Honey in the Marrow E-Book

Emily Waters

• Herausgeber: Ylva Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 397

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

An enemies-to-friends-to-lovers lesbian romance about finding heart, hope, and second chances you never thought you'd have. Stella Carter is a former criminal prosecutor and new widow facing down middle age alone in Los Angeles. Without being a prestigious lawyer and someone's wife, she's not sure who she is anymore or where her life is headed. When she invites her niece to move in with her, Stella accidentally reconnects with her former colleague, LAPD Captain Elizabeth Murphy. The woman is beautiful but cold; someone she was always at odds with on the job. Surprisingly, Stella finds herself leaning on her niece and Elizabeth more and more to navigate her loss. But as time goes on, Stella can't keep seeing Elizabeth and pretending she's not attracted to her. Besides, there's absolutely no way Elizabeth feels the same way. Is there?

Leseprobe

Table Of Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

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honey in the marrow,

buzzing at the bone

if the grief cannot consume you, dig the stinger out

this grief is not your home

Acknowledgments

Thank you to Astrid, Lee Winter, and the Ylva team for coming to my little corner of the internet and scooping me up. This has been a very exciting journey. Thank you to Alissa McGowan and the other editors who helped whip this story into shape. Thank you to my partner Jacob for supporting me by giving me the time, space, encouragement, and furniture I needed to work on this book. And thank you, especially, to Charity and Zowie, who both said, rather emphatically, “DO IT!” when I told them about publishing this book. I did it.

Chapter 1

Stella Carter wakes up and reaches for her phone. For the first time in weeks, it feels like something is going to happen today that actually matters. The sunlight slants across her bed, and she rolls over, sweaty and uncomfortable. She has trouble sleeping at night, and when she does finally fall asleep, she sleeps half the day away, rising only when hunger insists.

It’s almost noon. She has one missed text from Addie.

See you in a few hours!

Maybe fifty-one is a little long in the tooth to be taking on a roommate, but when her niece called three months after Ron’s funeral, saying she wanted to move to California and asking if she might stay with Stella for a while, it made sense to invite her to move into the spare bedroom. Stella’s husband is dead and buried, so she’s always alone in the house.

Maybe that’s what Addie was angling for all along. Stella offered to fly out to Nashville and make the drive with her, but that was met with protest. Stella didn’t force the issue because she didn’t really want to do it, and besides, Addie is twenty-three and perfectly able to make a trip like that alone.

Now that her niece’s arrival is imminent, Stella looks around her little bungalow with new eyes and mounting dismay. She’s been here a month and a half, but it looks like she moved in yesterday. Not wanting anything to do with the duplex she lived in with Ron, after he died, she used the money from his life insurance to buy a two-bedroom house in her old neighborhood, thinking maybe she could start her life over again, as if she just moved to LA.

As if she could undo the last eight years.

The past few months have been unsettling. One day, she’s a high-powered prosecutor, a special assistant deputy district attorney for Los Angeles County, married to a deputy chief of the LAPD, and the next, she’s a widow on indefinite leave, haunting the five rooms of her new house.

She had meant to get things more ready for Addie, but the days had slipped away from her, each day bleeding out and quickly away while she did nothing. She took a month of bereavement leave from the district attorney’s office and then decided on a whim not to go back. Part of her restart on life. She wants to be the old Stella Carter, a different Stella Carter. The one she was before she got married, before she threw away a thriving law career and left Nashville for sun-soaked Southern California, desperate for distance from her family.

It was the boldest and most daring thing she ever did. But when she arrived in LA, she was paired with a team of homicide detectives who showed her the worst parts of the city: the rapes, the murders, the seedy underbelly of the entertainment industry—people with money who thought themselves untouchable.

What she really is searching for is life before that damn woman, Captain Murphy.

She closes her eyes, shakes her head. She’s not going to think about any of that anymore.

Every room in this 1930s house is small, and though she got rid of most of her stuff when she moved, it still feels cluttered. Addie’s room is the smaller bedroom, and while the coffee brews, Stella looks around at the stacked boxes and trash bags. She should unpack, clear the room, but the task seems insurmountable, like she couldn’t possibly do it alone.

Nothing seems to work like it used to.

Addie arrives in the early afternoon, looking fresh and happy despite four days of driving cross-country. Her dyed blonde hair is growing out to its original light brown color, and she wears it just above her shoulders. Stella shows her around and listens to her happy chatter. Addie’s sedan is packed to the brim, but it takes her less than an hour to drag her luggage and boxes into the house. Stella feels exhausted just watching her.

“I might go lie down for a while,” Stella says.

Addie nods. “Sure. I’ve got this.”

Within the first week, Addie has shelved all of Stella’s books, including from the boxes she left unpacked. Addie organizes them by color, and the rainbow spines detract from the scuffed paint on the built-in shelves.

Addie photographs the books from several different angles. “For Instagram,” she explains.

As if that means anything to Stella.

