Page 15 of Absinthe Dreams
He stood in front of my gate, his blue eyes troubled, and I said, “I didn’t want to leave them like this, but I didn’t think you’d believe me.”
“Got any gloves?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Get ‘em for me, and a trash bag. Then go back in the house.”
He sounded calm, but firm, and I knew the type. I wordlessly went back into my home and into the kitchen, pulling the dish gloves out from under the kitchen sink that I used when I cleaned, and one of the white kitchen trash bags off the roll.
I went back out to him and handed them over the fence, well away from the cats.
“Go back in the house. I’ll knock four times with intention as soon as I’m done.”
“Thanks,” I said softly, and I went back inside.
I waited at my kitchen counter and finished my glass of wine, pouring myself another and the rest of what was in the bottle into a second glass.
I didn’t know what he drank, but I figured that it would be welcome after such a grim task.
Four distinct hard knocks hit my front door a little while later, and I went to it, opening up.
“It’s done,” he said. “Used your front hose to wash it down as best I could, but it’s dark and a pain in the ass to see, so it might need it again in the light of day.”
“Come in,” I said and stood aside. He stepped into my front room, and I shut the door behind us, locking it and resetting the alarm on the panel.
“Who did it?” he asked, and I sniffed, trying not to cry.
“That’s a long story,” I said.
“I ain’t got nowhere else to be until you tell it,” he said.
I pursed my lips, rubbing them together, and nodded.
“Genesis Bordelon.” I held out my hand, and he raised an eyebrow but reached out his own.
“Chain—”
“Saw,” I said, the last in unison with him, and his other eyebrow joined the first in an expression of surprise.
“No, I remember,” I said softly.
His grasp on my hand was gentle.
“I remember you, too,” he said gruffly, but gently. “Never did get your name, though.”
“Well,” I said, taking in a deep breath. “Now you have it.”
He nodded, and I took back my hand from his warm, calloused one.
“So,” he said after we sized each other up in silence for a moment, and with a cheeky grin, he asked me, “What’s up, Doc?”
I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help myself, and I wandered over to the kitchen and picked up both glasses of wine. I brought him his and held it out.
“Thank you, kindly,” he said. “But I need to know why I’m here and what’s with the cats?”
“Please, come sit,” I said as we went over to the couch. He sat down, and I took a seat on the other end, taking a sip of my wine and setting the glass on the edge of the coffee table.
I let out a long-suffering sigh and said, “Where to even begin?”
