Page 61 of The Italian Reckoning
I miss him.
I look for his bike each time I visit the cafe for my morning coffee. I look for his name in my texts and his presence on my street when I walk home. I even look for him in my conversations, as if there’s something I can say that will make him spring back up into my life. But there’s nothing.
I throw myself into cold cases and bury myself in data to make it look like I’m accepting of Brant’s decision and I am a model detective. I know how to be subtle. In between water cooler talk, interviews with old cops, and hours spent in the archives, I try to sneak a look at the detective in charge of Kara’s murder. Predictably, they’re also leaning toward a gang killing, but a little sleight of hand gets me a copy of the case file and I add it to the growing pile at home.
Because nothing can stop me from investigating The Painter. I can’t let him get away again.
Ican’t.
Each night, I pore over every single detail I’ve scraped together from Montana and every clue from these new crime scenes hoping something will jump out at me. The Painter exists on these pages, hidden behind smudged fingerprints, unidentifiable blood spray, and blurry witness statements. He’s right here and I can’t see him.
My nights end on the rooftop with Iris in my lap and jealousy in my heart as I watch the couple across the street dance without a care in the world. It’s a peace I ache for. And when I close my eyes, Rocky is in my arms holding me as we sway to music that drifts across on the breeze.
How did this become my life? How am I once again silenced and lonely with nothing but nightmares for company?
And then he starts to call.
The Painter.
I don’t bother questioning how he got my personal number, but he begins calling me once a week. Mostly, he taunts me about how powerless I am when faced with him. Sometimes, he reminisces about Montana, confirming that this man is the real deal and not a copycat. Other times, he’s just checking in to make sure I haven’t given up.
It’s a game to him and I’m the pawn being shuffled about for his sick enjoyment.
So I redouble my efforts and by the time August rolls around, I can recite nearly every piece of evidence word perfect. I recite it over and over in the shower, desperate for something to trigger that will put a face to the killer in my mind. I hash out small details with Bobby over coffee and pie, and his innocent outlook on some of my questions is oddly refreshing.
And through it all, Rocky remains in the back of my mind.
With his help, I’m certain we’d crack this.
But my desperation is growing and in the darkest nights after too many glasses of wine, I find myself wishing for another body. Another crime scene with fresh clues where hopefully, The Painter would finally make a mistake. I fantasize about it until my dreams are a strange muddle of reality and wishful thinking. After two mornings waking up convinced there’s a third body, I stop drinking.
It’s not helping me.
Nothing is.
I’ve spent six weeks in utter turmoil walking in circles around a case that makes no sense. The Painter is too good. If I didn’t feel so alone, I’d tell someone about the phone calls, but right now, it’s growing increasingly likely that the only way I’ll get an answer is if I can get The Painter to meet with me. Face to face, maybe I’ll finally get some answers.
And likely, my death.
“Meow.” Iris hops up onto the counter and rubs her body against my arm, drawing me out of my thoughts and alerting me to the pasta threatening to bubble over at any second.
“Shit.” Lowering the temperature, I stir while rewarding Iris with a slow pat and massage my fingers deep into her fur. She meows softly while purring deeply, arching her back into my hand then flopping down onto her side and exposing her belly.
“Look at you. Are you vying for some spaghetti? You know it’s not for cats, right?”
Iris, with no understanding, meows again and stretches one inconspicuous paw toward the hot pan. Smiling, I gently tap her paw until she withdraws it back toward her body.
“Thank you,” I say, then sigh. “if only everything else were so easy. If you were a killer, you would come clean to me, wouldn’t you? You’d tell me everything I wanted to know and not even try to make me feel crazy, would you?”
She blinks up at me with her gigantic eyes and deepens her purr, visibly happy just to hear my voice.
“You’re adorable and no help whatsoever.”
Iris chirps then pulls herself back up onto her feet and hops off the counter. Her food bowl is much more interesting. Returning to my pan, I lower the temperature further and groan. I’d been so distracted playing out the timeline in my mind that I completely forgot to cook anything other than pasta. I suppose some butter on top will do.
As I move to the fridge, the floorboards creak deeper in my apartment so I glance at Iris’s food bowl expecting to see it vacant. But she’s right there and instead of eating, her ears are alert toward the door while her fur stands on end right down to her incredibly bushy tail.
Iris is in here with me.
