“Rahul Agrawal,” Savita Gupta said. “Is this any way to speak to your dear aunties?”
“No, Mamiji, oh, no,” Mr. Agrawal stuttered. He leaned to the side to peer behind her as if expecting more elderly relatives to pop out. “I was just surprised by the, uh,
delight
of your unexpected arrival.”
“Humph,” Pratima Gupta snorted. “We need a room, several rooms, actually, for ourselves and our friends.”
“But Mamiji,” the poor man protested. “There are no empty rooms in my motel. The snowstorm has made many travelers stop tonight. We are full.”
“Maybe we should check a different motel,” Zoey began but then jumped when Savita Gupta let out a loud wail.
“Do you hear this, Pratima? Do you hear this? Our nephew will throw his elderly aunts into the cold and dark, with a snowstorm raging outside.”
“Oh, if only his mother were still alive,” Pratima Gupta replied. “What a sweet, hospitable woman she was. She would cry with shame were she to hear how her only son will throw—”
“All right, all right!” Mr. Agrawal held out both hands in surrender. “Perhaps I can find an empty room.”
“And for our friends?” Pratima Gupta demanded.
“I don’t know if—”
“His poor mother!” Savita Gupta cried.
“Yes!” Mr. Agrawal shouted. “Yes, a room for your friends!”
“How kind.” Pratima Gupta smiled benevolently at him. “And how is your lovely wife? Is that her cooking I smell?”
Dante cleared his throat. “I’m sure we can get a pizza or—”
“Oh, no!” Savita Gupta looked scandalized. “My niece will be most happy to serve us dinner.”
Mr. Agrawal didn’t seem nearly as certain as his aunt, but he led them all behind the counter and into the back rooms. This was obviously where his family lived. There was a large main room, serving as both living room and dining room. A kitchen was at one side, the TV perched on a counter dividing the two rooms. Two open doors led off the main room into bedrooms. There were three small children sitting on the floor in front of the TV, apparently enthralled by what looked like a very violent science-fiction show. A slender woman in a bright blue sari stood in the kitchen, and she turned as Mr. Agrawal led them in.
“My aunties have come to visit,” Mr. Agrawal said rather helplessly. He looked at the shorter Mrs. Gupta. “Mamiji, you remember my wife, yes? And this is . . .” He gestured to Dante and trailed off uncertainly.
“Dante Torelli, ma’am. How do you do?” Dante said. “And Zoey.”
Zoey couldn’t help but notice that he gave her no description, not even “my friend, Zoey.”
“Hello.” Mrs. Agrawal nodded and smiled.
“My wife speaks only a little English, but she understands it very well,” Mr. Agrawal said. He stared at the baby in his aunt’s arms as if noticing him for the first time. “What—?”
Mrs. Savita Gupta ignored her nephew and moved past him to sit at a wood dining room table.
Mr. Agrawal blinked, clearly confused. He shrugged and seemed to give up the idea of introductions altogether.
“Please sit, Mamiji.” He pulled out one of the wood dining table chairs for Pratima Gupta. “I’m sure there is something about that my wife can serve you.”
But that lady was already moving swiftly, apparently unfazed by the sudden appearance of four extra guests for dinner. She called to the eldest child, and the girl rose obediently to run into the kitchen. Her mother gave her a stack of plates, and the little girl solemnly took them to the table. Zoey smiled and helped her to set the plates around the table as Mrs. Agrawal brought several steaming platters into the dining room.
“Please, eat.” Mr. Agrawal gestured and smiled at her, and Zoey couldn’t help but think how nice the poor man was even if she’d appeared out of nowhere to eat his food.
Her nose caught the appetizing scents rising from the platters and her stomach took over. After a day and a night and another day of eating nothing but junk food, this was nirvana. One platter held a kind of savory lentil stew, another was filled with hot chickpea dumplings, and a third held steaming flatbread. Zoey took some of each, careful not to overfill her plate so that there would be enough to go around. One of the Agrawal children kneeled in the chair next to her and grinned when she helped him choose a piece of bread.
The meal was nice. It was more than nice, it was a welcome break from constant fear and confusion. If only Pete were here, it would be perfect.
