The Profiler. Lori A. May

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ again, I’ve never been all that skilled at being good.

      “Me llamo Denise. Tome asiento.”

      I keep my presence unknown, outside the reception window of the shelter, and listen to Denise welcome a new intake on this Friday morning. With only a few hours of sleep to my credit, curiosity couldn’t keep me away before heading into work for my next twelve-hour shift.

      The young Hispanic man takes a seat, as instructed, and allows the social worker to touch his shoulder. Despite my attitude toward her, I have to give Denise credit where it’s due. She’s mild mannered and truly attentive, giving strays and misfits comfort they can’t find on the streets. But just because I respect her doesn’t mean I have to accept her as a friend.

      Even though I’ve never really welcomed her into my life, I suppose I can understand why my father was so enamored of her. She’s a smart dresser and always smells like vanilla. Not like the simulated scents you can find at the perfume counters. More like Grandma’s kitchen vanilla.

      More important, at least to my father, would be Denise’s ability to find the good in almost anyone. Her motherly approach to dealing with strangers in need of help must have melted my father’s heart. I wasn’t so quick to embrace her, though.

      The newcomer catches my eye from inside the window, and Denise’s gaze naturally follows his. I’ve been made.

      The door swings open as I push through, and Denise offers a meek smile as she approaches.

      “Pase. Come in.” Her slender hand flows in the direction of an empty chair across from the man. I nod at him as I take a seat, and he asks Denise if I understand his language.

      A broad, almost proud smile crosses her lips as she says, “Sí, y también habla francés y portugués,” letting him know I also speak French and Portuguese. To name a few.

      I study his scarred face and he lowers his head. I don’t know this man’s misery, but he wears it full frontal.

      I wait until his eyes again meet mine and say, “Hola.” It seems to lessen his shyness.

      When I shake his hand, which he offers reluctantly, his skin is rough with calluses, and I feel for whatever unfortunate circumstance has brought him to this place.

      Denise suggests Miguel follow a shelter volunteer to the kitchen and get something to eat, and when he does, we are left alone in the pastel-painted room.

      “It’s nice to see you,” she says, retrieving a bottle of juice from the vending machine. “I half expected you would drop by, but I didn’t want to get my hopes up.”

      I remember the thief I sent her yesterday and am glad he took my advice. “Is he still here?”

      She nods her head but doesn’t elaborate. Maybe she thinks she needs to protect him from the law. It doesn’t matter. That’s not why I came.

      Now that I think of it, I’m not sure exactly why I bothered to stop in. I’d been carrying the shelter’s business card in my pocket since arriving back in NYC, but I can’t honestly say I planned on visiting Denise. Not this soon, anyway.

      At least I have to work later. I can use that as an excuse to leave anytime I want. But Denise senses my unease, and when she speaks it’s as though she’s encouraging one of her clients to open up hidden wounds. Her voice is coated with sweetness, but the concern is evident.

      “I see you have your badge now. Your father would be so pleased, Angela.” Her smiling eyes measure me for a response as she continues. “It’s hard to believe July is so far behind us now, isn’t it? That’s enough time to start healing. Or fester in pain. Which has it been?”

      I don’t want to be treated like a street kid. Actually, I’m not sure what I want. There’s too much connection between the two of us to talk as strangers, yet this woman hardly knows me. And vice versa.

      My momentary lapse of nostalgia has faded. “Look, Denise. I just came here to… Well, I don’t know exactly why I came. I guess I wanted to see you were doing okay. And you are, so—”

      As I get up to leave, Denise rushes to my side and gently wraps a hand around my arm. My nose takes in a waft of her feminine fragrance as she softly begs, “Please don’t.”

      Sadness fills her brown-sugar eyes, and though I can relate, I don’t want to share my pain with her. Not yet. I need to allow my feelings to settle on their own, before I can open up to a woman I never really took to in the first place.

      I don’t sit, but I let my shoulders release some tension and I look her in the eyes. “I can’t. I’m not ready for this.”

      Her hands slip to her stomach, and she presses her palms to the tiny belly hidden under her sheath dress, emphasizing her emotions. “I miss him, too, Angie. But you have to let it go. You have to let him go.”

      She steps back, out of my immediate space, and looks me up and down as a mother would. Only she’s not my mother.

      “It was his job. His life,” she begins. “And he was shot during a terrible, terrible accident. It shouldn’t have happened. He didn’t deserve it. No one does. But you have to let him go, Angie. You saw the reports yourself. He died while out there doing what he loved best—fighting for justice. You have to accept it and get on with your life. It’s what he would have wanted for you.”

      They all make it sound so easy. Just accept his death and move on. I’m trying. Really, I am. There is nothing worse, however, than growing up to be just like my father only to have him miss out on everything he wanted to see me do.

      I face Denise and release the cold words. “I have to go.”

      “Wait!” she says desperately, grabbing hold of my hand. I pause, my patience running low, and stare blankly at her with little curiosity as to why she is dragging out my stay.

      “Please, Angel,” she begs, and I cringe when I hear the pet name. No one except my father called me Angel, and hearing it now, from Denise, is like being sucker-punched without warning.

      “I know you haven’t always accepted me as part of your father’s life. I don’t blame you. The two of you were inseparable, like twins who have their own language. Believe me, it was hard on me, too. The two of you had something most people could never understand, and I respected that. It’s what made you both so special.”

      It’s true. Growing up as I did in a single-parent home, the relationship I had with my father was unique and indescribable, the passions of both of us revolving around solving crimes and understanding the motives of those who commit them.

      “But you cannot remain chained to the past. I know you feel regret and sorrow for having to go back to your work, just as you need to feel guilty for leaving the city after Joshua’s death. You mustn’t, Angela. You must look toward your future now. It’s what your father would have wanted you to do. You must let your heart begin to heal.”

      She means well, I know. Every word she utters about my father, though, reminds me of all that I have lost. And I don’t need any more reminders. There are enough at home, on every street, with every breath I take.

      “Goodbye, Denise.” Her eyes moisten as I turn away, but I can’t stay here.

      They СКАЧАТЬ