Chapter 14
fourteen
Beautiful.
Two days later, and I still can’t get Alice’s face out of my mind. The way her brows curved up. The way her pink lips parted. The shine in her gaze.
My praise—the single word I told myself I said because it was the thing I had to say—changed her.
That’s the simplest way to describe it. When I complimented her, she relaxed. Every feature softened. The defensive panic in her eyes melted away. And she let me in.
It was beautiful.
Almost as beautiful as her eyes themselves. The soft, almost-violet blue, rimmed with a band of dark indigo and filled with splinters of ice. They remind me of the way light shines through frost on sunny winter mornings.
Worry gnaws at my gut, recalling the single deadbolt on her door and the dearth of cameras in the building. When she saw me to the exit Saturday night, I offered to install some, but she claimed their landlord wouldn’t have it.
I might have sent the man a rather brusque email this morning. Until I hear back, though, there’s nothing I can do but wait for my phone to ring.
Because I used up so much of my “weekend off” working, I carved out this Monday afternoon to help my mother move her stuff out of my childhood home. Grayson is on an international conference call, and Ella plans to stay home writing. So, in theory, my bases are covered…
My mom’s sniffles interrupt my unease. She shuffles into the living room, swiping at her eyes.
This was the last place my father ever lived and the last place Mami saw him alive. As I watch her shoulders slump over a box of old photo albums, I release some of my frustration. It’s good that I’m here—I don’t want to leave her to face this alone.
I thought I’d be more attached, myself. After all, apart from a few temporary rentals during my years on the force and my new place, this brownstone is the only home I’ve ever known.
I’m not sure when I started to hate it so much.
When my dad first died, and I moved home to care for Mami, it was comforting to be in our family home again. I spent many nights sitting in my father’s customary place at our round wooden table, praying I could somehow absorb the last of his wisdom through some physics of position.
He always seemed peaceful here, in his chair, with his tea. I wondered: if I sat there, if I stayed still, would I inherit his peace? Would I be able to forget what had happened?
The answer, by the way, is no.
That’s the hardest part about the way he died.
Sure, it was violent and unfair and so sickeningly wrong.
But, worse than any of that, is the knowledge that I let him down.
I didn’t analyze the situation quickly enough to save his life.
And, once he was gone, I didn’t honor his memory with my reaction.
The relief from gunning down the man who shot him receded almost immediately, leaving me with nothing aside from the difficult truth:
My dead father would have been disappointed in me.
Ever since that sank in, I’ve made it my life’s mission not to let him down again. For the most part, it’s simple. He raised me with the same values he upheld, so my conscience tends to guide me the same way he would have.
When things get complex, though, I’m never sure I do him justice. Would he be proud that I finally put my foot down and told Mami she needed to move out? Or would he be upset that I was trying to help the woman he loved move on from his shadow?
I had to do it for a lot of reasons. For one, she needs space for my grandmother now, and Abuelita can’t manage the stairs here.
As the years passed, taking us further from the worst day of our lives and into the future…
this small house becomes less of a reminder of what my family had and more of a relic to everything we’ve lost.
“Mijo?”
My mother’s voice interrupts my reverie. I realize I’m standing where the kitchen table used to be. With a sigh, I pivot, finding her silhouette in the doorway to the empty living room.
I grew up hearing that my mom was the most beautiful woman in any room. My father told me so, often. He told everyone who would listen.
And people believed him. So much so that Mami had a reputation in our neighborhood for being a great beauty. It took years for me to see that, truly, her looks fell just north of ordinary. What really set her apart was her attitude. She had so much joy and humor and kindness.
Some of that has returned, lately. As she drifts closer, I note the old laugh lines creasing her face, though they’re pulled into a frown now. Her dark eyes flash with disapproval.
“You are too tired,” she tuts. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”
Because there’s a beautiful woman in an unprotected apartment way too fucking far away from mine.
Because my phone is always ringing and it’s never her.
Because something is fucking wrong, and I cannot figure out what it is.
An image of her parted lips and shimmering blue eyes flashes through my mind. She shut her reaction down so quickly. I don’t know why, but it’s clear that my praise truly touched her, for a moment. And if that’s the case, why did she slam a wall between us?
A fresh pang of doubt turns my stomach, followed by a wave of frustration.
Who are you, Alice Moore?