Then Addie moves some of the furniture from the garage into the living room. In no time at all, the house feels lived in.

Within three weeks, Addie has a bartending job and instructs Stella to tell her parents, if they ask, that Addie has a serving job. Stella doesn’t care if Addie bartends—the money is better—but she also doesn’t want her out-of-state niece working in a dive bar where people are more likely to commit crimes, people Stella spent years putting in jail.

But Addie tells her it’s at the Irish pub, Casey’s.

“That’s a cop bar,” Stella says.

“Is it?” Addie asks innocently.

Casey’s is within walking distance from both the police administration building and the district attorney’s office. Over the years, Stella had more than her fair share of wine there. It’s not exactly her style, but the homicide detectives she worked with liked it well enough.

“What could go wrong in a bar full of cops?” Addie asks.

Stella stares her down. “Maybe I’ll get a job there too.” Stella’s joking, but it comes out sour. She needs to figure out what she wants to do. She’s waiting for something to fall into her lap, for someone to come rescue her.

“Let’s go to Target,” Addie suggests, changing the subject.

Retail therapy. “Okay.”

She lets Addie drive the hybrid she bought a year into her promotion to special assistant. Ron’s newer SUV sits in her one-car garage, untouched.

They’re pulling into the Target parking lot when Stella says, “Hey, do you want Uncle Ron’s car?”

Addie glances over at her. “What?”

“It’s only a few years old,” she says. “Real good condition. It’s just sitting there.”

“I have a car.”

“You could sell yours.” Stella glances out at the glowing red bullseye on the front of the store. “I could sell Ron’s car, I guess, but it makes more sense to keep the one with fewer miles.” She looks back at Addie. “I don’t know anything about cars, really, besides that.”

“Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

Inside the store, Stella grabs a cart and trails behind her niece. Addie checks the list on her phone but tosses seemingly random things into the cart too: a candle that smells like piña colada, a pink mug that says Hello Gorgeous in a curly rose gold font, and a set of three wooden cutting boards. She also buys a pack of twenty-five velvet hangers and a plastic laundry basket.

Stella has been undressing in the laundry room and using the washing machine as her hamper. It might be pathetic, but it’s efficient.

They go through the clothes section on the way to the registers. Addie buys three pairs of black jeans and several black tank tops.

“Jesus, who died?” Stella blurts out.

Then she feels stupid and sad.

Addie wore a dark green dress to Ron’s funeral, a tiny bit of color in an otherwise gray day. Stella remembers the green dress, the yellow flowers on the casket, Captain Murphy’s long red hair, pinned up because she was in uniform. The cap came off one of Stella’s lipsticks, staining the lining of her purse, and she’d had to throw the purse away. Then she started throwing other things away, and then she decided to move.

“It’s my uniform for the bar,” Addie mumbles. “Let’s go.”

Back in the car, Stella calls for a pizza. When she hangs up, she asks, “How did you even know about Casey’s?”

“How does anyone know about anything?”

“Is that supposed to be rhetorical?” Stella snaps.

“I found it on the internet,” Addie says. “If it bugs you so much, I don’t have to work there.”

“It doesn’t bug me. I just momentarily forgot that this is the world’s tiniest town.”

Later, Stella eats pizza standing in the kitchen while Addie’s on the phone in her bedroom. There aren’t a lot of secrets in this house. The insulation isn’t great, and Addie’s door is open anyway.

“I don’t know. I haven’t started yet,” Addie is saying as she rustles her shopping bags. A pause. “It’s fine. The house is really cute, and we’re getting settled.”

Stella strains to hear what her sister-in-law—Addie’s mama—is saying on the other end, but of course she can’t.

“Yeah,” Addie says. “I mean, super depressed, but wouldn’t you be?”

Stella dunks her crust into the container of ranch dressing, and it drips on her shirt on the way to her mouth.

“She just isn’t doing anything. I think if I can get her doing something, anything at all, she’ll feel better… I don’t know. I haven’t been here that long.”

Stella realizes that Addie is probably talking about her. Is she depressed? She looks down at the ranch on her shirt, the dirty kitchen, today’s half-empty pizza box sitting on the empty pizza box from two days ago.

She’s just lazy. She’s always been lazy, and now Ron isn’t here to snap her out of it. Ron isn’t here because someone got into the police administration building and randomly shot him. Now he’s dead. That’s all.

She isn’t depressed. She’s fifty-one, still a mess, just like she was at forty, just like she was at thirty-three, just like she was at seventeen. But she’s doing fine, and she can start her life over.

Stella wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, wipes her hand on the hem of her shirt, then takes it off to dump into the washing machine.

She falls asleep in her bra and sweatpants, the fan in her bedroom squeaking as it spins.

* * *

Addie is home during the day a lot, though often she’s sleeping. Often Stella is too. She tries to leave the house at least once a day, however sometimes all she can manage is a walk around the block or a drive to the nearby CVS to buy shampoo or razor blades or chocolate. Mostly chocolate. The checkout people there are starting to recognize her.

