Page 24

“Actually, yeah, I am,” she said, opening her eyes to look at him. “The same chicken noodle soup I turned down last night?”

“The very same. I’ll be right back.” Giving her a quick kiss on the lips, he headed into the kitchen and ladled a couple of spoonfuls of the soup he’d made while she slept into a bowl.

The bowl went on a tray he’d found in a cupboard in Florence’s kitchen, he added a couple of slices of bread, a glass of water, a couple of painkillers for after she’d gotten some food in her stomach, and flowers in a vase.

Carrying the tray into Florence’s room, her eyes grew wide when she saw it. “You didn't have to go to that much trouble.”

“It was no trouble,” he said, setting the tray on her lap.

“The soup would have been enough, but this looks like homemade bread, and the flowers are beautiful.” Tears welled in her eyes, drops balancing on her thick lashes. “Sorry,” she said, brushing them away, her gaze falling to the covers. “Must be the concussion making me emotional.”

“Hey.” He hooked a finger under her chin and forced her to look up at him.

“I don’t care if you're emotional. I want you to be emotional, this is a safe place, I care about you.” He touched the pad of his thumb to her cheek and caught a lone teardrop that had escaped.

“I'm here for you, I'm not going anywhere, you can tell me anything, you can let your guard down around me. It’s going to be okay, Florence.”

“Okay,” she whispered, giving him a shaky smile. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me for being here.

This is where I want to be. Here, with you.

” To emphasize his point, he lowered his mouth and gently claimed hers.

The kiss was soft, sweet, tender, and he felt its ramifications deep down into his bones.

“I want to be with you, sweetheart,” he murmured against her lips.

“You’re almost too good to be true,” she murmured back.

“No such thing, princess. And just so you know I didn't make the bread for you, didn't have time, had my driver go and pick up some I had at my hotel, can't eat store bought bread anymore,” he teased to lighten the mood.

Florence laughed like he had hoped she would.

“Here, eat up.” Eli straightened and picked up the spoon, if he didn't put a little distance between them he would do a whole lot more than just kiss her, and Florence was in no shape for that today.

“I can feed myself,” Florence said, reaching for the spoon.

“I want to do it. Besides your hand is shaking, you’ll probably spill soup all over these pretty lavender sheets.”

She looked down, surprised that her hand was trembling, then looked up at him. Her sky blue eyes seemed to stare right through him, down into his soul, seeking an answer to a question she didn't want to ask aloud. Apparently, she received the answer she sought because she gave a nod.

Treasuring that second step of trust she’d just taken, Eli smiled as he dipped the spoon into the soup and raised it to her mouth. Florence parted her lips and took the soup, her eyes widening as it hit her tongue.

“That is amazing,” she gushed. “Did you make that yourself?”

“Yep, the recipe was passed down from my great-grandmother to my grandmother to my mother and then to me. I think my mom always wished she had a girl to cook and bake with her in the kitchen because neither my brother nor I were very interested in cooking.”

“When did that change?” she asked after she took another mouthful of soup.

“When she got sick the first time. She was always weak from the chemo, she couldn’t get up and cook, and she was nauseous all the time, this soup was the only thing she could eat for months.

When she got really sick she would sit in bed, just like you are now, and I would feed it to her.

” He smiled at the memory, those were about the last moments he’d shared with his mother before she got too sick and was transferred to palliative care.

“That’s how you learned to feed someone so well, you haven't spilled a drop.”

“That, and feeding my nephew.”

“You have a nephew?”

“He’s ten, was born just a month before my brother died.

After his death his wife struggled a lot, in the end, she couldn’t cope with losing her husband, and she took her life two years to the day after his death.

My mom was the one who looked after Joey, but then she got sick, and I was balancing school and looking after her and my nephew. ”

“You really love your family.” The look on Florence’s face was wistful, and he knew she wished she’d had a family who loved her.

“I did. I do,” he corrected, they weren't all gone.

“Where is your nephew now?”

“After my mom and then my dad died, I assumed that I would keep Joey, he’d lived in that house, with me and my parents his whole life, but his other grandparents filed for custody.