And on that thought, the wonderful bread in Zoey’s mouth turned to ashes. Where was Pete now? Halfway back to Chicago? She closed her eyes and remembered long-lashed brown eyes and the rings of baby fat around Pete’s little wrists. So small, so fragile. Zoey would never forgive herself if something happened to the baby.
On her other side Dante leaned toward her, placing his hand over hers on the table. His bitter-chocolate eyes were intense and solemn. “We’re going to find her, I promise.”
Friday, 8:35 p.m.
N
aturally the motel room had only one bed.
Dante shouldered open the door and walked inside. Zoey followed behind him, holding a pile of towels, mini soap, and shampoo. Mr. Agrawal had told them this room was closed for repairs—something about the ceiling. Sure enough, a two-foot hole in a corner of the ceiling exposed dangling wires. At this point, as long as it had heat and a shower, Dante could care less. Although two beds would’ve been nice.
He sighed and plopped the plastic grocery bags from the car on the fake wood bureau. All motel rooms had the same long, low bureau, usually with a TV perched on one end, and no one ever used the drawers. Why a bureau? Why not a table?
Dante shook his head, knowing he was delaying the inevitable argument. He locked the outer door and shot a glance at Zoey. She looked really tired. Beat, as if she’d lost all of her usual forthright energy. All of her optimism. And she had, hadn’t she? They didn’t have the baby; he hadn’t found her niece for her. He’d failed her.
Dante watched as she dragged off her goofy hat and threw it on the one armchair by the bed. Underneath, her red-blond hair was in the messy braids she’d made this morning in the car. Long strands of hair had come undone from the braids and hung to her shoulders.
He sighed and took off his suit jacket. “I’ll take the chair.”
She looked up. “What?”
“The chair.” He gestured with one hand as he loosened his tie with the other. “I can sleep there.”
He’d thought she’d be grateful, or at the very least understanding.
She snorted.
He frowned. “What?”
“It’s a king-sized bed. I think I can get through one night without leaping to the other side and attacking you.”
He felt himself flush. “That’s not—”
But she waved a dismissive hand at him. “I call dibs on the shower.”
And she disappeared into the bathroom.
Dante stared at the closed bathroom door. Huh. Damned if he’d ever understand women, especially
this
woman. He didn’t know whether to be grateful that he wasn’t going to have to spend another night upright, or insulted that she apparently had no qualms about sharing a bed with him.
He pulled off his tie, folded it neatly, and laid it on one end of the dresser. Then he hung her idiot reindeer hat on the back of the chair and sat to unlace his shoes. God, he’d give half his pension to have a clean set of clothes right now. He was in the act of shrugging out of his holster when he heard the shower go on in the bathroom.
He paused and listened. The water made that muted roaring sound motel showers did, a product of too-thin walls and cheap showerheads. He almost thought he heard her voice. He held his breath, looking toward the bathroom, straining to hear with every pore in his body. Was she singing? Her voice came again, and he felt his mouth curve into a grin, his face almost aching with the unaccustomed use of muscles. It’d been a while since he smiled so widely. But her voice . . . he couldn’t help himself. He could barely pick up the sound, but her voice was low and scratchy and not a little off-key. He let his hands fall to the chair’s arms, laid his head against the tall back, and closed his eyes, just listening to Zoey sing in the shower.
She sang in short bursts, interrupted by mutters, pauses, and gasps, and he felt his smile drain away as he imagined what those gasps meant. Her face under the shower spray, the spray making her gasp, the water trickling down past her arched neck, down over her strong shoulders, to run in little streams over her breasts. White, full breasts that would feel heavy in his hands.
Oh, shit.
Having imagined that far, it was impossible not to see the rest. Zoey standing naked under the shower, slowly rubbing soap over belly and thighs and rounded hips. Her fingers stroking lower, tangling in red-gold curls, disappearing into . . .
The shower stopped and Dante’s eyes popped open. He could hear her draw back the shower curtain and then a sigh. God, he had to get off this. But his mind’s eye helplessly filled in details. Zoey taking one of those awful thin motel towels off the rack, rubbing it over her arms and legs and belly, stepping from the tub, her bare toes curling into the wisp-thin bath mat. There was something wrong with that. Did other guys fantasize about a woman’s bare feet? Unless they had some kind of foot fetish?