She comes into the house with a bag of mini chocolate bars and an avocado face mask. Addie is watching the coffeepot. She’s wearing a pair of cotton shorts and a gray tank top. Her hair is in a messy bun on top of her head.

“Hey, sugar,” Stella says, pushing up her sunglasses.

“Hey.” Addie yawns and pulls a mug out of the dishwasher.

“How was work?”

“Kinda slow. They still have me on the taps. It’ll be a while before I can work up to a cocktail shift.” Addie’s the newest, so mostly she pours beer and wine and buses tables. “You could come see it, you know.”

“I’ve seen it,” Stella reminds her.

“Not with me behind the bar,” Addie says. “I’ve come to see you at work before.”

Stella remembers the visit well. A sixteen-year-old Addie spent a week in California, sitting in courtrooms or hanging out either in Stella’s office or with Ron, who showed her a few tourist attractions before Addie lost interest in sightseeing. Stella has always loved her niece, but she prefers this grown-up and independent version of Addie over the sulky teen from before whose eyes were ringed in black and arms in rubber bracelets practically up to her elbows.

“You could come tonight,” Addie continues. “It’s Thursday, so it won’t be too crazy.”

“Honey…” Stella is suddenly tired and desperate to get out of doing anything ever again that doesn’t involve eating snacks while wearing soft pants.

“Drinks on the house,” Addie says. “We have that wine you like from Markham Vineyards.” The coffee machine beeps, and Addie turns to fix her cup, stirring in a little almond milk and a packet of sweetener. She takes a sip and says, “Oh, my God, that’s amazing.”

“I guess I could stop by,” Stella concedes. “What time does your shift start?”

“Four thirty.”

“Good.” Stella nibbles at the ragged skin around her thumbnail. “Before the shift turnover. Maybe I won’t see anyone who knows me.”

“Would that be so bad?” Addie wraps both hands around her mug. Her green nail polish is so dark, it’s nearly black, and it’s chipped on both thumbnails. When Stella’s nail polish chips, it looks awful. On Addie, it’s effortlessly cool.

“I just don’t need it right now,” Stella says.

“I mean, it seems like you could use… And wouldn’t they understand about Uncle Ron?”

“About Ron?” Stella says. “Sure. But I’m not one of them anymore.” She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter.” She doesn’t expect her young niece to understand the inner workings of the criminal justice community.

Addie drinks her coffee, changes into workout clothes, and goes out for a run. She comes back, showers, and dresses for work. She wears all black—usually skinny jeans and a black tank top or T-shirt. Today she has on a black V-neck, the fabric so thin that Stella can see the straps of her sports bra through it.

Stella used to be that young once. Pretty and soft.

But when Stella was that age, she was in law school being recruited to one of the bigger private firms in Nashville. She spent nearly ten grueling years there before deciding she hated working for a private firm. So she went to work for the State of Tennessee for a number of years, thinking she might help people, and then, desperate for a change, moved to Los Angeles County.

Looking back now, she wishes she’d stuck it out with the private firm. She’d have a lot more money, and there would have been no Ron. A life without the sudden shock of heartbreak.

Addie sits on the floor at the base of her floor-length mirror, surrounded by makeup. Stella perches on the edge of her bed and watches her buff foundation over her already perfect skin, then concealer, then powder and bronzer and blush. She manages to wing out her black eyeliner evenly with a few, quick flicks. Stella doesn’t tell Addie all that makeup isn’t necessary because she used to hate people telling her that when she was younger.

“What are you going to wear?” Addie asks, digging out a pink tube of mascara from the bin of makeup at her knee.

“I dunno.”

“You’re going to shower?” Addie asks hesitantly.

“I guess.”

“And wear real clothes?”

“Okay. Hint taken.”

“I just think it’ll do you some good to leave the house,” Addie says. “Talk to someone who isn’t me.”

“You never said anything about talking to people.” Stella means it as a joke, but it comes out somber.

“You’ll be fine.” Addie finishes her lashes and drops the mascara back into the bin on the hardwood floor. “Okay. I gotta go. I’ll see you there.”

On her way out, she leans over and pecks her aunt on the cheek. Then she grabs her hoodie and her purse and heads for the door, calling back, “And don’t forget to brush your hair!”

Stella stands in the shower, staring at the water swirling around her feet and down the drain of the porcelain tub. She loses track of time, and it’s nearly five by the time she manages to wash her hair and bathe. She lies on the bed, wrapped in a towel for another fifteen minutes before putting on underwear. She dons a pair of jeans and a soft pink sweater. She skips drying her hair, instead running some mousse through it to let it dry up into golden waves. She can’t bring herself to put on makeup and simply rubs some moisturizer into her face.

Her car is filthy inside, so she decides to take Ron’s SUV. A police administration parking pass hangs from the mirror. The inside of the car still smells a little like him, but she drives through her tears. She is determined not to let Addie down, not to promise her something and then let it drop.

