Gunny’s awake when I step onto the chess island, smiling at me across his game with Jorge. I smile back, something soft and warm that may only be for Gunny, really, because it doesn’t feel like there are any sharp edges to it.
If there’s anything I’ve learned from the work functions Mum occasionally takes me to, it’s how to look for the transitions in conversations and gently nudge them in a direction I want them to go. Mum is disgustingly brilliant at it. So while I play a shaky-eyed Yelp, letting him take as much time as he needs to make a decision about each move because his ghosts make him second-and third-and fourth-guess himself, I listen to the idle chatter about doctor appointments and movies and goddamn idiots who don’t know how to fucking drive, and then Pierce mentions that his sister wants him to come celebrate May Day with the family.
“One of her grandkids hoards these stupid little fireworks, those poppers, you know? Make a lot of noise but not a lot of flash? Even when I go in expecting it, I just . . .” He trails off, staring morosely at his board with Corgi.
“Take this one with you,” Happy suggests, nudging Corgi with an elbow. Liquid splashes up against the side of his foam cup, and I think we’re all politely pretending we don’t know there’s almost as much whiskey as coffee in there. “His ugly mug will give you more nightmares than the noise.”
“You don’t even know how ugly you are, you stupid bastard, you can’t keep a mirror whole,” Corgi replies contentedly.
Male friendship is so strange.
“Anyone else have plans for the weekend?” I ask, moving my rook out of immediate danger.
Yelp has a visit with his daughters. He only gets to see them once a month, because the custody agreement was made when he was having a very difficult time and he doesn’t feel he’s at the point to safely change it yet. His face softens when he talks about them, and the trembling in his hand eases a little. They could help him a great deal, I think, but he won’t ever put the burden on them of seeing his bad days.
Steven, it turns out, has a date, and most of the table starts ribbing him about it. He accepts it all with a goofy smile. “She’s a Marine widow,” he explains. “She knows what it’s like.”
Gunny is going up to Denver for a great-grandson’s ballet recital, with Hannah driving him as always. “Just hope I can stay awake through it,” he sighs. “Harder and harder these days.”
“Just have Hannah wake you up before the boy’s songs,” Phillip tells him. “Don’t much matter that you sleep through the rest, long as you see him up there.”
Gunny nods, takes Jorge’s queen with a pawn, and looks across to me. “And you, Miss Priya? Do you have plans?”
“Mum has to go into work on Saturday to take care of some things.” Yelp takes one of my bishops. He’s going to whomp me solidly in a few moves. “Agent Archer agreed to take me down to Rosemont.”
“What’s in Rosemont?” asks Jorge.
“A really pretty little chapel with amazing windows. The secretary at Gunny’s church told me about it. I like to take pictures of stained glass.”
“That’s almost an hour’s drive,” Steven points out. “For windows?”
“My sister was the one to really love the glass,” I say quietly. The men all shift and settle, like birds on a power line. “Maybe it’s a way of saying goodbye, before we leave.”
“Lots of pretty windows in Paris, last I heard.” Corgi scratches at his nose, tiny red dots blooming around a broken vein from the pressure. “That’s where Notre Dame is, ain’t it?”
I stifle a grin at the way he says it: No-tree. “It is,” I agree. “It’s hard to put into words. I guess it’s more like . . . well, Chavi’s seen those windows. We went to Paris a few times when we were younger, back when we still lived in London.”
“You lived in London?”
“Till I was five. I was born there.” I shrug at their startled looks. “Mum got a really great job offer in Boston.” And she really, really wanted to put an ocean between us and the families, but I can’t say that to men who miss their families more than anything but are a little too broken to be with them day to day. Not all of them, but enough of them.
“You don’t sound it.”
“You’ve never seen me after a BBC marathon.” And there goes my rook. “I lost most of the accent in elementary school because kids made fun of me, and Mum helped me smooth the rest out. It comes across more when I’m tired.”
“My daughter-in-law’s like that with Minnesota,” Jorge laughs. “She gets so pink about it, too.”
Happy takes the conversation into a diatribe about customer-service lines, and I let it go. It’s a beautiful day, clear and breezy and nearly warm, and it’s tempting to stay all afternoon, but Archer’s waiting, and I really do feel safer at home. I can see Officer Clare across the parking lot near the deli, dressed in civvies. Watching. I have no doubt he’ll be by the tables to ask after me.
Hannah walks me up to the grocery store, staying with me until Archer looks up from his tablet and sees us. She heads back outside with a kiss on my cheek.
“What’ll you have?” I ask the agent. “My treat.”
“Black coffee with a triple shot, and thanks.”
“Not planning to sleep for the next week, are you?” I step back so I can turn and join the line, and slam into someone. My purse drops to the floor, the postcard, photos, and my wallet spilling out. “Aww, purse, no.” I crouch down to pick them up, but another set of hands beats me to it.
I look up to see Joshua kneeling in front of me, my photos and the postcard held out. His tea and a hardcover book sit next to his knee. There’s a pair of slim reading glasses hooked onto the neck of his light sweater, the fisherman sweaters probably put away until the fall.
“Thanks. Sorry for running into you.”
“That’s quite all right. I’m just glad your photos weren’t ruined.” He nods at Archer, a vague sort of acknowledgment the agent returns.
I drop the pics and card to the table. “Seems safer that way. Oh, and Archer? As thank-you for the ride, I’ll get your caffeine fix on Saturday. I want to be down in Rosemont before the sun rises.”
His startled cursing follows me to the line.
When I get back with my hot chocolate and his nervous twitch in a cup, Archer’s alone at the table. “Before dawn?” he asks sourly.
“Or as close to it as possible. Have you ever seen the sunrise through stained glass, Agent Archer?”
“No,” he says morosely. “I’m okay with that not changing.”
“But it’s my birthday.”
He sighs and sips his coffee.
“Agent Hanoverian, sir? You have a delivery.”
Eddison blinks at his papers and looks up at the door of the conference room. Vic and Ramirez seem equally startled, judging from how long it takes Vic to get to his feet.
Then Vic starts laughing. “Ma sent us dinner.”
“Bless your mother,” groans Ramirez.
Shoving his notes to one side, Eddison accepts the Tupperware bowl of beef stew, still warm, and the tinfoil twist of the buttered dinner rolls. “She is an angel,” he agrees.
For a time, they all focus on eating. It’s been a very long time since lunch. Once Vic passes out the wedges of pecan pie, they turn back to their task.
“These girls become important to him,” Vic says. “Whether he’s preserving their perceived purity or punishing their wickedness, it’s personal to him.”
“So what was it about Darla Jean?” Ramirez starts pleating her tinfoil into a fan. “She wasn’t just the first murder; she shaped his motive.”
“All the interviews say she was a good girl. Her boyfriend said they’d only just kissed for the first time before she was killed. Everyone in town knew her, everyone in town loved her.”
“But she was raped,” she replies. “His pathology means he saw something he considered sinful. Maybe even that kiss.”