Page 18 of The Criminal

His North Miami house was freshly renovated. The gleaming white walls and slight odor of paint were a dead giveaway. But it didn’t feel like a home. It was too generic.

The only personal touch was the bookshelf stuffed with military thrillers, true crime novels, and a surprising number of self-help books. I looked at Derek’s broad shoulders and tried to imagine him readingThe Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. Nope. Navy SEALs were the world’s most effective people. Those books had to belong to a woman… a girlfriend. Past or present?

The kitchen followed the new, bright-white theme: granite and subway tile abounded. I settled onto a barstool at the long island, and Derek gave Onyx a bowl of water next to a fuzzy gray rug that would serve nicely as an impromptu dog bed. After a signal from me, Onyx plopped down, making himself comfortable.

We didn’t talk much as he pulled the food from the oven and plated it on actual serving platters. He opened a bottle of white wine and poured me a glass but took a beer for himself. It was terrifyingly domestic. Most nights, I came home, flopped on my couch in front of the TV with an eighty-pound dog, and ate takeout from the plastic container. My only concession to civility was a nice crystal wine glass.

He set the island for two, complete with placemats and cloth napkins. Yep, there was a woman in his life somewhere—no single man ironed cloth napkins.

He set the platter of artfully arranged chicken down between the place settings. He’d broken down the whole bird into its parts, sliced the breast, and made gravy. It smelled delicious. He offered me the bowl of roasted vegetables; I fought the urge to get out my camera and take a photo for social media. The last few restaurant meals I’d eaten didn’t look this good.

“Thank you. It looks and smells delicious.” I put a small portion of everything on my plate.

“I’ve got a thing for cooking shows.” He tried to smile but winced instead. He lifted his beer bottle and held it to the slight red mark on his jaw. My knuckles twinged in sympathy. I had a damn good right hook.

“Ouch. Sorry about that. Actually, no. Not sorry. You’re lucky I didn’t kick you in the balls.”

He chuckled and worked his jaw. “It’s my own fault. I remember Ray and I teaching you to throw a proper punch one time when I visited Atoka. I think you were like fifteen?”

I remembered that day. Derek holding my hands to wrap them with tape had sent my heart racing. I’d fallen completely in love with him by the time they set me loose on the old punching bag Ray hung from an oak out behind our trailer. I’d ended that day with swollen fingers and an incurable crush on Derek.

“I’ll admit it was a useful life skill.” I held my glass aloft for a toast, a bittersweet smile on my lips. I’d thrown a few punches in my life. And every time, I thought of that day.Don’t fold your thumb under. Wrist straight. Follow through.

His eyes cut to mine, deadly serious. He didn’t clink his bottle against my glass. “Shit, Lee, I’m so—“

“Don’t apologize. It was a joke. Here. Eat.” I moved the platters of food toward him.

My life wasn’t a sob story. There had been bumps along the way, but that was how life worked. And any mistakes or missteps were my responsibility, not Derek’s. His newfound concern for me was outsized. He needed to dial it back or I would kick him in the balls.

I selected a bite of the chicken. It was tender and flavorful--melt in your mouth with crispy skin. And my empty stomach welcomed the food.

“This is excellent,” I told him between bites. When I was stressed, I didn’t—or, more accurately, couldn’t—eat. But the simple, well-made meal and lovely wine were a magical combination. I was suddenly ravenous.

“Thank you.”

A silence that should have been awkward filled the sterile kitchen. But I was too busy eating my second helpings of everything to notice. So good. Between my run-in with Tony and finding the tracker, I didn’t think I’d have any appetite tonight. I was wrong.

“Here, let me refill your glass.” He stood, topped off my wine, and filled a glass of water for himself.

I swallowed the bite of herb-encrusted potatoes in my mouth. “All of this is bliss, thank you. I don’t recall the last home-cooked meal I had.”

“You never learned to cook? Even when you were married?”

“Cook for Tony.” I pressed the cloth napkin to my mouth to cover my cynical laugh. “He wasn’t a come-home-for-dinner kind of husband.”

“Then what was he?”

If I hadn’t been graced with Tony’s presence a few hours ago, I would have said something flip like he was a mistake. I lifted my glass and twisted the stem between my fingers, contemplating my answer. Turning forty last year had made me philosophical.

“Tony was what I thought I wanted. Turns out I was an idiot.”

“You were so young.” Derek sighed like he could have prevented it if he’d been more involved in my life.

“And stubborn. Nothing you or anyone could have said or done would have stopped me. I thought Tony was my ticket out. And he was, but he was also a shitty husband.”

I’d met Tony on a Tuesday at the Fuel Stop. We were married in Vegas on Thursday. And by Monday, we were broke and had dropped the Camaro off in a chop shop. Uncle Jimmy bought us Greyhound bus tickets to come home to Jersey. It wasn’t the Italian honeymoon Tony had promised me—unless the gondola ride at the Venetian hotel counted.

“What did your mom have to say about Tony?”

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