When she arrives in the parking garage, she looks in the rearview mirror. There is no hiding her red, swollen eyes. She wipes her cheeks with her sleeve, her nose with the back of her hand, and decides she won’t care about any of it. No one will notice in the dark bar anyway.

It’s been years since she was in this bar, since before she married Ron, but everything looks exactly the same. All the high-top tables are occupied, so she plants herself on a stool at the end of the bar, up against the wall that separates the bar from the restrooms. Her back is to the entrance.

“Can I get you something?” a man’s voice asks.

“Glass of merlot. Whatever the house is will be fine,” she says without looking up.

He looks at her, tilts his head. “Are you Addie’s aunt?”

She snaps her head up to look at him. He’s tall, handsome, young. “Yeah.”

He grins, revealing a row of perfect white teeth. “I’ll tell her you’re here.”

“How’d you know?” Stella asks.

“You look like her,” he says. “Merlot coming up.”

Addie arrives before the wine. She smiles at Stella, a real smile that lights up her whole face. But when she gets closer, the smile falters.

“You’re here. I was in the back, cutting lemons and limes. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Stella says. She nods in the general direction of the bar. “Place looks the same.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, I swear. Just tired.”

“Do you want some food? The kitchen just opened. There’s happy hour stuff.”

The handsome young bartender comes back, sets a glass of wine in front of her on the polished bar, then turns to another customer.

Stella sips the wine, and it’s good, definitely not the house wine. There are worse things than sitting in a bar drinking a decent glass of wine, and Addie looks so hopeful that Stella can’t cut and run now. She’s made it this far, and there’s no harm in eating something. “Maybe some nachos.” There’s nothing Irish about nachos, but it is LA, after all.

Addie nods. “I can make that happen.”

Alone once more, Stella fishes around for her phone before realizing she left it in the SUV. Her purse is full of wrappers and crumpled receipts. She used to always keep a paperback with her, even if it was a trashy novel, but she hasn’t been that person since before moving to Los Angeles. Maybe she should get a library card. Read something again. Hide out in someone else’s problems for a while.

The bar is starting to fill up now that shifts are ending. No one who comes in is in uniform, but Stella can tell who the cops are and even recognizes a few of them, though she’s hard-pressed to come up with names. There are probably a few lawyers too, but they rarely socialize with their assigned squads.

By the time her nachos come—a huge plate heaped high with chips and beans and melted cheese and sour cream and pico de gallo—the place has almost filled up. Other than the stool right next to her, the bar top is fully occupied.

The cute bartender brings her a refill.

She feels less edgy after she eats something. The wine helps too. And she doesn’t want to admit that Addie was right, but it feels good to be out of the house and somewhere other than the drug store or the grocery store.

Addie stops by again with a little bowl of maraschino cherries. “Having fun?”

The bar is louder now. People have been feeding the digital jukebox. Stella has to read Addie’s lips to understand what she’s saying. “The nachos are good,” she says. “Maybe it was good to get out.”

“Make any friends?” Addie asks, glancing across the room at the entrance.

“Too old for all that.” Stella knows exactly how haggard she looks. Who would find that attractive? “How about my bill?” She pops a sweet cherry into her mouth. It soothes the burn of the jalapenos that were in the nachos.

“Oh, please,” Addie says. “No charge.” She waves her hand in the air, then glances back at the front door again.

Stella looks over her shoulder to follow her gaze, but no one is there.

“I’ll get you a box for the rest of the nachos,” Addie offers.

“I don’t need it.”

“You have half a plate left.” Addie pulls a small white towel out of her apron and wipes at the bar top. “You can take it home.”

“I may not want it later.”

“So I’ll eat it,” Addie says. “Stay right there.”

Stella is hit with a familiar ping, and she realizes that something isn’t quite right. In the courtroom, she was relentless and exacting, asking a defendant or a witness question after question until she asked just the right one to catch them in their made-up story. That’s the feeling she’s getting now, the desire to ferret out the truth, but she’s out of practice and the itch has to claw its way up through the fog, through the weave of apathy and sorrow that she lives in. It takes her a few minutes to work out that Addie is the one lying.

She’s not sure about what—Addie is on the other side of the room getting the to-go box, but she keeps looking at the door.

When Addie comes back, she slides the box across the bar and glances back again. And in that moment, her shoulders relax.

Stella looks up to see what Addie’s been waiting for. Not a what, but a who.

Heat crawls up the back of Stella’s neck as she looks back at her niece.

“Addison, what did you do?” Her voice is a furious hiss.

Addie shakes her head, says, “It’s…it’s a cop bar.”

Stella wants to slink off the stool and slither out the back door, but it’s too late. Captain Elizabeth Murphy is already walking toward her in a black pencil skirt, pale peach silk blouse, and black heels, a purse hanging off her shoulder. Her shoulder-length auburn hair is brushed back behind her ears.

