Sitting back in the chair, my gaze shifts once more to where Karissa sits, tapping her pen against the notebook. She's not watching the television anymore. She's looking at nothing, staring into space.
Yet again, I'm overcome with how beautiful she is. Physically, she's a combination of her parents, but I don't see them anymore when I look at her. I don't see Johnny's freckles or Carmela's face. I see what's inside. I see the innocence, even if she doesn't feel like it's there anymore… I see it, burning so strong that even sleeping with a man like me could never dim it.
Sighing, I close the laptop and grab my phone from where it lays on the desk. "I have to make a few calls."
She glances at me when I speak. "Do you want me to step out?"
"No," I say, standing up. "You keep doing whatever it is you're doing. I'll be back in a few minutes."
I use the side door and head out into the empty garage, making sure to shut the door behind me. I pace the cement, toeing a small oil stain in the middle of the garage, pondering what could remove it as I call a few connections. I put the word out that I'm looking for a Jeep Waggoner, giving them the license plate number in case it will help with verification.
"Fifty grand," I tell them, nearly cringing at my own offer. It's a hefty amount to pay as a reward, but I'm hoping it'll entice them to scrutinize every car they pass. "Nobody confronts her. Nobody touches her. Fifty grand for an address, and I'll handle the rest myself."
I put the word out to about a dozen heavy-hitters, people I've trusted in the past to keep things quiet while getting the job done. I hang up for the last time thirty minutes later and slip my phone in my pocket as I head inside, going straight for the laundry room to get some detergent.
Tide.
I scrub the stain in the garage for damn near an hour, on my hands and knees. I don't stop until every spec of it has faded, my hands scraped and bleeding from the concrete rubbing them raw. Afterward, I head back inside, going upstairs to shower, to wash away the remnants of the day.
Once I'm clean, I make my way back downstairs wearing only a pair of gray sweats. I hear noise in the kitchen, the banging of pots and pans.
Karissa's cooking.
I step in the doorway, pausing, and lean against the doorframe to watch her. She seems more confident now than before, moving around fluidly, those earbuds in her ears. The counter is covered with supplies, a pot of something boiling on the stove, a cast iron skillet sitting beside it.
She turns, her gaze briefly flickering my way as she heads for the fridge. She pulls out a stick of butter and sets it on the counter, turning my way once more, offering a small smile. It's cautious, wavering as she pulls the earbuds out and drapes them around her neck.
Her mouth opens, and closes, before opening yet again.
I know what she's going to ask before she can even find the words to say anything.
"Are you, uh…?" She pauses, her expression hopeful as she motions toward the stove. "You wouldn't happen to be hungry, would you?"
"I might be," I say tentatively.
"Well, I thought I would… that I could… you know… make something."
My gaze shifts from her to the mess she has already made. "I see that."
She doesn't come out and ask me.
She says nothing else, matter of fact.
She turns away, going back to what she was doing, but leaves the earbuds out so she can hear me, in case I have something to say. I watch her for a few minutes as she tosses cubes of potatoes into the boiling water, watching as she pours some oil into the frying pan. After she has going whatever it is she needs on the stove, she grabs some iceberg lettuce from the fridge and slaps it down on the counter, on top of a chopping board.
She grabs a small, serrated steak knife and jams it down the center of the head of lettuce. She yanks it back out, and I cringe, shaking my head as I push away from the doorframe. She tries another tactic, going at it from the side, and barely misses stabbing herself with the knife.
"What are you doing with that lettuce?" I ask, strolling over to her, plucking the knife right out of her hand before she severs a finger. "Other than massacring it, obviously."
She glares at me, trying to grab the knife back, but I move it out of her reach and toss it in the sink.
"I'm making a salad," she says, grabbing the large bowl from the counter and waving it toward me as if to make her point. "Or I'm trying to, anyway."
"Trying is right," I reply, reaching past her and grabbing a 10-inch straight edge Chef's knife. I wave it toward her, taking a page from her book. "This is the knife you should use."
I flip the head of lettuce over, cutting off the end, and remove the outward layer, tossing it in the trashcan. I cut what's left straight down the center before sectioning it into quarters, quickly cutting it into smaller pieces and tossing them into her bowl. It's finished in under a minute and I turn to her, raising an eyebrow. "What else you got?"