Page 86 of The Wrong Side of the Law

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Gabriel

From ten stories up, everything looks tiny. People might as well be ants, and cars no more than beetles. Only the largest of waves crashing on the beach are any more than a faint white line on the blue-green water, and the sound of them little more than a distant murmur. All the world lies spread out before me.

A familiar white Volkswagen turns off Beach Avenue into the visitor parking lot of my building, and my pulse quickens, knowing that she’ll be here in just moments.

Maybe I should give her the pass to park in my second spot, instead of going to the visitor’s lot? It would be more convenient for her. But then, that’s not the real reason, is it? It’s not going to cut off more than fifteen seconds, maybe thirty. You know what the real reason is, dumbass. You want to move the relationship forward. It’s subtler than giving her a key but lets her know she’s always welcome here.

Assuming, of course, that she still wants to come here again.

When the Jetta is parked, Emily doesn’t get out right away, sitting there for a full two minutes before opening the door. When she does finally exit the vehicle, she’s moving slowly, dragging her feet as though her shoes were made of lead. This isn’t like her: the Emily Wilson I’ve come to know doesn’t trudge, she has a pace of her own. She charges through life, a conqueror. Something’s wrong.

I don’t even need to ask what it is, not after she’s just been at home with her brother and stepmother. I wave, but she’s not looking up.

When she passes out of sight beneath the awning at the main entrance, I go back inside to pull the wine out of the fridge and check the table again, set for two with lemongrass beef and papaya salad from the Thai place around the corner.

The bell rings, and when I answer the door Emily stands there, pale, blue eyes dull and red-rimmed.

“Hi,” she says, giving me a wan half-smile.

“Jesus, Emily. Are you okay?” I ask.

Without waiting for an answer, I fold her into my arms, holding her close. She stiffens for a barely perceptible instant, then relaxes to dead weight.

“Yeah,” she says, voice muffled against my chest. “I am now.”

“What’s wrong?” Stupid question. I know what’s wrong. Better question: “What happened?”

“Same shit, different day,” she answers. There is no bitterness in the words, only sadness and resignation.

“You want to talk about it?” I ask, leading her into the dining room. “I got us some dinner. It’s from Krung Thep.”

Emily’s eyes light with the tiniest spark.

“The lemon-”

“-grass beef, yep. And the papaya stuff that you like.”

“You’re amazing,” she says, reaching around my neck, pulling me close enough to kiss. When she lets me go, her cheeks are wet.

“Really, Em, are you okay?” I ask.

“I will be,” she says, nodding weakly. “Let me go splash some water on my face, okay?”

Emily only picks lightly at her food, and most of the time her fork is used more for moving bits of it around the plate rather than to her mouth. She sits quietly, shoulders bowed and back bent. It’s like all the fight has been kicked out of her.

This is not the Emily Wilson that I’ve come to know and care about. Not the Emily Wilson that I’ve… that I’ve…

Goddammit, Gabriel. Be honest. Admit it to yourself, at least.

The Emily Wilson that I’ve fallen in love with. Oh, hell. It’s true, though, isn’t it?

“I think I’m going to save the rest of mine for later,” I say, standing up. It’s torture, watching her just sit there like this. “You want me to put yours in the fridge with it?”

“Yes, please.”

When the table is cleared Emily joins me on the couch, kicking off her shoes and curling up with her feet under her.

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