Stella hasn’t seen her since the funeral, and before that, not since Stella took a promotion and left Captain Murphy’s homicide squad. But she remembers her clearly enough. Elizabeth, even out of full uniform, is hard to forget. With her high cheekbones and striking green eyes, she looks like a young Greer Garson, despite being ten years older than Stella.

At the funeral, Elizabeth placed her hand on Stella’s arm, told her she was sorry for her loss, for the loss to the force. And then Lieutenant Sam Warren led her away.

Elizabeth stops at the bar where Addie is watching her and says, “You didn’t tell her I was coming?”

“I thought… I… She wasn’t going to—”

“Addie!” someone calls from across the bar.

“Sorry,” she says and dashes away.

“Well,” Elizabeth says, looking at Stella, “how are you doing?”

“I…” Panic washes over her. “I have to go.”

She grabs her coat and heads for the door, abandoning her nachos and the rest of her wine.

“Wait a minute,” Elizabeth calls out, but Stella is already pushing through the door and out into the chilly night air. By the time she gets back to the SUV, she’s feeling light-headed.

The inside still smells like Ron, and she starts to cry again.

Chapter 2

Stella cried in the car all the way home. Cried in the bathroom brushing her teeth. And she cried herself to sleep. She wakes up a little hungover from crying, and she feels numb and weird and out of sorts. She can tell her face is swollen; the skin under her eyes is tender.

She blinks at the late morning light coming through the window—curtains are still on her list, especially now that spring is coming and the days are longer. Birds are squawking outside, and there’s the sound of pans and plates clanging in the kitchen. She smells bacon.

Stella throws the covers off and tiptoes into the bathroom. But the pipes are old in this house. The toilet flushes loudly. The faucet squeaks when she turns it on to wash her hands and brush her teeth.

She looks up at her reflection. Her face is swollen. The attributes she once considered attractive—fair skin, curly blonde hair, dark brown eyes—now give her a hollow and washed-out appearance. How she feels on the inside is starting to seep out into her skin.

In the kitchen, Addie is stirring gravy at the stove. Fresh biscuits are on the counter. The bacon is set aside. Scrambled eggs are in the pan, ready to be served. Carters always apologize with food.

Addie’s hair is pinned back out of her eyes, and she’s wearing a pair of cotton shorts and a hooded sweatshirt. She looks like Stella’s brother, Thom, but her coloring is Joyce’s, her mama’s.

Addie glances at Stella over her shoulder, then looks back at the gravy. “I hope you’re hungry.”

Stella looks at her niece and the spread and the late-morning light. “I’m always hungry,” she says. Her voice is raspy from last night’s tears.

Addie relaxes her shoulders.

Stella can’t stay mad at her forever. She’ll just have to…explain.

Addie has pushed aside the mail and other stuff on the kitchen table and set out plates and flatware. The food is good, but then Addie was always a good cook, always good at whatever she tried. Everyone was concerned when she graduated college without a solid career plan, but Stella doesn’t worry about her. She’ll be a good bartender, and if she finds another job later, she’ll do well at that too. And if she decides to find someone to marry and pumps out a couple of kids, she’ll no doubt be a great mom.

“Listen—” Stella begins once they’ve eaten.

“No,” Addie interrupts. “I’m sorry. I forced you to do too much too fast.”

Stella draws her fork through what’s left of the gravy on her plate, watches it separate and come back together. “Honey, you don’t understand.”

“I mean, it was my idea, so I take full responsibility. And I get it. People grieve in their own way and take the time they need, and I should just stay out of it.” Addie looks down at the hands in her lap. “So I’m really sorry.”

Stella doesn’t speak as she slowly processes what Addie said. By the time she has thought it through, Addie is stacking dishes in the sink.

“Addie,” she says, “what do you mean it was your idea?”

“What?” She turns around.

“You said it was your idea. What did you mean?”

“To come out,” Addie says.

“And to see Captain Murphy?”

“I mean, it’s…it’s a cop bar.” Addie folds her arms in front of her chest. “You could have run into any number of people you know, right?”

“But you were watching the door,” Stella says. “You were waiting for Elizabeth Murphy, weren’t you?”

Addie turns away to pour the remainder of the gravy in the pan into a plastic container.

“How do you even know her?” Stella asks.

“Aunt Stella, we met at the funeral. You know that.” Addie pulls open a drawer and digs through it. “Does a lid for this even exist?”

“That funeral was months ago.”

Addie digs some more and then pushes the drawer closed. Opens the one above it and pulls out a roll of foil.

“Addie!” Stella says again.

Addie rips off some foil and covers the gravy. “We traded numbers at the funeral. Like, just in case, I guess.”

“In case of what?”

“I don’t know!” Addie says. “I didn’t think about it, really. Everyone was so sad and confused. Anyway, I forgot about it, and then when you didn’t go back to work, she heard about it and texted me to see if you were okay.”

