Page 17 of Something Worth Keeping
“You look...” Cillian paused. “That’s inconvenient. I meant to compliment you on your looks, but I don’t have adequate vocabulary.”
“You look like you’re attending a funeral for someone you personally killed,” Julian said. “But in a good way.”
Cillian’s mouth curved. “Thank you.”
“Where are we going?”
“Marconi’s. It’s…”
“Fourteen blocks northeast. They specialize in Italian fusion. They source their pasta from a family operation in Emilia-Romagna, and their wine list has sixty-three varieties, twelve of which are from vineyards that technically don’t export to the United States.” Julian collected his jacket and keys. “That’s a good choice. I’ve wanted to try it, but the reservation wait list is approximately six weeks.”
“I called to make a booking yesterday.”
“And they gave you a table?”
“Eventually.”
Julian locked his door and started down the hallway. Cillian fell into step beside him, close enough that Julian could feel the temperature differential between Cillian’s unnaturally cool presence and theheated building air. “Did you threaten them to get a table?”
“No. I merely suggested that accommodating my request would be...preferable.”
“I think you’ll find that’s threatening.”
“I didn’t specify consequences.”
“Implying consequences is still threatening, Cillian.”
“Would you have preferred I wait six weeks?”
Julian thought about it. “No. I’m still suspended, and I’m not sure how much longer that will last. I’ve already organized my entire apartment twice. I need external stimulation before I start alphabetizing Gerald’s soil composition for him.”
They reached the street. Cillian’s hand hovered near Julian’s lower back - not touching, but close enoughthat Julian felt the phantom pressure of wanting. “Your succulent can’t read.”
“That’s not relevant to organizational satisfaction.”
A tendril of shadow curled around Julian’s wrist, cool and seeking contact. Julian didn’t pull away. He was getting used to the shadows who investigated him along with his space. They touched his books, his coffee mugs, even the pen he’d been chewing during research. It was as if they were cataloging everything about him.
“They missed you today,” Julian said.
Cillian’s eyes flickered. “Did they misbehave?”
“They rearranged my bookshelf by emotional resonance instead of subject matter. I found a quantum physics textbook next to a poetry collection about grief.”
“That’s...” Cillian’s shadows rippled with what Julian had learned to identify as embarrassment. “They’re expressing themselves.”
“I’m not complaining. It’s an interesting organizational system. Useless for research purposes, but interesting.”
They walked through the warehouse district where Julian had first encountered Cillian. The alley was empty now, with no trace left of Cillian’s victim or the violence Julian had witnessed. Someone had pressure-washed the pavement.
“You cleaned up,” Julian observed.
“The morning after our first meeting. I didn’t want you walking past evidence.”
“That’s thoughtful.”
“You advised me on where to stash the body, but you never said anything about residual trace evidence. Iworried that it would bother you if you saw evidence of that later.”
Julian stopped walking. Cillian stopped immediately beside him, shadows coiling in what Julian had learned to recognize as concern. “What’s wrong?”