Dante shook his head. He was tired. Bone-tired, and it was affecting his thoughts. And the kiss they’d shared only this morning had been truly spectacular.
The bathroom door opened. Zoey walked out wearing dark pink sweatpants and an orange sweatshirt with a cartoon little girl on it. She had a towel wrapped around her head and a bundle of clothes in her arms.
“All yours.”
“Uh, right.” He grabbed his suit coat and folded it over his arm as he stood, because otherwise the bulge in his trousers was going to make her think he was a pervert.
“When I shopped, I got you a change of clothes,” she said cheerfully.
“Really?” He grinned. “Thanks.”
She set her bundle of clothes on the bureau and rummaged around in one of the plastic bags. “Here they are.”
She tossed a pair of gray sweatpants at him and then a navy sweatshirt. Dante caught both and held up the sweatshirt. It had I LOVE NY emblazoned across the front with a heart for the love.
“Funny,” he muttered.
“Think so?” Zoey took out a plastic-wrapped package. “And I got you these, too.”
She tossed the package at him.
He still had his hands full of the sweatshirt. The plastic package bounced off his chest and fell at his feet. It was a packet of men’s white briefs. High-waisted. With a red and blue striped waistband. Like Fruit of the Loom, only knockoffs. He hadn’t worn briefs like these since he was fourteen. Maybe thirteen. He looked at her.
She widened her eyes. “What?”
“Tighty-whities?”
“They were cheap.”
“Huh.” He bent and picked up the package, straightening in time to catch a smirk on her face. “You got these on purpose.”
She hastily smoothed out her expression. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, right.” He stalked to the bathroom and shut the door.
The counter was tiny, and he had to pile the clean clothes on the toilet tank. Then he turned on the shower and stripped. He unwound the bandage from his leg and looked at the bruise underneath. The abrasions were beginning to scab over, and for a moment he considered taping a plastic bag over the wounds. But it seemed like too much trouble, and he was tired. He stepped into the tub.
The shower head was one of those cheap little gizmos that produced either a trickle or a stinging spray. This one was of the stinging spray variety, but Dante didn’t care. The water was hot, thank you, God, and he just stood under it for a moment and let it beat against the back of his head. The background ache in the bruised leg receded a little as the hot water ran over his thigh and loosened the muscle. He sighed in relief. Then he reached for the tiny bottle of motel shampoo. There was less than a quarter of the bottle left, but it was enough. He scrubbed his scalp and then washed his face, the stubble of his beard scraping his palms. He’d have to ask Mr. Agrawal if he had any disposable razors behind the desk.
Another five minutes and he stepped out of the shower, feeling the pull on his injured leg. With the water turned off he could hear the TV from the outer room. He dried off with the too-small remaining towel and rubbed a clear patch in the fog on the mirror. He looked like shit, but shit that felt a whole lot better. There were bags under his eyes, and his hair stood in spiky tufts. He ran his hands through his hair to comb it and glanced at the counter. Zoey had left a tube of toothpaste with a wet toothbrush poking out of one of the plastic motel cups. A brand-new wrapped toothbrush was sitting next to the toothpaste, and Dante felt a wash of gratitude. She might’ve bought him idiot shorts, but she’d thought about toothbrushes.
Dante brushed his teeth, pulled on the sweatpants and sweatshirt, and took a breath before snapping off the light and leaving the bathroom. He double-checked that the outer door was locked as he passed it. Then he looked in the main room.
The bedspread was piled in a messy lump beside the chair. She was sitting up on one side of the bed with the covers over her knees, the TV clicker in one hand. Her long wet hair trailed onto her sweatshirt, partially obscuring the cartoon on the front. She was staring at the TV, her brows slightly pulled together.
She didn’t look up as he entered. “Did you know that male penguins have to stand with an egg on their feet for a month in the dark?”
He looked at the TV. A bunch of stoic guy penguins were standing around in near-darkness, huddled against the Antarctic wind, speckled eggs perched on their feet. “Sucks to be a male penguin.”
“Hmm.” She clicked the TV off. “Is this okay?”
He shook out his trousers and held them upside down to find the leg creases. “What?”
“This side of the bed.” She frowned at him. “What are you doing?”
“Folding my pants.”
She watched as he folded the trousers along the crease and laid them on top of his tie on the bureau.
“Oh, my God.”