Denise is so happy to see him she won’t take her arms from his neck. Steve has to carry her to the steps still attached. Awkwardly, he sits with his bundle, and she kisses him full, then nuzzles into his neck. He inhales her fresh lemon scent and wishes his visit were as simple and clean, that he could simply fall into her kisses, carry her to the bedroom with her jasmine sheets, and make love to her until morning, ignoring and forgetting the real reason he’s here.
“Denise, we need to talk,” he says.
“Uh-oh,” she says. “You know those are the four most dreaded words in any relationship.” She tilts her head curiously but continues to smile, until she realizes he’s serious. Untangling herself, she slides off his lap. The night is warm, the moon full. The bats serenade them, and the desert breeze carries the sweetness of last night’s rain.
“It’s about your brother.”
“Dickie?”
Steve folds his hands, unfolds them, rubs them on his pants to wipe away the sweat. The entire drive from Irvine to Independence he thought about what he wanted to say, and after four hours, with no great epiphany, he’s decided to simply tell her the truth.
“I know Dick killed Otis,” he says.
Her eyes flick a millimeter left then right, but she says nothing, the lack of reaction combined with the universal tell of deceit confirming this was not a revelation.
“And since then,” he goes on, “he’s been stalking other released pedophiles.”
Her brow furrows, and her mouth skews to the side.
“And five days ago, he killed one of them. Which is the reason I’m here in California.”
She blinks then shakes her head. “What are you talking about?”
He tries to take her hand, but she pulls it away.
Steve blows out a hard breath. “I didn’t see what good would come from pursuing Otis’s death, and I knew Dick did it to protect you and Jesse, so I let it go.”
He watches as her eyes flick again and then as she swallows.
“I figured that was the end of it. But it wasn’t. Somehow, your brother has got it in his head that it’s up to him to stop other guys like Otis.”
She looks at him in confusion. “Dickie’s a scientist.”
“And a vigilante.”
Her mouth tightens into a firm line, and her head shakes more forcefully, a strand of gold hair catching on her chin.
“Denise—”
“No!” she says.
“They ruled it a heart attack, but—”
“No!” she says again and stands.
“Please, Denise, hear me out—”
“I’ve heard enough. I get that you’re grieving, and I feel bad for what happened to Danny, but not every guy who gets out of prison and then dies was murdered.”
“This isn’t about that—”
“I told you how I feel about whoever killed Otis. Whoever did that is my hero, and if you think it was Dickie, you should be thanking him. Because, had he not stepped in, I wouldn’t be here, and you would have never met me, and we never would have . . .” The words trail off, and losing the battle with her emotions, her chin drops and tears leak from her eyes.
Steve stands and steps toward her, but she backs away.
“I’m sorry you lost your son.” She sniffles to rein in her emotions, then lifts her face back to his. “But Otis wasn’t Danny, and Dickie wasn’t the one who killed him.”
She walks into the house, and Steve watches helpless as the door to the future he dreamed of closes with a slam.