Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Kit
The kitchen might be the most paradoxical room in the home.
On the one hand, it’s the heart of any household—where families gather to connect, chat, and share a lovingly prepared meal.
On the other hand, it’s chock-full of potential death and dismemberment—open flame, skin-scalding oil, poky skewers, knives that can sever a finger as easily as they chop a carrot, and implements for mashing, smashing, and succotashing.
Cookware had never unsettled me before, but in this particular kitchen, I was acutely aware of all the culinary weaponry surrounding me.
“Here you go. Careful, it’s hot.”
Coils of steam rose from the mug in front of me. The bearer of boiling liquid set a second mug on the round wooden table, covered by a cheerful yellow tablecloth, before sliding onto the chair beside mine in the breakfast nook.
“Thanks.” Curling my hands around the warm mug, I offered a smile. “Sorry again for dropping by without notice.”
“Oh, not at all.” She spooned sugar into her tea from a small dish in the center of the table. “It’ll be good for him to see a friendly face.”
I tilted my wrist, checking the time on my watch.
“He should be home soon.”
Holding my smile, I studied the woman’s open expression.
Marsha was seventy-two years old, with hair that was more silver than brown hanging over her shoulder in a loose braid.
She had dried paint flecks under her fingernails and curious eyes behind tortoiseshell glasses.
Her knitted sweater was the same sunshine shade as the tablecloth, and little hummingbirds dangled from her earrings.
She pushed the sugar dish toward me. “Help yourself.”
“No, thanks,” I said. “But I’ll take some milk, if you have any.”
“Oh, of course. I should have asked.”
With my back to the breakfast nook’s large bay window, I watched my gracious host cross the kitchen to the shiny stainless-steel fridge.
My gaze skimmed the tiled countertops and many quaint implements of maiming and torture.
Through the window above the sink, the setting sun cast shades of orange over picturesque turquoise waters.
I couldn’t see the shore past a line of manicured shrubs, but the pane was cracked open to let a salty breeze waft inside, and I could hear the faint slosh of waves meeting land.
While she was looking away, I tugged the sleeve of my shirt down over my wrist, hiding the fading bruises and bandaged burns that marred my skin.
I was reclining with apparent comfort when Marsha set a small pitcher of milk, painted with a little girl holding a bouquet of flowers, beside my mug.
I stared bemusedly at it. “Pour a cup of kindness” was written in cursive above the flower girl.
Marsha returned to her chair. “So, you two know each other from work.”
I added a healthy dose of milk to my Earl Grey. The drink turned the same unappetizing shade as its namesake. “He’s never mentioned me?”
“Hmm.” She shook her head. “Something about your name seems familiar, but I don’t think he’s ever talked about you. He doesn’t like to discuss work when he’s here. The whole point is to relax and escape.”
“And to see his wonderful mom,” I suggested, lifting my mug and blowing on the hot liquid.
She sipped her tea. “And that.”
As I spoke, I shifted in my chair to see more of the cozy living room, which was just an extension of the kitchen and breakfast nook.
A polished upright piano filled the space where most people would’ve put a TV.
A sky-blue and pumpkin-orange crocheted blanket covered most of a squashy, floral-patterned sofa, along with a heap of tasseled throw pillows.
Beside it was a modern gray armchair, sans blankets, pillows, or comfort.
I couldn’t see into the small dining room, nor did I have a line of sight to the second floor, the stairs tucked away at the far end of the living room—but neither did Marsha.
“How long have you lived here?” I asked. “It’s a lovely place.”
“About seven years.” Marsha swirled her tea in her mug. “It was a big change, coming from America, but it’s grown on me. Benji loves it too. Sometimes he’ll sit for hours listening to the sea while I paint.”
Through the open window, the water crashed against the rocks with sudden violence, and cool air rushed into the house, raising goosebumps across my arms.
I took a sip of my tea—in retrospect, this particular earl was best served un-milked—and gestured at the scenic watercolors adorning most of the wall space. “These are all yours?”
“Oh yes. I tried to get him into painting, but he claims he doesn’t have the creative flair for it.”
That wasn’t exactly a revelatory shock for me. My eyes drifted to the front entryway, which sat between the kitchen and the living room. “I’m guessing you’re the pianist as well.”
“No, that’s Benji.”
I yanked my gaze away from the door. “I’m sorry, what?”
She laughed at my reaction. “To be fair, he was never passionate about it. He only stuck with his lessons for my sake, but he’ll play sometimes if I ask.”
