Page 152 of Lorenzo

None comes.

Gradually, her body softens against mine.

Her head settles beneath my chin. One hand rests against my chest, her fingers curled loosely against my skin.

We lie quietly for several minutes.

I listen to her breathing even out.

She is close to sleep when I ask, “Have you eaten?”

Her eyes remain closed.

“No.”

“When was the last time?”

“I had coffee earlier, remember?”

At the police station.

“That is not food.”

“Close enough.”

I look down at her. “Not nearly.”

She opens one eye. “I was busy. You remember the whole day of running around, right? The Rachel thing? Or has your brain leaked out of your ears?”

I lift a brow, not deterred by her attempt at a joke.

She sighs and closes her eyes again. “I forgot.”

Of course she did.

She remembers dates, addresses, faces, license plates, and details hidden inside badly kept records. She remembers to carry gloves, evidence bags, lock picks, and something bearing Rachel’s scent for Mocha.

Feeding herself apparently is too much to remember.

“I’ll go downstairs, bring up the wine, and have something delivered.”

That gets both eyes open.

“At this hour?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing delivers this late.”

“I know a place.”

She studies my face, suspicious even while naked and half asleep against me.

“What kind of place?”

“Italian.”

“Of course.”