Page 12 of Dead to Me
“Dinner’s about to start.”
“I was just getting a drink,” I said.
Malcolm stepped away from the bar. China grabbed his arm. Years ago, seeing that would've broken me but now it didn’t. Some things fade when you stop feeding them. I had moved on. Then I saw him.
First, I noticed the gray hair. Then the broad shoulders. He stood with his back to the wall, talking to a man near the entrance. Detective Warren Cole, or former detective, according to what I found online. He retired eleven months ago, started a private security consulting business, and got divorced. He lived alone, still drank bourbon, still went to the same country club, still drove a black Lexus, and still liked younger women. I knew more about Warren than he would ever know about me.
He turned and our eyes met. His expression changed right away. It felt strangely satisfying to watch him recognize the ghost he helped create. Warren excused himself from the conversation and walked toward me. I didn’t move.
“Milan Hart.”
His voice sounded the same. I hated that I still remembered it. That voice was in every interview room, every hearing, every news clip.
We are confident we arrested the right person.
I smiled.
“Detective.”
“Not anymore.”
He stopped in front of me. Up close, he looked older. At least time had changed one of us.
“You’re a free woman now?”
I tilted my head.
“That usually happens when a sentence ends.”
He didn’t smile.
“Early release for good behavior.”
His eyes moved over my face.
“You look well.”
“So do you.”
“I didn’t expect you here.”
“You’re the second man who’s told me that tonight.”
He glanced at Malcolm for a moment, then looked at me again.
“China invited you?”
“She is my sister.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
He still liked to be in control, always asking questions like people owed him explanations.
“Yes, Warren. China invited me.”
His lips pressed together when I called him by his first name.
“Can we talk privately?”