“You don’t say,” I muttered, giving the piano a disbelieving squint.
“That’s my son for you,” Marsha said fondly. “Always considerate. Always doing whatever he can for his family—doing too much, even.”
As her worried sigh fluttered through the bright, happy kitchen, I reached across the table and put my hand on hers. “I know you probably don’t get to see him often. I appreciate you letting me interrupt your time together, especially with everything that’s happened.”
She squeezed my fingers. “You’re very kind, Kit. Maybe you can get him to open up. He hasn’t talked about it much.”
“It must’ve been a shock for you both. How did you find out what happened?”
“Benji told me.” She fidgeted with the handle of her mug. “Planes have always made me nervous. I don’t know if I’ll ever get on another one.”
So he’d stuck with the same “tragic plane crash” story as the official MPD press release. That didn’t surprise me, but I was kind of astonished no one was blaming Kit Morris, evil murderer extraordinaire, for all those deaths.
I forced myself to take another sip of the dairy-tainted tea. “Were they close?”
“Oh, men and their fathers,” she mused. “It’s hard to tell sometimes, isn’t it? I’m sure you know what that’s like.”
“Actually, I’m afraid I don’t,” I told her. “I never met my parents.”
Marsha’s face softened with motherly sympathy, and she uttered a quiet, “Oh.”
The orphan card strikes again.
“His father was always very demanding of the people around him,” she revealed after a moment.
“That was understandable given his career, but it caused a lot of friction between father and son. When Benji got his position in the IA, I’d hoped they might cross paths more, maybe even work together, and Peter would see how diligent Benji is. ”
“I saw them working together a couple of times,” I revealed. “Pretty recently, in fact.”
“Oh, that’s lovely,” she murmured with tender sadness. “I’m glad Benji got that time with his father before …”
I gazed into her face as she let out another sigh. Nothing. There was nothing of her son in Marsha. I just couldn’t see it. Like the floral sofa beside the minimalist gray armchair, I couldn’t find the connection.
The rush of waves outside the window almost masked the sound—a jangle of keys. The bolt on the front door clacked.
A broad smile dimpled Marsha’s cheeks as she rose to her feet. “Here he is.”
My gaze shot to my watch, and then I was on my feet as well. One hand dipped into my pocket and clutched the short cylindrical object inside as I positioned myself behind Marsha.
The front door swung open, and her darling son stepped onto the sunflower-patterned rug, a paper bag full of groceries tucked under his arm.
“Hey, Mama,” he called in a gentle voice so antithetical to his hulking frame that it felt like a classic film dubbed over by a teenager. “They didn’t have any spinach, so I grabbed some—”
He spotted my rain jacket hanging on a coat hook beside the door. His gaze snapped across the empty living room and crashed into mine.
A year ago, I would’ve said I’m not a vindictive guy. Even a few months ago, I would’ve debated the accusation that I’m a grudge holder.
But as Benjamin Kade’s eyes widened and the cruel lines of his countenance went slack with disbelief, there was no denying the deep, dark surge of satisfaction I felt in that moment. Kade was the hunter. He stalked his prey and set the traps. He inspired terror.
Benjamin Kade wasn’t used to being taken by surprise.
“Heya, Benji,” I said as I placed my hand lightly on his mother’s shoulder. “We’ve been expecting you.”
The slack shock on his face cracked, and I braced myself, gripping the artifact in my pocket tighter. His bulky frame expanded, shoulders pulling back, jaw clenching, dark eyes burning like hellfire.
Then all that intensity relented and relaxed, and a congenial smile spread across his face. “Kit Morris. Never imagined you’d show up here.”
I’d anticipated a lot of different reactions from Kade when he entered the house. This was not one of them. I’d have much preferred his psychotic brutality over this glossy, good-natured veneer.
His gaze flicked from my hand on Marsha’s shoulder to her face. “Are you okay, Mama?”
“Of course,” she replied, taking a half-step forward. “Let me help you with—”
Keeping a light touch on her shoulder, I beckoned her toward the table with my other hand.
“No, no,” I said as I rapidly recalculated. “Sit, Marsha. Relax. Benji can handle the groceries.”
I slid her chair back. She sat down, and I returned to my spot in front of the bay window. Kade didn’t move, that placid expression still plastered on his face, but his disconcertingly passive body language didn’t quite disguise his tension. I kept my concealed artifact ready.
He shifted the groceries into one arm. “Wanna give me a hand, Morris?”