My fingers rest on both cups, my rational and logical side failing me. Silently, I hold up the cups, offering him one, but he shakes his head. The silence turns to a faint ringing in my ears that gets louder and louder. The images of today crash through me like a tidal wave as I open the bottle and pour the wine.

Marcus

One cup of wine and her red eyes glisten. It’s a good distraction, asking her about Cody. She’s more defensive than anything when it comes to him … when it comes to us.

Two cups and her stiff shoulders loosen while her answers start to come easier. Her reluctance falls just as she does, slowly falling to pieces as I feed her clues bit by bit.

He did something a long time ago and her mother put the pieces together. I’m not sure Delilah is following the little breadcrumbs I’m giving her. She’ll blink one day and see it all. Tonight I think she’s simply looking for a distraction.

Her mother wouldn’t have been able to, if he hadn’t started up again. … If I hadn’t helped her along. Not that I added that last little piece out loud for Delilah. She doesn’t need to know. All she has to fully accept is that he had done something bad and that her mother didn’t mean it. Just like the sweet alcohol, it offers her the smallest sips of peace.

“Don’t cry,” I say, consoling her as she sniffs again, closing her eyes and pretending like she isn’t on the verge of breaking down. I’ve seen so many men and women respond to death. It’s almost always the same. Delilah’s different. I attribute that to her cases and how hard it tried to make her. Or rather, how hard she tried to make herself so she could continue. So she could make it all make sense.

We all have our limits, though.

“Ask me something else … something about us.” Her dark chestnut gaze meets mine. Every time she looks at me, she centers. More than likely refusing to let go of this opportunity where she can use me. She could have so many questions answered, resolve so many of those cases that keep her up at night. And the riddles between myself and Cody would be revealed if only she asked the right questions. If only she could pull herself together. If only she could trust me enough.

We have time, little mouse. She’ll get there.

She doesn’t ask me any of that, though, as she grabs the bottle, eager to pour the last bits. “You watched me?” she asks with her back to me. The thin pajama pants hang loose on her hips and the burgundy tank top hugs her tempting curves.

“Yes.”

“You stalked me?” she says and the empty bottle lands with a clink on the dresser. She sips her drink with her back to me.

“Yes.”

“For years?”

I hesitate only a moment before saying, “Yes.”