I fought them, used the fact that they were poor against them, and argued that I could give him a better life and that I could give him anything he wanted.

” Eli burned with shame as he recalled how dirty he had made that case, determined to win at any cost because he didn't want to lose another person that he loved.

“You realized that he needed more than money though, that he needed someone who could be there for him day and night,” Florence said gently, reaching out a hand to cover his.

“How did you know that?” he asked, surprised that she had accurately figured out what had happened.

“Because I know you,” she said with a smile. “You have a good heart, anyone who would feed his dying mother homemade soup, and look after his nephew like he was his own son would do what was best for the child and not himself.”

“Joey was lonely, he didn't say anything, didn't complain, but I know he would get upset when I'd miss school plays and baseball games. His grandparents could give him what I couldn’t, and I dropped the case. I still see him as often as I can, and I pay support every month so that they can give him everything he needs.”

“You spoil him rotten, don’t you?”

“He’s the only family I have left. Had,” he corrected, because this woman sitting before him was exactly what he needed to move forward, have a family of his own. “You should get some more sleep.”

“I am tired,” Florence admitted, fighting back a yawn.

“I’ll be right back.” Eli picked up the tray, returned it to the kitchen, tidied up, and then went back to Florence’s bedroom. He found her sitting up in bed right where he’d left her.

“I don’t think I even have the energy to lie down,” she said when she saw him.

“I can help with that.” He kicked off his shoes, then threw back the covers and slid into the bed beside her.

“What are you doing?”

“Staying here with you so you’re not alone.

” Curling an arm around Florence’s shoulders, he helped her shuffle down and then lay down, he tucked a pillow under her head, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and settled her against his chest. “Sleep, princess.

I'm not going anywhere, I'm staying right here with you, close your eyes and sleep.

I got you, baby, you're not alone anymore.”

Neither was he.

After a decade of loss, losing his brother, watching his mother waste away as she battled cancer, losing her and then his dad, and then giving up his nephew, he was tired of being alone and tired of losing the people he loved.

Florence filled that void, made him feel hope again like the future wasn't one endless abyss of loneliness.

“I'm right here,” he said again, more to reassure himself this time, then he kissed her forehead and closed his eyes, comforted by the warm, soft body, pressed up against his.

7:46 P.M.

There would be no mistakes this time.

None.

Mess ups were for failures. How many times had he been called a failure in his life?

Hundreds?

Thousands?

He wasn't sure, but more than he cared to think about.

As a child, it had been the often repeated mantra in his house. Why hadn't he gotten straight A’s on his report cards? Why didn't he make the basketball team? The baseball team? The football team? Why wasn't he smart enough? Why wasn't he sporty enough? Why wasn't he good enough?

There were, of course, no answers to those questions.

He didn't excel at anything because he wasn't good enough.

Not good enough.

Never good enough.

At least not until now.

Now, he was a killer who had stalked the city for eighteen months, kept the cops at bay, left no trail for them to follow, and had sixteen bodies to prove it. He had used his weaknesses to his advantage, played on the fact that no one ever noticed him, and he had triumphed for once in his life.

The only way to prove to everyone in his life who hadn't noticed him, hadn't cared about him, hadn't believed in him wrong, was to keep killing.

Knocking on the door, he waited for it to be answered.

He didn't have to wait long.

The door was thrown open, and a pretty lady with long blonde waves cascading down her back dressed in a business suit and bare feet stood there. He knew she’d just arrived home because he’d watched from right beside the front door to the building as she walked inside.

Of course she hadn't seen him, perhaps if she had her fate would have been different, but like always, he was the shadow that no one noticed.

“Hello, may I help you?” she asked.

“Evening, ma’am, just letting you know the electricity will be going off at eight, there was a problem in the neighboring building that requires us to shut things down for at least an hour.”

“Oh, really?” She looked annoyed. “I was going to video call with my boyfriend who’s traveling overseas for work.”

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” he said, not sorry in the least. “Please sign here to indicate that you’ve been notified.” He held out the clipboard.