Page 29 of Never Quite Gone

The tape tore unevenly under my suddenly tense fingers. “Alexander Rothschild is a client.”

“A very attractive client,” Rachel sing-songed. “With, and I quote Sofia here, 'eyes that could melt steel beams.'”

“Please stop,” I groaned while David snickered. “Both of you. It's not like that.”

“No?” Rachel's voice softened slightly. “It could be, you know. It's been six years, Eli. Michael would want?—“

“Paint fumes!” I interrupted loudly. “Aren't you supposed to be avoiding those? Maybe from the other room? Different floor entirely?”

“Real mature,” she shot back, but her eyes were kind. “Fine, subject dropped. For now. David, honey, tell Eli about the call you had yesterday.”

Time dissolved into a rhythm of tape measures and paint rollers, David's country playlist losing the music war to Rachel's pop hits. The pale yellow transformed the walls like sunrise, warming the sterile builder's white into something that felt like hope.

“You missed a spot,” Rachel called helpfully as I stretched to reach a high corner.

“You know,” I grunted, balancing precariously on the stepladder, “most people would help instead of criticizing.”

“Most people aren't growing an entire human being.” She rubbed her belly smugly. “I'm multitasking enough as it is.”

“The baby's doing all the work,” David pointed out, earning himself another thrown dish towel. “What? It's true!”

“Just for that, you're making more cinnamon rolls tomorrow.” Rachel's attempt at a stern expression was ruined by her barely suppressed smile. “And Eli's getting them all.”

“Harsh but fair,” I agreed, climbing down to survey our work. The color caught at something in my memory, warm and familiar. “Hey Rach? Didn't Mom paint your room this color when you were little?”

“You remember that?” She sounded pleased. “I was thinkingthe same thing. Though Mom's edges weren't nearly as neat as yours.”

“Surgeon,” David and I said in unison, then laughed at Rachel's exaggerated eye roll.

“Yes, yes, you're very skilled.” She leveraged herself out of the rocking chair with the determination of the heavily pregnant. “Skills that would be better appreciated if they came with lunch. I'm eating for two, remember?”

“You've been eating for two for eight months,” I pointed out, but I was already reaching for my phone. “Same pizza place as last time?”

“Ooh, with the garlic knots?” Rachel's eyes lit up. “And maybe that pasta thing? And the salad?”

“The eating for two excuse only works for one extra meal,” I told her, but I was already dialing.

Later, we sprawled across Rachel's living room like survivors of a home improvement war. Empty pizza boxes created a cardboard landscape on the coffee table, garlic knot crumbs marking our surrender to carb-loaded bliss. David snored softly in his recliner, paint streaks on his shirt like badges of honor.

“Thank you,” Rachel said softly, careful not to wake her husband. “For today. For everything.”

I wrapped an arm around her shoulders, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo. “Pretty sure I should be thanking you. Those cinnamon rolls alone...”

She poked my ribs. “I'm being serious for once. Let me have my moment.”

“Fine,” I sighed dramatically. “Continue with the emotional vulnerability. But make it quick – I have a reputation to maintain.”

“Jerk.” She settled closer, her head on my shoulder. “I just... I know things have been weird lately. At the hospital, with everything. But you know David and I are here, right? No matter what?”

The late afternoon sun turned everything golden, casting thekind of light that made even pizza boxes look artistic. For a moment, the world narrowed to just this – my sister's warmth, David's gentle snores, and the particular peace of a job well done. No hospital politics. No mysterious developers with eyes that saw too much. No memories that couldn't possibly be mine pressing against the edges of reality. Just family, paint fumes, and the promise of new beginnings wrapped in yellow walls.

CHAPTER 10

Measured Words

Morning light sliced through the Met's skylights, turning dust motes into floating galaxies above the Greek and Roman galleries. At this hour, the marble halls belonged to the determined few – art students with their sketchpads and the occasional tourist who'd actually read their guidebook. The quiet felt almost sacred, like being in on a secret the rest of New York hadn't discovered yet.

The Asclepius statue stood sentinel nearby, his stone eyes holding whatever wisdom ancient gods kept to themselves. I'd chosen this spot with tactical precision – visible enough from the entrance to seem coincidental, far enough from the tour routes to allow real conversation.

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