—
Since she’d decided to believe Mason would stay at least overnight, Naomi had Xander take her by the market—grateful they had limited Sunday hours. She picked up what she needed for one of his favorite meals.
Every local in the market had something to say about Donna, or would stop Xander to ask what he knew. She didn’t take a clear, easy breath until they were outside again.
“I should’ve known that, and made do with what I had at home.” She sat back in the seat, stomach knotted, headache brewing. “And it had to be harder on you than me. All the talk,” she added. “The questions, the speculation.”
“Everyone who lives here knows her, so they’re worried.”
“Maybe Mason will have something, anything, to add. I know he’s my brother, Xander, but he really is ridiculously smart. He notices everything, forgets nothing, and he’s studied for what he’s doing since he was a kid. I caught him once—he wasn’t quite fast enough to block my view of what he was looking at on his computer. Serial killers. I was so mad, so outraged that he’d do that, read about them. He just said he needed to know; the more he knew, the better he could deal with it.”
“It sounds right to me.”
“It didn’t to me. Why couldn’t we just be normal, live like everybody else? I was doing everything I could to be like everybody else, going to football games, working on the yearbook committee and the school newspaper, meeting friends for pizza, and he’s studying the pathology of serial killers, thrill killers, spree killers. Victimology and forensic countermeasures.”
“It sounds like you’ve read some yourself.”
“Some because he was determined to make it his life’s work, but . . . He’s gone back to West Virginia. He’s gone to see our father in prison. More than once.”
“That bothers you.”
“It did. Maybe it still does, a little, but I had to accept he wasn’t going to put it behind him.”
Better than therapy, she realized. Better this talking to a . . . friend wasn’t quite right, and yet he was. He was her friend. It soothed rather than stirred to say what was in her mind and heart to someone who stood as her friend.
“Mason? He confronts it, and tries to understand it, so he can stop the next. I know that, and can still wish he’d found another way to save lives. Become a doctor—another kind of doctor.”
“Has he saved lives?”
“He has. Did you hear about that man who was taking young boys—in Virginia? He’d taken five over a three-year period, killed two of them and dumped their bodies in a wooded area along a hiking trail.”
“They called him the Appalachian Killer.”
“Mason hates it when the press gives them names. But yes. He was part of the team that identified him, tracked him, stopped him, and saved the lives of the three boys he had locked in his basement. He saves lives, and to do it, he needs to understand the kind of mind that would take young boys, torture them, keep them caged up like animals, then kill them.”
When Xander pulled up at the house, she got out. “I’m proud of him, so I have to accept that he lives a lot of his life in a dark place.”
“Or he lives a lot of his life tearing down those dark places.”
She’d reached for a market bag, stopped. “He does, doesn’t he? And I should learn to turn it that way.”
When they carried the groceries inside and to the kitchen, she got out a bottle of wine.
“I’m about to start some major cooking. Cleaning can work, but I lean toward cooking when I’m upset or stressed.”
“Lucky me. I was going to head out when your brother got here, give you guys some catch-up time. But you bought pork chops.”
“You bought them,” she corrected. “And everything else in these bags.”
“You have to contribute. I like pork chops.”
“Do you like stuffed pork chops, Mediterranean-style?”
“Probably.”
“Good, because that’s what we’re having, along with roasted herbed potatoes, sautéed asparagus, pretzel bread, and vanilla bean crème br?lée.”
He wasn’t sure he realized crème br?lée existed outside restaurants. “I’m definitely staying for dinner.”
“Then I suggest you clear out.”
“Give me a job.”
“A kitchen job?”
“Definitely not a kitchen job.”
He needed to work off the worry, too, she thought.
“Cecil’s holding a table and four chairs—so far—for me. I was going to have Kevin pick them up, take them to Jenny, but if you brought them here, just cleaned them up, we’d have an actual table to eat this magnificent meal on. And don’t say you don’t want to leave me here alone,” she added before he could. “I have the dog, I have an alarm system, and an excellent set of Japanese kitchen knives.”
“You’ll keep the doors locked until I get back—or Mason does.”
“It pains me as it’s a gorgeous day and I’d like the doors open, but for a dining room table, I’ll keep them locked.”
“Keep your phone on you.”
“I’ll keep my phone on me. Do you know how to lower the backseats in my car for the cargo area?”
“I’m a mechanic, Naomi. I think I can handle it. Let Cecil know I’m coming. It’ll save time.”
He hauled her in for a kiss, then pointed a finger at the dog. “You’re on duty.”
Naomi made the call, shoved the phone in her back pocket, then rubbed her hands together.
“Let’s get cooking.”
With the dog occupied with a rawhide bone, she focused in. It cleared her mind, pushed the terrible thoughts and worries away. The process, the textures, the scents and colors.
She had dough rising, potatoes in the oven, and the crème br?lée nearly ready to go into oven two when the dog scrambled up.
Maybe her heart tripped at first, maybe she glanced at the chef’s knife on her cutting board, but she ordered herself to keep to the task at hand.
And was rewarded when she saw Xander haul chairs onto the back deck.
Swiping her hands on the dish towel tucked into her waistband, she walked over to at least open the doors.
“He swore—I almost made him take a blood oath—these were the chairs you wanted.”
“That’s right.”
Xander looked at them—scowled at them. The faded, ripped, ugly patterned seats, the scuffed wood. “Why?”
“They’re going to be adorable.”
“How?”
“Reupholstered with this fabric I’ve picked out, painted. The ladderbacks a slatey blue, the armchairs a sagey green.”
“You’re going to paint them?”
“Jenny is. I’ve retired. They can be ugly until she takes them. I’ve got rags and wood cleaner. We can make them presentable for one meal.”
“They look like presentable kindling to me, but it’s your deal.”
“What about the table?”
“I get the table—needs a little work, but it’s a good piece.”
“I meant do you need help getting it out of the car?”
“Eventually.” Clearly unconvinced, he gave the chairs a final frown. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“I’ll get what you need.”
She got the supplies out of the laundry room, filled a bucket with water, carted it out in time to see him coming back up the steps behind a forest of lilacs in a tall cobalt blue pitcher.
“There.” He set them on the table on the deck. “I brought you flowers and something to put them in.”
Staggered, she stared at them, at him. “I . . .”
“I stole the flowers, but I bought the pitcher.”
“It’s—they’re . . . They’re perfect. Thank you.”
He stood there, scruffy, scowling at the chairs he obviously considered a waste of time and money—and she had to swallow, twice.
“This better be some dinner.” After taking one of the rags from her, he dropped it in the bucket. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. Absolutely. I’ve just got things going inside.”
“Go on, deal with that. I’ll clean up these butt-ugly chairs.”