he’d done.
“Flip?”
Faint eyebrows lifted over those eyes, smile angling the tissue of her lips upward at their corners to reveal her teeth again.
“Yeah?”
“I asked how you’re doing, darlin’.”
“How I’m doing?”
She nodded, chin dipping into the softness underneath it.
“I’m . . . I’m all right.”
Her hand rose from his and came to his face, cradled his jaw, and as it stroked, he heard the sandy grate of his stubble against her smooth palm.
“Tell you what, honey. Why don’t you get a shower and a shave, and we’ll see if we can make you better than just all right?”
She smacked his face with her fingertips. Her smile was back, and with no more words, he was on his feet and peeling his shirt over his head on the way to the shower.
* * *
After she was gone, the taste of her still lingering on his lips, he was able to close his eyes again. His body melted into the mattress, imageless eyelids shut, and his mind drifted with thoughts of her.
She’d whispered to him the next things to be done. She’d mouthed the words with her breath puffing softly, secretly against his ear. Her voice was warmth that passed into the deepest parts of him. Her words entered his mind as if needless of eardrum or mental process to become part of him like light absorbed through skin.
His mind rested on her, his hands still bearing the sensations of her, the gravity of his pulsing blood settled now in his veins thanks to her, his whole being as if formed by her.
He turned his head against the pillow, and her fragrance came to him out of the pillowcase. What he’d done to the boy, and what Diane had asked him to do next—it was all pushed aside with the remembrance of her touch.
13
Tom Cole’s eyes held on the blackened leaves of the wreath on the door, and he hesitated to knock.
He looked over his shoulder at the U-Haul trailer. It wasn’t hitched to anything; it just rested against the cement in front, the back gaping open to reveal the flat sides of new cardboard boxes puzzled together to fit the space.
A click sounded behind the door, and he turned. The wreath pulled away with the door opening to reveal a woman. She saw him and pulled up, startled, the box bobbling.
Tom reached out as a reflex to keep the box from falling.
She regained control of it, pulled it away from him as if it were something he might steal. She stepped back. “Who are you?”
She wore a denim shirt untucked, sleeves rolled to reveal bare forearms and hands gripping a cardboard box. Her eyes were hazel with lashes so long they might brush the lenses of her glasses.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He dropped his hand, reached around for his badge wallet. “My name’s Tom Cole.” He flipped open the wallet, but she didn’t look at it. She held the box as if it would protect her.
“I work for the state. I’m a parole officer.”
The air between them didn’t move. Tom became aware of the sound of birds in the olive tree behind him.
“This is about my son.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. Russell. Can I have a couple minutes?”
She seemed to see him for the first time, looked him up and down.
Tom felt out of place suddenly, more suited for convicts and jails than for this grieving mother. He straightened. “Look, let me give you a business card. This is a bad time. You can call my boss and make sure—”
“No, it’s all right.” She lowered the box to the floor and stepped out onto the porch, closing the door. To the right of the door was a small concrete bench like you’d find outside a museum. She sat there and crossed her legs, placed her palms flat on the concrete on either side of her. “What is it you want to talk to me about?”
He returned the wallet to his back pocket. “I talked with Detective Danton.”
“He thinks my son was involved in drugs. That it was a gang thing. But it wasn’t.”
Tom expected it to be denial, but it didn’t come across that way. He
“Flip?”
Faint eyebrows lifted over those eyes, smile angling the tissue of her lips upward at their corners to reveal her teeth again.
“Yeah?”
“I asked how you’re doing, darlin’.”
“How I’m doing?”
She nodded, chin dipping into the softness underneath it.
“I’m . . . I’m all right.”
Her hand rose from his and came to his face, cradled his jaw, and as it stroked, he heard the sandy grate of his stubble against her smooth palm.
“Tell you what, honey. Why don’t you get a shower and a shave, and we’ll see if we can make you better than just all right?”
She smacked his face with her fingertips. Her smile was back, and with no more words, he was on his feet and peeling his shirt over his head on the way to the shower.
* * *
After she was gone, the taste of her still lingering on his lips, he was able to close his eyes again. His body melted into the mattress, imageless eyelids shut, and his mind drifted with thoughts of her.
She’d whispered to him the next things to be done. She’d mouthed the words with her breath puffing softly, secretly against his ear. Her voice was warmth that passed into the deepest parts of him. Her words entered his mind as if needless of eardrum or mental process to become part of him like light absorbed through skin.
His mind rested on her, his hands still bearing the sensations of her, the gravity of his pulsing blood settled now in his veins thanks to her, his whole being as if formed by her.
He turned his head against the pillow, and her fragrance came to him out of the pillowcase. What he’d done to the boy, and what Diane had asked him to do next—it was all pushed aside with the remembrance of her touch.
13
Tom Cole’s eyes held on the blackened leaves of the wreath on the door, and he hesitated to knock.
He looked over his shoulder at the U-Haul trailer. It wasn’t hitched to anything; it just rested against the cement in front, the back gaping open to reveal the flat sides of new cardboard boxes puzzled together to fit the space.
A click sounded behind the door, and he turned. The wreath pulled away with the door opening to reveal a woman. She saw him and pulled up, startled, the box bobbling.
Tom reached out as a reflex to keep the box from falling.
She regained control of it, pulled it away from him as if it were something he might steal. She stepped back. “Who are you?”
She wore a denim shirt untucked, sleeves rolled to reveal bare forearms and hands gripping a cardboard box. Her eyes were hazel with lashes so long they might brush the lenses of her glasses.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He dropped his hand, reached around for his badge wallet. “My name’s Tom Cole.” He flipped open the wallet, but she didn’t look at it. She held the box as if it would protect her.
“I work for the state. I’m a parole officer.”
The air between them didn’t move. Tom became aware of the sound of birds in the olive tree behind him.
“This is about my son.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. Russell. Can I have a couple minutes?”
She seemed to see him for the first time, looked him up and down.
Tom felt out of place suddenly, more suited for convicts and jails than for this grieving mother. He straightened. “Look, let me give you a business card. This is a bad time. You can call my boss and make sure—”
“No, it’s all right.” She lowered the box to the floor and stepped out onto the porch, closing the door. To the right of the door was a small concrete bench like you’d find outside a museum. She sat there and crossed her legs, placed her palms flat on the concrete on either side of her. “What is it you want to talk to me about?”
He returned the wallet to his back pocket. “I talked with Detective Danton.”
“He thinks my son was involved in drugs. That it was a gang thing. But it wasn’t.”
Tom expected it to be denial, but it didn’t come across that way. He
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