Bodie reached over and snagged a leaf of lettuce from the bowl. “No thanks. I like being able to identify my furniture.”
“Your loss,” she said, placing everything on the table and sitting across from him. “Dig in.”
They caught up while they ate, Bodie with Westhaven still souring on his tongue and Am with her studio and her ideas for new art pieces. Am lit up and came alive when she talked about her work.
“Late dinner,” Bodie said, spreading his napkin across his lap. “I feel so cosmopolitan. At Westhaven, dinner was served promptly at six. Thought I’d try something new.”
Amelia stopped to stare at him. “Was it really horrible?”
Bodie picked up his fork, eyed the lamb chop. “Horrible’s relative, isn’t it?” He drew his finger to his lips to shush her. “But we’re Morgans, Am, and Morgans don’t talk about . . . you-know-what.”
“Why do you torture yourself?” Amelia asked.
Bodie cut through his meat, took the first bite. “Million-dollar question. How was the shopping?”
Amelia took a sip of wine. “What?”
“Shopping,” he said. “Remember? You called me while you were shopping.”
“I didn’t find anything. I spent the afternoon in the studio instead. So what have you got planned for work?”
Bodie took another bite of lamb chop. “Still considering my options. I could go back to limo driving. The suit still fits.”
“The craft beer thing I thought was interesting. Morgan’s Amber Ale?”
He shrugged. “Good idea. Crowded market. I’ll come up with something else. Don’t worry. You won’t have to spot me forever.”
“I’m not worried, Bodie. I know you will.”
“Meanwhile, I’ve just been walking around, taking everything in,” he said. “I could walk around the grounds at you-know-where, but it’s not the same as being able to go wherever you want.” He saw her face, the concern on it. “Relax.”
“Bod . . .”
He interrupted her, a lightness in his voice he put there to ward off the pity. “I walked all the time before I went in. At night. It’s quiet, not too many people out. I walk to clear my head. For miles without even realizing it. The sky’s so clear then. I’m telling you, night is where it’s at. You’d probably think up a dozen painting ideas if you walked at night.”
Amelia’s silence made him angry. It meant his walking at night worried her, and she was trying to figure out a way to say so. He could see in her eyes that she was thinking about those women and how he’d climbed to the roof of his apartment building and stood with his toes over the edge. And though they’d decided not to talk about past things, he at least couldn’t help but pay heed to the ripples they made in his life, the remnants of shock that reverberated and echoed now, like the rings a skipped rock made on a still lake.
“I’m solid, Am,” he said, his eyes meeting hers. There it was. The doubt. He hated it, didn’t need it. “There’s nothing wrong with walking.”
“Where do you go?”
“Everywhere. Nowhere in particular. I walk. I think. Then I go home. You have your painting, your weird furniture. I have that. All the same, isn’t it?”
Amelia leaned back in her chair and for a moment just stared at him. “Meet anyone along the way?”
His fork and knife clattered to the plate. “I said alone. What would be the point of meeting someone along the way? And who? Anyone in particular you think I’d meet? I don’t need mothering, Am.”
“Just trying to help. Why’re you so defensive?”
He hated how she could stay so calm when he was so upset. Look at her, Bodie thought, staring at him, judging him, her eyes as still as glass. He ran his hands through his hair, then stood. “Yeah, I’m gonna go. Thanks for dinner. I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”
Amelia stood. “C’mon, Bod, don’t leave like this. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”
He grabbed his jacket slung over the yellow thing. He cut his eyes her way. “You’re just like Silva and those other doctors. Handling me like I’m crazy or something, like . . . like . . .” He glared at her. “I’m him.”
“You’re not him, Bod,” Amelia said. “You never could be.”
He softened, then reached over and kissed her on the top of her head, giving her a smile. “Thanks. I’m okay. We’re good. I’ll call you, huh?”
“Bodie . . .”
He turned and gave her one last look, seeing his own face reflected back. They were a pair. Twins. Two halves of a messed-up whole. God, what humans could endure . . . and what they couldn’t. “Next time, my place. I’ll order in.”
CHAPTER 18
She cleared the plates, loaded the dishwasher, then stood at her window watching the night watch her back. It was an impulsive decision, partly, but she grabbed her jacket and keys and went out. She also walked for miles, like Bodie did, though she had never told him that it was yet another thing they shared. How strange was it that they both favored the same stress reliever, wanting to experience the city at the same time at night when the streets were practically theirs alone?
Not every thought of hers was of Bodie. Amelia had other things to think about, many things, and most of them pinballed around in her head without order or priority. It was why she could never sit still in school or concentrate on one task at a time, unless, of course, she was painting, creating. Her father had called them her sparks of genius.
She walked, her hands plunged deep in her pockets, her collar up, protection against the night. She liked the autumn, the bite in the air, the colors, the rustle of leaves, the smell of wood smoke from chimneys. The changing seasons were one of the great things about living in the Midwest, and Amelia loved them all, but particularly this one, a time of stark transition from the fullness of summer to a kind of sleep—a time of stasis—until life returned in the spring.
She eventually found herself standing at the corner of Rush Street at midnight, staring down the block at the trendy bars. She wasn’t choosing, not really. It didn’t matter to her which one. It wasn’t as though she found herself here by coincidence, either; her route, her walk, had been purposeful. She needed a drink and she needed company and she needed not to have to think about her brother. There was no sin in wanting company, human contact, and it was ladies’ choice. She picked the Rusty Anvil—a dark, brooding little place she’d been to before—and slipped inside to see what the night had to offer. Hopefully, she’d find someone she wanted. Barring that, she hoped to find someone who would do.
CHAPTER 19
Peggy Birch’s murder was all over the news as Foster and Lonergan pulled into the medical examiner’s lot on West Harrison Tuesday morning. The squat, sand-colored building took up almost the entire block, and if one didn’t know its purpose, they could easily peg it for an art museum or a modernist courthouse. But she knew better. This was the place where they closed the file on lives that had been cut down by bullet or knife, rope or fist, or simply fate. Foster focused on her phone as the news of Peggy Birch’s killing played out for morning commuters. The local reporter stood on the bridge, cameras rolling, as she detailed the violent death of a young woman, now identified as Margaret Ann Birch. There was a shot of the Riverwalk, the spot where crime scene tape had been strung and Birch found. The killing was one of six that had taken place over the weekend in a city where violence appeared to have no remedy. “No suspects are in custody connected to this latest incident,” the reporter said before tossing things back to the anchor.