Page 73 of Shattered Sun
I set the mug in the sink and head for the bedroom. “Try to get the box in a bag without touching it and bring it with you.” I enter the bathroom attached to my bedroom, flip on the light, and move toward the shower. “I’ll head there once I’m ready.”
“Okay.” Her voice cracks on the second syllable and I hate how feeble it makes her sound. A word I would never associate with Kirsten.
“Try not to think about it. Get ready like you always do. Love on Trixie for a bit. And I’ll see you soon.”
“Soon,” she parrots. “Thanks, Travis.”
“Always, sunshine.”
I park next to her SUV in the restaurant lot, cut the engine, and hop out. Lights inside Poke the Yolk flip on one by one as I approach the front door and knock. The restaurant doesn’t open for another twenty minutes, but she will let me in.
With a soft click, the lock disengages and she opens the door. I shuffle past her and stomp my boots on the mat. Shrug off my jacket and head for my usual spot at the counter. Hang my jacket on the back of the chair, but don’t take a seat.
Music mixes with the occasional clang and chop, chop, chop in the kitchen. No doubt Maxine is cutting produce, baking quiche, and mixing batter to get a jump on the morning crowd before the doors unlock. Instinct has me wanting to wave and greet her. But I ignore the inclination and focus on why I’m here early.
I bite the inside of my cheek and swallow down the command on my tongue. Were this anyone else, I’d cut to the chase and demand to see the box. But this is Kirsten, and she will hand it over without a word.
Just out of reach, she meets my gaze. “Coffee?” Dark crescents blotted with makeup shadow her eyes.
Guilt gnaws at my soul for leaving her house last night. For walking away to cool off and making a bad night worse.
I should have stayed, at least outside, to watch the house. I should have walked the block a few times to clear my head, apologized for my frustrations, kissed her good night, and stayed.
But like a self-absorbed ass, I did none of the above.
So of course, the person behind the notes makes an appearance.Fucking great.
I nod. “Please.”
Kirsten moves behind the counter and loads the coffee maker. Within seconds, the rich, nutty scent wafts across the counter as a steady stream of coffee drips in the pot. Part of me relaxes at the familiarity of being here with her in our daily routine.
Until she spins around, reaches under the counter, and fishes out a canvas tote.
The box.
As she sets it on the counter, I dig in my jacket pocket and take a pair of gloves out. Slipping them on, I remove the box from the bag and inspect the exterior. Nothing notable stands out. The box is lightweight, white, and something you’d get in a package of clothing boxes in the gift wrap aisle.
“You got it in the bag without touching it?” I ask for confirmation.
She nods, grabs my mug, and moves to the coffee maker.
“I’ll have it dusted for prints at the station.”
“Okay.” She places my full mug on the counter, eyes glued to the box.
I finger the edge of the box top then pause, look up, and wait for her to meet my gaze. Three pulse-pounding seconds pass before our eyes connect.
“You don’t have to watch.”
Not sure I want her to see what’s inside. The contents may be strange, but innocent. Most admirers gift things they think the devotee would like. Or it may be the complete opposite. Something perverse or disturbing.
Based on the notes, my gut says it is far from innocent.
Staring down at the box, she nods. “I want to know what it is.”
I nod. “Okay.”
My fingers move back to the base of the lid and slip under the lip. Gingerly, I lift the top and purposely tip it at more of an angle to block the initial reveal from Kirsten. At first glance, the contents appear innocent. Tissue paper and another note. I set the lid aside and pick up the note.