Page 91 of Flint’s Strike

Eliot doesn’t say a word. Just lets me sit in silence until I can give voice to the memory that stopped me in my tracks.

“There was a day,” I manage, “a year or so after she was diagnosed with dementia. I was takin’ care of her as best I could. But my sergeant was losin’ patience with me bein’ out so much.”

I wish I could cry. It’d be easier if I could cry. But the tears stopped a long time ago.

“I was makin’ dinner. Chicken pot pie. Her recipe.” I stare at a crack in the sidewalk, recalling the crack in Mom’s cutting board I’d sealed with resin. “She was having a bad day. One of the worst so far. She was so scared. Hollarin’ at me, convinced I was an intruder… Then cryin’ in the next breath, tellin’ me how sorry she was. Because that’s how dementia works.

“I had a ball of dough resting on the counter, and I didn’t think. Just shoved it under her hands when she tried to reach for a knife I had out to cut the veggies.

“Then…she calmed. Somewhere under the confusion and fear, her body still recognized what to do with dough. And for the next twenty minutes or so, I had my mom back. We laughed and cooked and it was one of the last good memories…”

My throat locks up, and I squeeze the bench slat harder. “I moved her into a facility six days later. I’m not sure she ever forgave me. And I know for damn sure, I’ll never forgive myself.”

Eliot doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t tell me I did the right thing or I’m beatin’ myself up over nothin’. He just wraps his arm around me.

My forehead finds the curve of his shoulder, and I breathe him in. My soap. His deodorant. A hint of sweat over something that’s purely him.

Eventually, he tips his head closer, his voice rough. “You don’t have to be okay. Not with me.”

“I miss her.” The words are no more than a whisper, quiet enough I’m not sure he even hears them over the noise of the market.

Until he tightens his hold and presses his lips to the top of my head. “I know.”

We stay there long enough the wind changes, the sweet scent of kettle corn breaking the hold my memories have on me.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you home.”

I let him help me up, and this time, it’s my hand that finds his.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Parker

Four a.m. broke our agreement. The past couple of weeks, I’ve managed to ignore it and, eventually, it got bored and let me fall back asleep.

Today, it chose violence. By a quarter to five, I gave up, started a load of laundry and went for a run. My stitches aren’t thrilled with me, but all this rest has been too much. I kept it to three miles. Restraint is important. Or so I’ve heard.

My eyes feel sanded down, but I had time for two full cups of coffee before I left the apartment.

My travel mug tucked in the crook of my arm, I push through the station’s double doors at seven forty-five to find Nate’s already in the conference room.

Shit. I was hoping to beat him in. I swear the man sleeps less than I do.

“Hey.” I drop into the chair I’ve claimed this past week, painfully aware the one next to me is empty. I’m not sure if Eliot’s planning on showing up today, or if he’s working another angle.

He left after he walked me home from the farmers market, helped me put the fruits and vegetables away, and held me until I was steady again. And though we texted for an hour last night while watching an episode of This Old House, we kept things light, and I still don’t know what to do with that.

“You’re limping,” Nate says, frowning. “What happened?”

“I went for a run. Don’t lecture me. I needed cardio.” It’s the truth, even if it’s not all of it.

He nods, likely seeing more than I meant to show. He always does. “Don’t let AJ catch you, or I’ll be interviewing our piece-of-shit fire safety inspector alone.”

“Who?” Despite the overabundance of caffeine I’ve had today, it feels like I’m thinking through quicksand.

“The guy who signed off on the final Aldrich inspection. Todd Ferris. I pulled his info late Friday.” Nate slides a bright green file folder across the table.

It’s thin. Ferris’s license number along with his City of Austin ID photo, a background check dated seven years ago when he started with Apex Building Solutions, and his last three known addresses. No arrests. Not even a parking ticket.