother’s murder…”

He sighs and leans back in his chair. The cotton fabric tugs at his chest as he moves. “I left Pop’s house at five am and drove to this little bar outside town. It’s called Dale’s Tavern. It’s about halfway between Magnolia Bay and Peconic, just off North Road.”

“Why were you going to a bar at five am on a Sunday?” I can’t imagine any bar would be open then.

Noah looks down into his glass and swirls his wine. Then he downs it all in one huge swallow. “I was following someone.”

That is not the answer I was expecting. “Who?”

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