Page 79 of ILY
There’s no denying what this is, there’s just no real definition to it. We’ve made no commitments. No promises.
But I realize in that moment, as I watch him sleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm after those lungs heaved for breath all evening, if he asked me to be more, I would say yes.
I could pose the question myself.
I could ask him to be mine—to let me keep him. But I’m not sure I’ve earned the right, considering the lies I’ve told. It’s all part of the job, but I still have to deal with the consequences, no matter the reasons behind my deception.
Glancing at the clock, I debate getting up and doing a little more investigating. Leaf knows I’m looking for clues now—for some kind of evidence that his aunt was linked to the disappearances of people over two decades. I feel confident he’d give me permission to snoop all I wanted.
The man doesn’t seem to keep secrets. He doesn’t seem to find any sense in it. It’s one of the ways we’re so different and one of the things I adore most about him.
Second, of course, his body. Or, well, third, because I like his face too. And his hands. And the way he kisses the breath from my lungs and the way he seems to tear every orgasm from my body simply by existing.
So, okay, our differences are pretty far down the list of things I’m obsessed with about him, but it is a very long list.
Swinging my feet over the edge of the bed, I glance at my hearing aids but decide to leave them in the charging case. Leaf is good about alerting me to his presence when he comes into a room, so I don’t feel like I’m going to have the shit scared out of me.
I snag my boxers and a pair of his sweats, then pad out of the room and make my way to the dining room, where the massive number of boxes I haven’t gone through are waiting.
From the case notes, agents were never able to obtain a warrant to go through Lynda’s home, so now I have open access to it. I know there’s a locked cellar door that Leaf hasn’t been able to get through, a box on the table that’s sealed shut, plus the strange concrete stamp that had been for a silo that never went up.
There are probably a thousand other hidey-holes around here where a body might be. Or many bodies.
The thought makes me feel strange inside. We could be living on what is essentially a graveyard. I’ve been doing this job for years, but it never gets easier to know that I’m ten steps away from the worst of humanity.
Turning on a light, I pull the sealed box toward me, and this time—with actual determination—I work on getting it open. It’s sealed with something weaker than superglue, because after going at the seam with one of Leaf’s old steak knives, it eventually gives way. I’m not sure what to expect when I pop the lid, but I’m bracing myself for the worst.
Instead of body parts or a head, or something that she might have wanted to hide forever, there are old photos of her and a boy that looks quite a bit like Leaf only he’s wearing large hearing aids—the old-school kind with the neck strap and chest box—some letters from people that look like they were penned in the sixties, and a pile of old 45s that would probably fetch quite a bit of cash.
I set those aside for Leaf, but there’s nothing in there to indicate a person went missing.
The next box is much of the same. Sealed shut, but the lid is easily removed, and nothing in there indicates she was a killer.
The one after that has old lady clothes, some blankets, and a couple of pamphlets for funerals that were held in the mid-nineties. One of them is a woman called Rose, who looks a lot like Leaf. A grandmother, maybe?
She died in San Jose, which tracks with what I know about Leaf. He’s quite a ways from home, and I can’t help but wonder how well he knew his aunt or how much time he actually spent here.
Hell, I don’t even know how he got into interpreting, though realizing he had a Deaf relative in those old photos probably had something to do with it. The couple of interpreters I’d met when I was taking Denver’s classes had family members who were Deaf, which was why they got into the program.
Leaf’s been tight-lipped about a lot of his past, and I make a mental note to ask him once he’s awake and not feeling overwhelmed by everything.
I sigh and shove that thought aside as I pull a larger bin toward me. It’s light, and as I shake it, I can feel something tumbling against the side. When I go to pull the lid off, it’s the same, only this one gives me trouble. This one refuses to budge until I dig the blade of the knife deep into the plastic and begin to cut. Something in my gut tells me not to give up, andeventually, it pops free. I’m hit in the face with a sour, musty old smell that makes me cover my nose until it dissipates into the air a little.
Prying the lid fully open, I almost dismiss it entirely as more junk. It’s just shoes.
But…then I look closer. They’re not all women’s shoes. And they’re not all from the same decade. That is strange. It could be nothing, but it could be something.
Standing up, I put the bin on the chair and pull out the first one. It’s a white classic Reebok in amazing condition, except for the fact that it’s covered in dirt and it’s been sitting around for forever. I turn it over, and…ohfuck.
I’m too well trained not to recognize old blood.
My heart begins to pound in my chest as I pull out the second shoe. A slip-on with a slight heel. The next is a man’s running shoe. Nike. No blood, but it looks like it’s been dragged over something rough and ragged, the way it’s scuffed on the side.
I don’t have the right tools to be doing all this, and I can’t call anyone in until I have more evidence than a dead semi-hoarder’s shoe collection. I put everything back and slam the lid down on the bin.
It vibrates through my feet. Wait, no. That isn’t the bin. I turn and see Leaf standing in the doorway, looking concerned.
‘Did you find something?’ he asks, his hands a little slower than usual. He looks like he just woke up, standing there sleep-soft with rumpled hair and pillowcase creases on his cheek.
