He knew that Zoe would eventually use the lull in conversation to start talking about the case. He preferred to nudge the conversation away from the topic. For one, Zoe’s preoccupation with Rod Glover had been bordering on obsession in the past week. She spent nearly every waking hour thinking about the killer, analyzing his past behavior, trying to anticipate his actions. She was getting more frantic every day, as the deadline of their return to Quantico loomed closer. And besides, talking about murders tended to mess up his appetite.
“So what do you think of Detective O’Donnell?” he asked.
“She seems capable. But she doesn’t like me,” Zoe said.
“Why do you say that? She seemed interested in your opinions.”
“She is very impatient when I talk to her. She interrupted me several times and sounded really annoyed whenever I expressed an opinion.”
“I think that’s just her style. She did the same with me.”
“Well, her style makes me think she doesn’t like me.” Zoe shrugged.
Tatum was about to ask another question, when their waiter showed up, balancing a dozen plates on his arms with no tray, a stunt that seemed dangerous in the crowded restaurant. Just one wrong move, and an innocent diner would end up with a bowl of tzatziki upturned on his head. Their table was small, and it took a certain amount of Tetris-related knowledge to get all the plates onto it. While he did it, the waiter announced the dishes he was putting down. “Taramosalata, it’s fish roe. These here are artichokes with potato and lemon. Stuffed grape leaves with yogurt . . .” On and on the list went until the table was completely covered, and the waiter left.
Zoe seemed overwhelmed. She always gave a lot of thought to the way she ate her food, what to eat first, and which portions to combine together in a single bite. It seemed like the amount of possibilities momentarily short-circuited her brain functions.
Tatum stuck his fork in one of the stuffed grape leaves and took a bite.
They said smells could trigger memories, but Tatum didn’t know tastes could do the same. All of a sudden he was back in Wickenburg, sitting at the table, his mother trying to teach him yet again how to hold a knife, her tone exasperated, while his dad told her to “leave the kid alone.”
“My mom made stuffed grape leaves just like these,” he said, his mouth half-full.
Zoe had managed to compute herself out of her dilemma and now dipped a piece of roasted cauliflower in the bowl of tzatziki. “I didn’t know your mother was Greek.”
“She wasn’t, but she liked trying new recipes. She had a shelf in the kitchen with dozens of cookbooks.” Tatum smiled. “They had these amazing pictures, and I used to look through them, imagining what they’d taste like.”
“That was probably nice.”
Tatum snorted. “Not to a kid. Most of my friends would have steak and fries for dinner. We’d have Peking duck or falafel. I used to beg my mom to make something normal for a change.”
Zoe combined a sliced tomato and a piece of artichoke on her fork with the concentration of a nuclear physicist handling uranium. “Kids have almost three times as many taste buds as adults, so they experience taste differently and prefer simpler tastes.”
Tatum smiled. “Whatever. I just wanted some fries.”
Zoe closed her eyes as she took the bite, breathing through her nose. Tatum sipped from his ouzo and looked at her, for a moment unable to pull his gaze away. When her eyes were open, Zoe always seemed like a deadly predator, poised to pounce. But when she shut them, her entire face suddenly became so delicate, almost like a porcelain doll.
“How was the food at your grandparents’ home?” she asked.
Tatum’s smile wavered. “Well, it should have made me happy. Mashed potatoes, roast beef, hamburger, fries. My grandma bought vanilla ice cream for me every weekend because she knew it was my favorite. Of course, being a little asshole, I responded by telling her she cooked like shit and that my mom used to cook much better.”
“Well, you lost your parents. You were probably struggling.”
“That’s no excuse.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t say it’s an excuse. But you shouldn’t feel guilty about it.”
“Who says I’m feeling guilty?” Tatum asked, his tone becoming raw, angry. “And what if I am?” He picked up his fork, noticed that his hand trembled, and put it down. Then he flattened his palm on the table in