Page 16 of Over Her Dead Body

It does absolutely nothing, so I take another.

I should probably eat something. I have had coffee, airplane wine, and whatever nutritional value can be assigned to toothpaste since waking up.

I do not ask for a menu.

“When did you learn Portuguese?”

“A while ago.”

“You live here?”

“I do, yes.”

The answer lands harder than it should. The apartment, the bartender, the way he moved through the airport all said the same thing.

Still.

He lives here.

He has a language here. A bar. A tab.

I have a cemetery plot.

“How long?”

He takes a drink.

“Ten years?”

His eyes stay on the glass.

“Emma—”

“Don’t use my name like it belongs in your mouth. You learned it five minutes ago, remember?”

I reach for my glass and discover there is less in it than I remember drinking.

“Tell me about your husband,” he says.

“No.”

“You followed me across an ocean because you think I’m him.”

“I don’t think anything.”

“What was he like?”

“You know what he was like.”

“Humor me.”

“I have been doing that since Austin.”

The corner of his mouth moves.

There.

Reid used to smile when he was angry. Not because anything was funny. Because it made the other person look unreasonable for failing to enjoy the conversation.