ANNASOPHIA
In a rare show of anger, Patel drags me the opposite direction from Soshanna. He pays zero attention when I tell him we’re headed the wrong way. We come to a dead end. He stops, his café-au-lait face the color of beets. His jaw cracks—not little pops but cracks. Amazing he doesn’t break his molars.
“Do you know the way out of this madhouse?” He’s breathing hard.
“The next left takes us to the meditation garden. There’s space there I can give you CPR.”
“Huh.” He lets go of my elbow and follows me. “Stand behind Dr. Levi if it’s mouth-to-mouth. She already volunteered.”
I push open a painted door that melds with no visible seams into the wall. “I’d say you might want to bypass her offer. What’s going on between you two?”
The sun is an orange disc in the reflecting pool, and we both stand still and hold our breath, inhaling the scent of honeyed roses. Patel exhales as if he’s pushing a toxin out of his body that prevents speech.
Surprising me, he moves very close and blurts, “Maverick’s dead.”
“What?” Certain I’ve misheard, I cock my head toward him.
“Maverick’s dead,” he repeats. “This morning. A couple of hours after he left your house.”
“How—” My voice thickens, choking speech. I lick my lips, but my throat remains closed.
“Let’s sit.” He leads me to a bench overlooking the reflecting pool.
The sun beats down on my head. I dig my nails into my scalp. Some small part of my brain that makes leaps of logic in ER makes a dazzling connection.
Unnatural causes. I ask one question, “How?”
“Shot. No idea who shot him. The same killer shot his mother and her boyfriend.”
“Oooomygod.” Tears scald my eyelids. “Did you—have you seen him?”
“San Jose Homicide called me. They found my card in his pants pocket.” He waits as if he doesn’t realize I hear his words without hearing any nuances. “In the rush to get Alexandra to the hospital, I forgot to tell you … about the card.”
“Smart move. It was all I could do to focus on Alexandra.”
“How is she?” The warmth in his voice spills into the hollows and crevasses around my heart while my insides freeze.
“Better off than Maverick, though I doubt she’d agree.”
“Kids her age are in love with death.”
BPD… Does he know what borderline personality disorder is? I wrap my hand around my wrist and count my fibrillating pulse. “Do you think Maverick loved death?”
“God knows. The way he was living—He must’ve thought plenty of times being dead beat living.” Grief sharpens his tone, and he stops. “Sorry. You’ve got enough on your plate.”
For a dizzying moment, I bob my head up and down like a puppet with broken strings. When I realize he’s frowning, I speak in a rush. “I’ve just spent the last hour trying to convince Dr. Rachel Hamilton of that point.”
“You look as if she put you through the spin cycle.”
My mouth twists—looking like a grimace to him I imagine, feeling like a wry, little smile to me. “You have to stop feeding me sympathy, Detective.”
Huh? It’s not what he says. It’s what’s written on his slack jaw.
“In case you haven’t noticed, I milk your kindness. Bleed Soshanna’s worry. Manipulate Anastaysa and Magnus’s please-Mamá behavior.”
He shifts on the bench and follows my gaze to the pool. “Pretty tough judgment.”
“On the contrary.” I prop my chin in one hand. “I eat up feeling like a victim. After fifteen years of letting Michael steamroll over me, playing the victim’s my fallback coping technique.”
He opens his mouth, but I talk over him. “A young man’s dead—one I should’ve hated. I feel like bawling and wailing, but don’t because I don’t trust my reaction.”
His profile is stiff, his jaw rigid as cement. I don’t have a clue if he’s understood any of the disconnected thoughts that fell out of my mouth.
“There’s a real chance,” I say, “wails and laments would signify I’m feeling sorry for myself instead of mourning Maverick.”
“Anything’s possible. Here’s another consideration.” He faces me. “You could’ve thrown his butt in jail. You didn’t. You and his friend Cassie gave him hope. At the very least he died thinking he was more than raw sewage.”
“All right.” The edginess in his tone unnerves me, but I long to believe Alexandra and I can discover even a sliver of hope. I long to touch him in gratitude. Wrong move. I grimace. “Forget how much I have on my plate. Tell me everything you know about Maverick’s murder.”
Soshanna enters the garden as he finishes the story that leaves me stunned as I consider an ugly possibility. Did Alexandra set in motion the events that collided out of control?
“Would you head Soshanna off, please? Give me a minute.”
Snapping back his shoulders, he gets to his feet and meets Soshanna with an outstretched hand. I stand on legs that threaten to throw me off balance. Like a patient who has lost too much blood, I shuffle to the edge of the reflecting pool. I pick a perfect white rose-blossom. One by one, I tear off the petals and drop them in the water.
The slow-motion current carries them to the middle of the pool. There, they swirl in a languid circle and spin out of sight under the footbridge.
Peace, I whisper silently and swallow hot tears.