Page 18 of Penny for Your Saints

“It must have been hard to lose both your parents at once,” I offer sympathetically, flopping down on the floor beside the ad-hoc dinner table.

Her cinnamon eyes snap up to meet mine, a flicker of deepest contempt flashing with liquid malice.

“Even though he was a bastard, I was thankful I got a few more years in with the old man before he ‘bought the farm’—as they say.”

I watch as Louise’s hands ball into fists; her left arm limited by the handcuff still fastened around her wrist—her nostrils flaring as her body demands that she redirect her attention to the food she has spent days without.

Fine, she needs more of a push? I’ll give her more of a push.

“Were you… aware of the sorts of things your parents were doing with their work, eh?” I wonder aloud. Reaching for the fork, delicately lifting it—taking my time to pierce a tender piece of beef, translucent caramelized onions, and a succulent stewed bite of fruit before turning my wrist over with a flourish. I bring the morsel to my lips with intentional theatricality before I close my mouth around the piece of perfection—a rumbling sound of pleasure buzzing up from deep in my gut.

Louise shifts from her rooted cross-legged position onto her bended knees—her body moving as if magnetized toward the food.

“Surely, the big scary government men know about the Zietnot virus that seems to be affecting only Sigmas and Omegas, non?” I flick my empty fork through the air like a conductor leading an invisible orchestra as I make my way around to getting a bite of couscous—her wide eyes are shrink wrapped in a wobbly film of tears, her lips pressed together to keep them from wobbling.

“Someone must have wanted to keep them quiet.” My shoulders lift in a lazy shrug as I scoop up a forkful of couscous. “From what I’ve heard, it was pretty gruesome though,” I cluck disapprovingly before taking my bite.

Tears begin to spill down her wan cheeks, Louise’s dry lips part to allow her tongue to dart over her lips—her hunger, like a human presence with us in the room now.

“Of course, I’m sure they kept a great many things from their daughter,” I tut thoughtfully, spearing a tuft of salad with the crooked tines of my fork.

“Why burden you with their attempts at playing god, eh?” I lift the silverware to my mouth, and like a viper striking—Louise’s right arm snaps out with blinding speed; her fingers closing around the curve of the scratched white glass plate, bringing it back in close to her body in the blink of an eye.

She drops the whole plate onto her lap and uses her bare fingers to pinch together a piece of meat—packing it into her mouth greedily before closing her eyes, breathing deeply through her nose mid-chew; forcing herself to eat slowly—lest she puke it right back up.

We sit in silence like this for almost a half hour, Louise nibbling on bits of her dinner while keeping me pinned with her acrimonious stare. Only when the plate is empty does shelift back onto her knees and place the spent dish on the metal folding chair—licking every last bit from her fingers before slugging down half the glass of water I provided with the modest feast.

“You’re a shit conversationalist, but an excellent chef,” she grumbles drowsily, sated on such a rich repast after almost half a week without eating anything at all.

“Aha, you have not forgotten how to speak!” I clap, reaching up over my shoulder, onto the edge of Caz’s temporary desk for the red plastic ashtray, pack of 27’s, and half empty lighter.

Her lip curls, flashing a pearly canine as she sneers at me.

“So—you really didn’t know anything about what your Maman and Papa were doing, did you?” I challenge, opening the cardboard pack and tapping it on the back of my wrist—a cigarette rising from the messy rip in the foil packaging.

Louise doesn’t say anything—just shakes her head no; her eyes flicking to my pack of cigarettes before latching back onto mine.

“But you know about the virus, yes?” I purse my lips around the cigarette and pull it from the pack—offering her one.

She considers only a moment before reaching out with her free hand to pinch one from the pack.

“Yes,” is all she says—placing the golden filter between her full lips as I lean in, the tips of our cigarettes nearly touching as I coax a tiny flame from the plastic lighter beneath them.

“You’ve been looking into who murdered them yourself, haven’t you?” I push the envelope a little further, scooting the ashtray into the open space of floor between us.

The glowing ember of her cigarette flickers orangey-red as she inhales, her features still hard and unreadable as she glowers at me.

I wait, allowing her the opportunity to fill the silence—even though I know she will not.

For the first time, I notice the diamond shaped birthmark, high on her left cheekbone near the corner of her eye—la passione.

A woman with a birthmark like a tear—destined for great love and even greater tragedy.

“Of course, the bureau has almost certainly told you to give that up.” I raise a brow, tapping the feathery bit of ash from the end of my cigarette into the shallow plastic tray.

“You can talk all you want—I’m not telling you scumbags shit,” she scoffs, taking a deep drag on her cigarette, ignoring the long fluffy gray ash as it snows down gently onto the ratty futon. “I still don’t know what the fuck you thought you were going to get out of kidnapping me, but whatever you want?—I’ll happily die before giving it to you.” She lets slip a gallows laugh—the sharp lines of her clavicles peeking through the stretched neckline of the yellowing cotton t-shirt we put her in after getting free of the diamond center a few days ago. She looks more like a starving wretch than a trained agent of the FBI—she’s closer to her breaking point than she’s willing to admit—to me or to herself.

“Louise,” I begin carefully—but she cuts me off.

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