“Jesus.” Stella drops her face into her hands.

“And then, you know how it goes. You just, like…keep talking or whatever. She’s nice.”

Stella scoffs. “Captain Murphy is not nice.”

Elizabeth Murphy is a very talented cop, but she’s also a rule-obsessed ice queen who spent more time arguing with Stella than working with her. Cops and lawyers have to work together, but the district attorney doesn’t take personality clashes into consideration when assigning staff to LAPD personnel. Stella could never decide if she and Captain Murphy clashed because they were too different or too much the same. Stella found the woman to be stubborn, uptight, and unyielding. Captain Murphy considered Stella to be manipulative, and Stella thought Captain Murphy was unimaginative.

The main difference is—or was—that Elizabeth Murphy works well within the structure the law provides, and Stella makes the law work for her. They could never get past the difference in methodology. So the two of them were always at odds, always snipping at one another, never friends.

Eventually, after Stella spent five years in Homicide, they figured out how to coexist. They became almost friendly—until she learned that Captain Murphy, the most by-the-book woman she ever met, was sleeping with Lieutenant Warren. Feeling baffled and even betrayed, she put in for a promotion rather than think about why she felt that way.

“She seems to worry about you a lot,” Addie says. “Very nicely, I might add.”

“You can’t talk to her, Addison. It isn’t right.” Stella has worked hard to keep her family and her career separate. With her family, she’s simply a daughter, an aunt, a sister. In the courtroom, her colleagues, opposing counsel, and judges considered her to be tenacious, even aggressive. Addie isn’t aware of her aunt’s reputation in the courtroom, and she prefers to keep that part of her life separate, especially now that it’s likely over. If Addie and Captain Murphy start spending time together, Stella won’t be able to stop the lines from blurring.

“Aunt Stella, I don’t understand what you have against her.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Stella says. It’s way too complicated to explain what she doesn’t understand herself. She runs through last night’s interaction again: the wine, the food, the familiar setting, the usual crowd. The feeling of being lied to. “Casey’s is a cop bar…”

Addie bites her lip.

“Did she help you get that job?” Stella asks, suddenly understanding.

Addie nods.

With that, Stella goes back to bed.

* * *

Stella wishes she had somewhere else to sulk—an office, a vacation house—where someone would make her a cup of hot chocolate and let her complain for an hour.

The irony is not lost on her—she needs a friend, and that’s why she invited Addie to stay with her. But Elizabeth was never her friend. Their relationship got less frosty toward the end, but they never moved beyond work colleagues. Anyway, Stella can’t be friends with her because there is something about her that makes her feel totally and completely unchained. Not herself. Not in control of her feelings. If Stella is a pile of dynamite, Elizabeth is a brightly burning match.

And Stella is in no position to catch fire.

She spends the whole afternoon in bed sulking, looking at her phone, and napping. She’s always tired, no matter how much rest she gets. When she hears Addie shower and then leave for work, she emerges from her room to take a bath, lighting a candle and turning the overhead light off. She soaks in the hot water for a long time. By the time she yanks out the plug, it’s nearly dark out, and the flickering candle illuminates the steam surrounding her. She wraps her hair up in one towel and tucks a second around her, rubs the mirror enough to see a dim and watery reflection of herself.

It occurs to her only then that she could call Elizabeth. Tell her a thing or two.

“Stay away from Addie,” she rehearses in the mirror. Then says it again, trying to sound more serious, sterner: “Stay away from Addie.”

She brushes her teeth and her hair. Puts on real clothes—a bra, clean underwear, and a soft knee-length blush-colored dress with little cap sleeves; it’s got enough shape to not look like a sack on her. She sits down at the vanity in her room and smooths moisturizer into her skin, pats concealer under her eyes, darkens her lashes with mascara, puts on a nude lipstick, and brushes some blush into her cheeks. She twists the front pieces of her hair and pins them back. Her work complete, she examines the results. She looks more like herself than she’s felt in some time.

Finally feeling ready, she digs her phone out of her bag, only to find that it’s dead. She unplugs the toaster—apparently people in the 1930s did not have much need for outlets—and plugs the charger in.

When the phone charges up enough to turn on, she scrolls through to check what she’s missed. Her eldest brother, Brick, left a voicemail, scolding her for screening calls. There’s a text from Thom asking about Addie’s birthday in May. Maybe the family could come to LA? And one from Addie from the night before, asking her to come back to the bar.

She opens her contacts and finds Elizabeth. There’s no picture, but there’s a cell number and even an address. Someone—Warren or Esposito—must have sent her the whole contact record and all the information came with it. They’d both known her for a long time, after all.

Stella is screwing up the courage to touch the number and make the call when the screen changes and starts flashing Elizabeth’s name. Had she hit something without realizing it? But then it clicks that Elizabeth is calling her. Coincidentally.

Which freaks Stella out, throwing her off her game.

She answers with a terse “Hello?”

