With a half laugh, Abra moved her vase of baby iris from the center of her kitchen table to the stone-colored counter, then set down the teacups. “It’s really great sex.”
“Unsubstantiated. Provide an example.”
“We moved the bed.”
“People often move beds, couches, tables. It’s called rearranging the furniture.”
“While we were in it, having sex.”
“That can happen.”
Abra shook her head, got up for a pen. “Here’s the bed,” she said as she sketched. “Against this wall—the first time we had sex. And when we finished having sex, the bed was over here.” She drew a line, curved it, sketched in the bed. “From there, to there, and turned sideways.”
Munching brownie, Maureen studied the napkin. “You’re making that up.”
With a grin, Abra swiped a finger over her heart.
“Is it on wheels?”
“No, it’s not on wheels. The power of repressed sexual energy unleashed is an awesome thing.”
“Now I’m jealous, but I can flip that by knowing, without doubt, Heather has never moved the bed.”
“I’ll tell you what really pissed me off. Her acting like I’m as reckless as one of those women who write to serial killers in prison. The ones who fall in love with some guy who strangled six women with shoelaces. I don’t know how Eli deals with it, I swear, how he deals with that cloud of suspicion constantly over his head.”
“It must be easier for him now, having you.”
“I hope so.” Abra breathed again. “I hope so. I have feelings for him.”
“Are you in love with him?” Abruptly concerned, Maureen licked chocolate from her thumb. “It’s only been a few weeks, Abra.”
“I’m not saying I’m in love with him. I’m not saying I’m not. I’m saying I have feelings for him. I had them the first time I met him, though I think that was mostly sympathy. He looked so wrecked, so tired, so sad—and with this awful anger under it that must be terrible to hold in, day after day. And as I’ve gotten to know him, there’s still sympathy, but there’s respect, too. It takes a lot of courage, a lot of spine to get through what he’s been through. There’s attraction, obviously, and affection.”
“I felt like he relaxed and enjoyed himself the night we hung out at the pub.”
“He needs people, and I think even with his family, he’s felt alone for a long time.” Being alone was, in Abra’s opinion, sporadically necessary for recharging self. Being lonely was a state she pitied, and wanted to fix. “I’ve watched him relaxing and enjoying a little bit more all the time. He’s got humor and a really good heart. I’m worried about him now.”
“Why do you think all those cops are at Bluff House?”
“If Heather wasn’t exaggerating, I think they must’ve gotten a search warrant. I told you before that Detective Wolfe is convinced Eli killed Lindsay. He’s obsessed with proving it. And now with proving he killed again.”
“They have to disprove you to do that.” Maureen reached over for Abra’s hand. “They’re going to question you again, aren’t they?”
“I’m pretty sure of it. Maybe you and Mike, too.”
“We’ll handle it. And we’ll all handle gossips like Heather, too. I wonder if she’ll come to your next class here, at the cottage.”
“If she does, no bitch-slapping.”
“Spoilsport. Just for that, I’m taking a brownie for the road. If you need me, you call me. I’ll be home for the rest of the day. I’ve got to get some paperwork done before the kids get home.”
“Thanks.” Abra moved in for a hug as they rose. “For being just the right antidote to the idiot.”
When Maureen left, she went to her bedroom to change. Two brownies before noon made her feel just a little bit sick, but she’d get over it. And once she finished work for the day, she was going to Eli. For better or worse.
It took hours. When they’d cleared his office, Eli retreated to it while cops swarmed the house. Once he’d put his things back in order, he’d busied himself with calls, e-mails, neglected paperwork.
He’d hated calling his father, but trouble had a way of leaking. Better the family hear directly than through other means. He didn’t bother playing it down, his father was too smart for that. But at least he could reassure him and, through him, the rest of the family.
The cops would find nothing because there was nothing to find.
He couldn’t bring himself to write, not with the police, metaphorically at least, breathing down his neck. He shifted into research instead, eating