Page 538 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

“Forget it. I’m taking you home.”

I shake my head, but he puts the car into drive. “If it’s a dream, you can wake up tomorrow and start over. I know, maybe you can take a look at the file and figure out where the shops were, save us some time, huh?”

He’s smirking, mocking me, but the words, the idea slips into my head.

I’ll do exactly that. When I wake up, I’ll go over the case. Then when night hits, I’ll take another sleeping pill, or whatever knocked me into this loop and find myself back in time,starting over.

And I’ll do things right with Eve, too. I won’t knock coffee on her, but I’ll figure out something witty to say. This time I’ll score a date, without Burke, and figure out a way to fast-track our romance.

Not spend ten years figuring out that I can’t live without her. Because Burke is right, she is way out of my league, and doesn’t deserve what I put her through.

So I settle back in my seat as Burke turns us around, down to Chicago Avenue, then south to Lake, and west to Holmes. He pulls up in front of the brownstone.

It takes me a second. Because I don’t yet live on Washburn in our updated craftsman.

He hands me my key off my ring. “I’ll pick you up in the morning.”

I pile out and stand there as he leaves me. And now I get it.

He thinks I’ve lost it, or maybe yes, high, although it’s been at least thirty years since my last joint. So he’s left me on the curb to sleep off the crazy.

Hmm.

I head inside the brownstone and up the stairs to the third floor. My key fits into the lock as if it knows the way and suddenly, I’m inside my old digs. Shadows fall through the front window blinds and stripe the oak floor. I’m not a messy person—never have been, but admittedly, Eve has trained me, so I’m not surprised to see a T-shirt crumpled on the sofa where I last used it as a pillow. And on the floor of my room, a pair of socks.

The kitchen is as I left it, twenty-two years ago, with last night’s containers in the trash. Chou’s take out—how I loved their Kung Pao Chicken. I walk over and open the fridge. Mostly empty save for a half of a six pack of Coke, a corked bottle of Cabernet, and a piece of blueberry pie from Betty’s Bodacious Bakery down the street.

My stomach roars and I take out the foam container, pour myself a half glass of the wine and let myself sink into the tangy sweetness of Betty’s fantastic pie, well missed.

I lick out the container, and love every minute of it. Taking my wine out to the front room, I stare down at the street.

Rain has started to fall, a patter on the windows, hazing the street lamps, a rhythmic beat that presses the fatigue further into my bones.

Yeah, maybe it’s time to sleep. To wake up, roll over and pull Eve into my arms, press my lips against her skin, inhale. Today she was beautiful and young and everything I remembered about the woman I love and I’m suddenly hungry for her.

If I had my car, I might even drive by that old bungalow on Webster. Because a guy can be a stalker in a dream and not call it creepy.

I finish the wine, set the glass in the sink, and head to my bedroom, unbuttoning my shirt, pulling off my dress pants. I stand in front of the mirror a second.

Flex.

Oh, I miss this body.

I climb into bed, thunder rolling over me, a slash of light from the storm breaking the dark veneer of the room. But I close my eyes.

Sink into my pillow. Because it’s been a good,very gooddream. A reminder of the way my world was with Eve before the cracks appeared.

I swear I’m only out for moments, when I hear the banging.

It beats with the hammer in my head.

“Rem!”

I know the voice, and in the cling of slumber I wonder what Burke is doing here, at my house at this ungodly hour. But even as I roll over, flinging an arm over my eyes, I can see the dent of light, the graying of morning.

I pat the bed. Eve is up and has been for a while because the sheets are cold from her absence.

“Rem!” He bangs on the door three more times. I sit up—which turns out to be a bad move because my entire brain shifts in my head like sloshing water.

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