I pointed at Ascanio. “Not another word. Latin is a dead language, but that doesn’t mean you get to molest its corpse. Finish sweeping, ianitor.”
He spun the broom with the dexterity of a Marine on Silent Drill Platoon, planted the handle into the ground, jumped, spinning around it, his legs straight out, and landed on one knee, his head bowed, his right hand extended, holding the broom in his fist parallel to the floor.
“You had coffee this morning, didn’t you?”
He looked up at me and nodded, a big grin plastered on his face.
Teenage boudas. Enough said.
I sat down and tried my best to concentrate on going through my case. The survey of the evidence only confirmed what I had already realized last night: I didn’t find any smoking guns. Most of what I had picked up looked just like common trash, which didn’t necessarily mean it was trash. It was evidence, the significance of which wasn’t immediately apparent. I catalogued it anyway. Crimes were rarely cracked by the super-brilliant detectives in a blaze of intellectual glory. Most of them were solved by the patient and the meticulous grunts just like me.
The roar of a water engine–powered vehicle thundered outside of our door and died. Raphael. Had to be. Kate would have parked in the far corner of the parking lot on the side, because she had trouble backing out.
I pretended to be absorbed in my likely worthless evidence. I had spent the entire drive to the office trying to figure out what to say, how to say it. I wanted to explain why I had done things. I wanted to tell him I loved him. I had tried to prepare myself for the possibility that he would tell me off, but most of me hoped with a desperate naive hope that he would forgive me and we would go home together.
A knock sounded through our absurdly reinforced door.
“Periculo tuo ingredere!” Ascanio proclaimed.
What the hell did he just say? Ingredere…Enter…Enter at your own risk. “If it’s a client, I’ll shoot you,” I told him.
The door swung open. A new scent swirled around me, a heavy fragrance—rose, patchouli, and coriander—an expensive perfume. A tall woman stepped inside. She was close to six feet and her shimmering golden heels added another four inches to her height. Her hair, the color of luminous white gold, fell down over her shoulders past her butt. She wore a really short black dress or a long T-shirt, I couldn’t quite decide which. Whatever it was, it was cinched to her improbably narrow waist by a white belt with golden studs. Her face, pretty and painted with makeup to near perfection, had that slightly vapid expression sometimes seen on models: she was either sleepy, horny, or just badly needed to sneeze.
A dark figure stepped into the office behind her. Six foot three, lean, wearing a black leather jacket and faded jeans…He stepped into the light. Dark blue eyes looked at me and the world fell apart around us. His face, framed by soft black hair, wasn’t perfect in the way Ascanio’s was, but it was masculine and handsome, and his eyes communicated a kind of sexual intensity, a promise and a challenge, that made women lose all of their self-respect and try to proposition him in plain view of their dates. The familiar scent washed over me like a pain-filled perfume.
Raphael.
As if in a dream I saw him put his hand on the woman’s butt, gently pushing her toward the two chairs by my desk.
Oh sweet Jesus.
He replaced me.
He replaced me with a better version of me.
And he brought her to the office. To rub it in.
The planet snapped back into place with an agonizing crunch. I stood up, saw myself extend a hand, and heard myself say, “Good morning.”
“Rebecca.” The woman shook my hand.
I concentrated so I wouldn’t crush her finger bones into cartilage pancakes.
“I got your message,” Raphael said.
And I’ve got yours, loud and clear. Inside me, the other me, the one that grew claws and fangs, howled in helpless fury. She didn’t understand nuances. She understood only that the person who loved her and cared for her had betrayed her and now she hurt. He was mine. Mine! The other me screamed inside me, tearing at the walls to be let out.
I struggled to keep her in check, imposing logic over emotion. Moving on was one thing. Moving on I could understand. It would break my heart, but I would understand it. This was a giant “fuck you” spelled out in glowing letters.
I forced my mouth open. My voice sounded flat. “Please sit down.”
They sat. Behind them Ascanio stared at us, his jaw hanging down.
“Ascanio, would you mind getting our guests some coffee.”
“Black, please,” Raphael said, his voice pounding a sharp spike into me. “Cream and sugar separate.”
“I don’t drink coffee,” Rebecca informed us. “It stains your teeth.”