“Stella.” Elizabeth’s voice is low and soft, and Stella sags against the counter.

“Hi,” she says inanely. Where is her rage? Her indignation? Elizabeth has taken her out at the knees by calling first. Which is so typically her.

“I just wanted to reach out to you,” Elizabeth says. “I hope you didn’t feel put on the spot last night.”

“Actually,” Stella says, “I was about to call you.”

“Oh?”

Stella sees the neighbor’s headlights across the street through the kitchen window as they pull into their driveway. “I don’t understand, Captain, why you’ve been talking to my niece.”

“Ah.” Elizabeth uses her softest, kindest voice, the one she reserves for victims, for family members grieving someone who has been murdered. “You know, Stella, she was very concerned about you after your husband passed. We all were. I only offered myself as support, should she need it.”

Stella scoffs, taps her nails on the tile counter. “You have no right to suck her into your world of murder and death and the worst people. She’s just a girl.”

Elizabeth sucks in her breath, then says, “I can see how that’s a valid concern, but my only intention was to be helpful. To her and to you.”

“Fine,” Stella says. “Sure.”

“It was nice to see you, you know.” Elizabeth offers an olive branch. “Maybe we could get dinner or a cup of coffee. Catch up.”

Stella rests the warm skin of her forehead onto the cold tile of the counter. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Captain.”

“I see,” Elizabeth says.

“Just…be careful with Addie.”

“Stella…”

“Bye now.” Stella ends the call. Sets the phone down. Opens the back door, sticks her head out into the night air, and takes a few deep breaths. That woman is no good for her. No good at all.

* * *

She dreams about Ron. They’re in the Homicide squad room. He’s in his LAPD uniform, and she’s still assigned to Captain Murphy. They’re talking when he grabs his stomach, looks at her in horror.

He pulls his hands away. They’re covered in blood.

“Why?” he asks.

She looks down at the gun she’s holding and screams.

“It’s okay. You’re okay.” Addie is shaking her awake. Stella is confused for a minute because it’s dark and only the hall light is on, backlighting Addie’s shape in the darkness. “It was just a bad dream.”

Stella is sweaty and nauseous, and one of her legs is tangled in the quilt. She sits up a little, pushing her hair back. “I’m okay. Sorry.”

Addie shakes her head. “You want to talk about it?”

“No.” Stella draws her knees up and wraps her arms around them. “I don’t, uh, remember.”

“Okay.”

“What time is it?”

“Three,” Addie says.

Stella realizes Addie still has her coat on and her makeup is smudged. Her purse is on the floor by the bed. “You just get home?”

“Yeah. I closed,” Addie says. “I was just gonna… You want to put on a movie or something?”

“Yeah,” Stella says. “Sure.” Anything is better than going back to sleep.

Stella brings her quilt to the couch. Addie makes popcorn in the microwave, salty and sweet, just how Stella likes it. They put the big bowl between them and cozy up under the quilt. Addie scrolls through the cable channels until she finds a rom-com. The movie is at a commercial break.

Stella looks over at Addie. She looks tired and washed out in the light of the television. The skin under her eyes is dark.

“You doing okay?” Stella asks. “Do you like it out here?”

Addie looks at her. “Yeah, I like it. It’s different. I needed different.”

“You don’t get homesick?”

“No. I think if I were alone, maybe, but I have you.” Addie smiles. “I wish I could help you more, though.”

“I’m just gonna be sad for a while, I think. That’s just the way it goes. I know it’s not much fun for you.”

“It’s okay,” Addie says. “I have Monday off. Maybe we could do something fun. Go to the beach or something.”

“It’s a date.”

Addie turns back to watch the movie for a few minutes and then says, “Did you talk to Elizabeth?”

“What?”

“She said she’d call you to apologize.”

“We spoke,” Stella says. “But we were never friends, you know. And I don’t need her to be my friend now just because my husband is dead and she feels bad about it.”

Addie presses her lips together, tucks her chin to her chest. “I really like Elizabeth. And I don’t know anyone out here. Not really.”

“You know me. You know your friends from work—”

Addie looks up at Stella abruptly. “It’s fine if you don’t like her, but it’s not your place to decide whether or not I can see her.”

“Fine,” Stella says. “Just leave me out of it.”

They turn back to the movie until Addie excuses herself and goes to bed.

Stella stays up watching TV until the sun rises. Then she gets dressed and drives to The Coffee Bean. She waits in line with people who are on their way to work and orders a sugary drink that’s more chocolate than coffee. She drinks most of it sitting in the car, then drives around until she finds the place where she used to go with Ron for breakfast on his rare day off, back when they were courting, before they got married. She’d forgotten about it until now.

Full of caffeine and French toast, she next goes to the library. She lies to the woman at the counter, says the address on her license is current, and walks away with a library card for her sin. She wanders through the stacks, looks at the new books. She picks up one about a CIA spy, but the premise is ridiculous, so she sets it down again and leaves without checking anything out.

