“I don’t understand you at all, Elkin.”
“Because I’m simple when you want me to be complicated. And I’m complicated when you want me to be simple.” I shrug. I’ve lived with myself for a long time now. And part of maintaining my sobriety is being honest even when it hurts.
Lotham has already finished his dog. He goes to work on his fries with mechanical precision.
“You piss me off,” he states.
“I got that memo.”
“We asked questions. I personally visited that fucking rec center. For that matter, I was there when we searched the apartment, interviewed family and friends. And yet you . . .” He seems at a loss for words. “Three days into it, and you’ve turned this whole damn thing on its head.”
“Would you rather have no leads at all?”
“No, dammit!”
“Then you’d rather all discoveries be the product of your greatness?”
“I’m not that petty!”
“Then what the hell is it you want? I’m here. I’m sharing. Frankly, you’re the one being an asshole.”
Lotham scowls, eats more fries. “I’m trying to figure out your secret. Or what to do with you. Or what to make of you. Maybe all three.”
“Hah. Good luck with that.”
“Why are you here? Why this case? Why this girl? What exactly it is you’re looking for?”
He’s ruining my mood and my appetite. I shutter the clamshell container of hot dog and fries, take a sip of my lime rickey instead. It’s melting fast now. Probably doesn’t like angry conversations any more than I do.
“You want to know who I am.”
“Precisely.”
“Maybe it’s more important to know who I’m not.”
“I have such a headache right now, and this . . . is not helping.”
But he started it, and now I won’t be put off. “You want to know me, Mr. Big-Shot Detective, Mr. Fucking BPD and Expert on All Things Local? You ran my background. You already know what you need to know. I’m a woman who can’t stay in one place for very long. I don’t have close, lasting relationships. I have no sense of material possessions or financial stability. And I fight every fucking day not to take a drink. You know what I can do? This. Locate missing persons. Work cold cases. I don’t know why. But this is what I’ve got, pretty much the only thing I’ve got, so I’m sticking with it.”
“Some modern-day Sherlock Holmes.”
“Sherlock sees the answers. I just have a gift for asking the right questions.” I take the bag from him, jam my container of food back in. “I don’t know where Angelique is. I don’t know why she has a hidden stash of counterfeit money or what’s her relationship with Livia Samdi or why she’s running around the city with a fake ID leaving coded messages. But I’m also okay not seeing that far ahead. As long as I have the next question . . . I’ll get there.”
Lotham has finished his lunch. He takes the bag back, adds his own trash. His eyes are dark and intense. He stands much closer to me than necessary. I can feel the heat from him. Roiling waves of rage and frustration.
“You want answers,” I say quietly.
“Of course!”
“You’re all about the finish line.”
“Bringing home a missing teenage girl, hell yes.”
“I’m about the process. Once we cross the finish line . . . that’s where I get lost. That’s when I stop understanding things so well.”
He frowns, appearing genuinely puzzled. “You’re really never going to settle down? You’re really just gonna do this—drift from city to town to city?”
“Will you miss me?” I smile. It’s a bit sad, though. I would honestly like the good detective to kiss me. No, I’d like him to drag me around the back of the building and fuck me senseless, because that’s the kind of intensity I crave. But he’s all solid and stable and Marine Force Recon. The calm in the storm. While I’m the hurricane that destroys everything in its path.
Lotham must read some of it on my face, because he suddenly grabs my chin. His hand is warm, his fingertips calloused. I part my lips. His thumb brushes over the lower one and I clamp down on his finger gently, touching the pad of his thumb with the tip of my tongue.
His eyes darken. Here’s something else I know: Good guys like him have a weakness for train wrecks like me.
Just ask Paul.
“Do you want to take me home?” I ask him softly, releasing his thumb. “I’ll go. We can fuck on your sofa, your kitchen table, maybe even your bed if we get that far. You can work out all that turmoil. Maybe you’ll even feel in control. Like you got a handle on me, at last. Got me right where you want me.”
He doesn’t speak, but takes a step closer.
“I love sex. The harder the better. A moment where I don’t have to think, where I can escape my own mind? Afterwards, I might even get a good night’s sleep. But the minute it’s over, you’re gonna want what you’re gonna want, and I’m still gonna be me. And that will piss you off all over again.”
“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”
I smile. And I can see Paul so clearly, it’s like a hole being ripped in my chest all over again.
What did you do, Frankie? Dear God, what did you do?
I loved you.
“I have to go to work now,” I tell the detective honestly. “I get off at midnight. If you want to find me. We can talk about the case. Or not. I’ll be there.”
I step back. Then, because one step doesn’t quite do the trick, two, three, four, more. He watches me retreat, staying rooted in place with the remnants of our shared lunch. When I’m sure he’s truly going to stay, I turn.
I walk rapidly back to Stoney’s. I tell myself I am okay. I tell myself I’m not rattled. I tell myself I can handle it.
Because no one can be honest all of the time. Not even me.
CHAPTER 18
I pop upstairs to my apartment to clean up before work. And possibly, though I don’t want to get carried away, because I’m worried about Piper. But given that I’m greeted with a giant ball of vomit in the middle of the floor, I can see my concerns are misplaced. I check under the bed, and sure enough, glowing green eyes stare back at me.
“We need to discuss your communication style,” I inform her.
She blinks slowly.
“I find the gutted mice and pile of ick to be passive aggressive. If you need a bit of personal space, just say so.”