She’s pushing thoughts toward me. Nothing coherent, just a fleeting slide show of memories. A summer afternoon in someone’s backyard. An older man with salt-and-pepper hair sitting across from Porter at a picnic table, drinking beer, watching a group of kids playing . . . badminton, I think. A younger girl with the same reddish-brown hair as Aaron running around in a profusely pink bedroom with a frilly canopy bed. The sensation of jumping on the bed with that same little girl, then diving beneath a Disney Princesses comforter, giggling, when a boy around seven in what appear to be Iron Man underwear—is that Aaron?—runs past the door.
I shake my head to clear away the barrage of images and sounds, but I still get the emotions behind them. Happy. Safe. Secure. Loved.
Molly’s been through a lot, and that’s why I try to pull back my first thought, which is that the circumstances of her death suggest she might not have been the best judge of character. And I also try to restrain my second thought—that I really hope her judgment in this case doesn’t get me killed as well.
I apparently don’t succeed in hiding either of those feelings, but Molly doesn’t take offense. She just snorts.
Aaron is not Craig. He’s not Lucas. If anything, he’s too polite.
So was Norman Bates.
Hmph.
And then Molly curls back up in her corner of my head.
Aaron is staring at me. I’ve been standing here in the middle of the parking lot during my little internal dialogue with Molly. And yes, it was probably only a couple of seconds, but I’m sure I looked like a total idiot. I wipe the side of my mouth with one hand, relieved to find it’s dry. At least I wasn’t a drooling idiot.
“It’s . . . this one,” he says awkwardly, motioning toward a unit on the end, with a neat square of grass and one rather anemic-looking tree in front. He fumbles with a ring of keys, settling on one that’s neon green. Then he scoops up the small stack of community papers from the stoop and tosses them into the empty recycling bin next to the door.
Empty except for water, that is. It splashes onto his jeans and soaks his Nikes. A large wet maple leaf clings to the toe of his left shoe. I stifle a laugh as he tries, unsuccessfully, to shake it off, before finally scraping it loose against the top step.
Once the door is open, Aaron stashes his messenger bag under the small bench near the door, then sits down to pull off his wet shoes. “You can leave yours on if you want,” he says, when he sees I’m following suit. “These are soaked.”
I shrug and put my shoes and backpack next to his bag. “I’m fine with socks.”
Aaron opens a door to the right of the kitchen, tosses his sneakers into the washer, and adjusts the thermostat. The place is much more open than many townhomes I’ve seen. This floor is basically one big space, with a bar dividing the kitchen from the large living room.
“You want coffee?” he asks.
“So you are a mind reader.”
“Not exactly—but I did notice you lusting after the Starbucks we passed.” Aaron has spent a good deal of time in this kitchen, because he locates the coffee in one try. He seems more relaxed too, and flashes me a quick smile as he fills the pot.
Molly sighs.
That smile hasn’t changed one little bit.
“Coffee would be nice,” I say as a blur of gray fur whizzes past me and starts doing figure eights around Aaron’s ankles. “But maybe you could answer—”
“Yes, yes. I know, Dax. Could you give me a minute?”
I get the feeling that the comment is aimed as much at me as at the hungry cat, and I guess my questions can wait until I’m fortified with caffeine. Curling into one of the wicker tub chairs arranged around the kitchen table, I stare at the scenery outside the sliding glass door. There’s a wooded ravine just beyond the deck, with a small creek winding through it. I watch for a few minutes as the creek carries leaves and assorted debris toward a metal culvert about a hundred yards away.
The deck is a possible escape route if I need it. There was a bus stop a block or so back, and I think I could drop from the deck to the ground if I had to.
Jesus Christ, Anna! Would you just relax?
I don’t know if it’s the force of Molly’s suggestion or a delayed stress reaction to nearly being shot, but I actually do feel myself starting to relax as my eyes follow the path of the leaves floating down the creek.
The sound of a mug being placed on the table in front of me yanks me back to the present. Dax the Cat is now eating out of a bowl near the refrigerator. Aaron is in the chair opposite me, with his own cup, a large bottle of Baileys Irish Cream, and a tin of shortbread cookies, which he pushes to the center of the table.
“No milk,” he says, tipping a bit of the liqueur into his cup. “Would you like some of this instead?”