Next, she stops at the grocery store and buys milk and creamer and butter and bread, and eggs. The things normal people always have in their refrigerator. And she keeps going until the cart is full.

Addie is awake when she gets home and watches her carry in the first bag of groceries. “Where were you?”

“Just out running some errands,” Stella says. “You can help me carry some bags.”

“You went grocery shopping?” Addie sounds surprised.

“Yes.” Stella’s voice is tinged with irritation, but she tries to cover it up. “I figured if you were going to cook for me, we should probably have food.”

Addie doesn’t seem to notice her tone. “That’s awesome,” she says, and her words sound genuine. She goes outside and brings back a couple of bags.

When all that’s left is a twelve-pack of Coca-Cola, Stella grabs it and closes the back of the SUV. She’s been driving it more and more. Stella can actually drive it now without weeping. In fact, the more she drives it, the more the smell of Ron fades. And she likes riding up high—she feels safe, like she’s driving around in a huge black tank. It makes leaving the house a little easier.

She never used to be scared to face the world.

Addie helps her unpack the groceries. There are so many boxes of cereal and canned goods that they have to turn one of the cupboards into pantry overflow.

The sleepless night has caught up to her, so Stella excuses herself and goes to lie down. When she wakes up again, the sun is setting and Addie is gone.

She pours a glass of wine and goes to the backyard and watches the sky turn orange to purple and then shift into darkness, into the starless expanse that passes for night in this city.

* * *

On Monday, they drive to Santa Monica for fish tacos at Wahoo’s and then go to the pier. They people watch and dip into shops, though they don’t buy anything. Stella offers to ride the carousel or the Ferris wheel, but Addie says “no, thank you” to both.

She says yes to the aquarium, though, and Stella forks over the ten dollars for admission.

It’s a small and quaint attraction. Addie seems bored by the whole thing until they get to the jellyfish. They stand and watch them for a long time, Addie’s pretty face awash in the watery blue light. She even sticks her hands into the touch tank, though Stella skips that; slimy and cold is not her style.

“How far is it to the one in Monterey?” Addie asks as they head back outside. “That’s supposed to be the best one, right?”

Stella thinks about it. “Five or six hours, I think.”

“Really? I guess I didn’t realize how big this state is.”

“We could go up for a couple days,” Stella says. “No problem.”

They stop to lean against the railing of the pier, looking out over the water. Addie is wearing denim shorts, a blue hoodie, and white sneakers, and she shivers a little in the cool breeze. “I do like it here.”

“Good,” Stella says. “I’d be sad if you left.”

“Daddy says that in a year, I should go back to school.” Addie yanks on the dangling strings of her hoodie and then holds them hard, her fist resting over her heart. “He says by then, I’ll have been here long enough that I won’t have to pay out-of-state tuition.”

“For what degree?”

“I have no idea!” Addie rolls her eyes. “But I have time to decide, I guess. My degree is in sociology. I’m going to have to get some sort of graduate degree if I ever want to stop working in food service.”

“What made you pick sociology in the first place?”

“Honestly, I took random classes trying to figure out what I wanted to do until eventually I had to declare a major.” Addie tucks her hair under her hoodie. “I looked at all my credits, and sociology was what I had the most hours in.”

Stella laughs.

“I don’t even know, Aunt Stella. Everyone always…maybe because I look like you, everyone in the family compares me to you. Because you were the only girl, and so am I, but you were always off doing something amazing. You always had a plan. I’ve never had a plan.”

“Oh, honey,” Stella says. “I fly by the seat of my pants all the time. Believe me.”

“Really?”

“Really. And I don’t have a plan now, do I?”

“That’s different. You’re grieving.”

“And I know it can’t last forever, but it’s just so hard to move forward.” She puts an arm around Addie’s shoulders. “We’re just going to have to help each other.”

“Yeah,” Addie says. “Just start over. That’s why I came here. To start over.”

That’s why anyone comes to Los Angeles, Stella thinks, and she wonders what was so bad that Addie felt she had to leave it behind. But now the wind is picking up and it’s getting colder. Addie’s bare legs are covered in goosebumps.

“Let’s go get something warm to drink,” Stella says. “I think I saw a café back there.”

* * *

After the trip to Santa Monica, Stella slides into her grief again, and she sleeps through the day, getting up when it’s dark to scavenge the kitchen for leftover pasta, cold pizza, a half-empty box of cheese crackers. She sniffs the carton of leftover Chinese and then eats it cold, standing at the sink.

She looks at her pathetic reflection, distorted by the old glass in the window. Her real estate agent called this place an original gem, pointing out the wooden floors, the crown molding, the brick patio in the backyard. But original charm had come with a low price tag for a reason. The windows need to be replaced. The roof is patched in several places. The wiring is all single circuit. The plumbing is still on septic. She purchased it anyway, desperate to get back into the neighborhood she lived in before she got married. Like she could go back in time. Like an address change would be the balm to ease her pain.