“Appreciated,” Nick muttered into his glass, lifted his eyes and caught the bartender’s attention.
He got another drink.
So did Eric.
He caught the girl at the other side of the bar looking at him two more times.
He went home alone.
* * * * *
11:17 – That Night
Nick stood at his kitchen counter, his fingers wrapped around another glass of whisky, a framed photograph held in his other hand.
The picture was of Hettie. A woman who looked like a girl. A pretty girl. A mature girl.
But a girl.
When she was alive, Nick had thought she’d always look like a girl and would do just that until the day she died. He’d thought this thinking that day would be decades in the future.
But in the end, in a way he hated, it had turned out he was right.
Blonde hair, it had been thin-ish but it was soft. Big blue eyes. Freckles on her nose.
She could act like a dork. She was sometimes klutzy. She had no problem being a big goof.
She could also take down a two hundred and fifty pound man who was six inches taller than her.
She looked so far from FBI it was hilarious.
Which made her perfect for undercover work.
He stared at her picture in its frame, something he’d had out for years. Something he’d put away when he’d started inviting Olivia over.
And he stared at her picture realizing that over the years, she’d become a part of the décor. He hadn’t paid much attention to the fact, in one pad or the other, she’d been on the chest he now had at the wall between his bedroom and the workout room for years.
She was a memory.
She’d died and he’d vowed to himself she’d never be reduced to that.
But she was a memory.
A happy one.
The wound of the shock of her brutal death fading, the rest, the good times, had floated to the surface.
Hettie smiling. Laughing. Joking around. One of the guys but in a way that was all girl. Giving great head. Fucking up the eggs. Acting like she was having an orgasm the first bite she took every time he cooked for her.
Hettie. A happy memory.
But a memory.
And he stood there looking at her and her freckles and he did it for once not missing her fucked-up eggs.
He did it wishing he’d taken a fucking photo of Olivia.
“I’m an asshole,” he whispered to the picture.