Dark Matter

He put the spoon down. He asked, “Is there someone else?”

She shook her head. She smiled and looked over at her son. “I’m not alone,” she said. “And I have time.”

Seven watched her, thinking about the accusations Erika still slung in Beth’s direction and how wrong she was. Beth wasn’t that woman anymore. She was over the whole I need you, Seven, please love me, Seven.

The weird part? He wasn’t sure he was. Beth had been only too right when she’d said he’d gently let her know he could never go there—Nick was screwed up enough. How would he handle his uncle moving in if he and Beth became involved?

But it had been nice, someone needing him. Loving him.

His cell phone sounded.

“That’s the third time tonight,” Beth said. “Someone’s avoiding his calls.” She cocked an eyebrow. “I’m guessing it’s a woman.”

“It’s just work,” he said.

She shook her head. “It’s a woman. If it were work, you wouldn’t hesitate to answer, Mr. Cop.”

“Wow,” he said, finishing the ice cream. “I’m impressed.”

Thankfully, Nick came bouncing over just then. Beth immediately took her son’s hand and headed for the door.

Seven could only sigh in relief as he followed them out.

Half an hour later, he sat reclined in the Barcalounger he’d inherited from his dad, his cell phone unopened in his hand. His mother had remodeled recently and dissed his dad’s favorite chair. His father had begged him to save the closest thing to a family heirloom that he possessed. Seven had taken the chair gladly.

Seven was still mulling over Beth’s message: Don’t give up.

Immediately, an image of Gia came to mind. He’d always had this thing about Jennifer Connelly, so maybe he saw a resemblance that wasn’t really there. Still, at the moment, he wasn’t thinking about the actress. He was thinking about the Brothers Grimm.

Skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, hair as black as ebony.

And then there were her eyes, a deep fathomless blue.

Beth wanted him to be happy, to marry and have children of his own. But what if the woman he wanted was off-limits?

Just then, the phone in the kitchen sounded off like an alarm. Time’s up!

“Shit.”

He rocked forward in the Barcalounger and stood. This time he didn’t hesitate, heading for the kitchen. Beth was right; he’d avoided Gia’s calls long enough.

Without glancing at the caller ID, he picked up. “Bushard.”

“You’re not answering your cell now?” Erika asked in an irritated voice. “I’ve left you five messages. Jesus, Seven. It’s not like we have a dead body or anything.”

A little of that tension eased from around his chest.

“Sorry,” he said. “I must have turned it off by accident.”

He heard a grunt of disbelief on the other end. “Right. Because that’s so easy to do. Listen, do you have dinner plans tomorrow?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Good. House of Brews after work. Your treat.”

She hung up.

He stared at the handset. “Sure, Erika. No problem. And by the way, isn’t it always my treat?”

Not that he cared. The last year, Erika had been his touchstone—the one person who could slap him across the face and tell him to snap out of it…even as she covered for him at work.

He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and headed back into the front room. He might not have ESP, but he knew what his partner wanted: a nice little chat about the FBI and a certain psychic.

Well, he had a couple of questions of his own. Like why in hell his partner hadn’t given him the heads-up about Special Agent Carin Barnes.

He dropped back into the Barcalounger. It still smelled like cigars, his father’s hidden vice. Seven didn’t smoke, but he was far from free of vice.

Gia.

It had been ten months, five days and nineteen hours since he’d last seen her.

For a moment, he let his mind drift to all those months ago. Without Gia, they never would have broken open the fortune-teller murders. The fly in the ointment: her help came with a price. Seven had shot the murdering whack job Gia had been hiding from the last twelve years, fearing for her life and the life of her child.

Seven took a long sip from the beer. No matter how many times he told himself he didn’t believe in her “psychic” abilities, there’d been something truly bizarre about how the whole thing had gone down. Like she’d known exactly what was going to happen. That it would be Seven who’d pull the trigger and save the day. The thing was, she hadn’t bothered to share any of it, letting him walk in blind.

Of course, she wouldn’t see it that way. There was probably some secret code for psychics: Don’t let the minions in on the details. Just pull the strings and let the puppet show go on.

Unfortunately, she’d been sleeping with this particular puppet. Apparently, she could trust him for sex but that was about it. When he’d nailed her with the truth—that she’d used him—she hadn’t even bothered to deny it. She’d just let him walk away.

With a sigh, he took out his cell phone. He checked to see that indeed, he had several messages from his partner.

And one from Gia.

Somehow, he didn’t think she was calling about unrequited love.

There was this anecdote about Enrique Fermi, a physicist for the Manhattan Project, the first guy to create a nuclear chain reaction in the 1930s. The story went that Fermi would be meeting a great general. Being the scientific type, Fermi asked what made the man great. The reply came that, if the guy won five consecutive battles he was one fine general.

Only, Fermi quickly figured out that statistically a significant number of all generals win five battles consecutively just by pure chance. Using math, Fermi flushed down the toilet the man’s definition of greatness.

So here Seven was thinking, throw in a little statistics and just about anything, even a call from Gia, could be coincidence.

It was a good argument, Fermi’s. But Seven didn’t buy it. Not this time.

A fourteen-year-old girl lay dead in the wetlands. She’d been bound and most likely drugged. And she wasn’t alone. Two other vics had been found just the same way.

And here they were again. Erika and him, Special Agent Barnes and Gia, playing the serial-killer merry-go-round.

Her number highlighted on the LCD screen, he punched Send.