Sophie turned to JoJo. “Sorry. He sent me cards and gifts for my birthday and Christmas. When he wasn’t hiding under a rock somewhere, we would talk over the internet. Really intense conversations, too, like, ‘What grade are you in now?’ Mostly I saw a grainy picture of a guy with a scarf over his face. Half the time I didn’t even recognize him. So emotional.”
“It’s sandy and windy in the Stans. Scarves are a necessary accessory for, you know, breathing.”
“What—”
“—ever,” Mark finished. “Yes. But you should also know I didn’t come back because your mother died. I was coming back regardless. Your mother’s death only sped up the process.”
Sophie said nothing, but shook her head to show she didn’t believe it. Then she lifted her hand to her mouth and nibbled on a fingernail.
“You’re not supposed to do that,” Mark said.
Instantly her hand dropped and she reached for the chips.
“That’s the other thing about Sophie,” Mark said. “She’s a child prodigy. A piano player who has toured the country and Europe performing with various orchestras. Right now she’s under contract with the Philadelphia Orchestra.”
“I’m almost fifteen now. We can lose the child-prodigy tag. Just say I play the piano.”
“I would like to hear you sometime,” JoJo said.
“I can get you tickets.”
“Cool.”
JoJo looked again at Mark. He sat back in the booth defensively, looking like he wanted to escape, but he didn’t move. JoJo knew what it was like to have a broken relationship with her father. The difference between Mark and her dad was that Mark cared about what Sophie thought of him. He cared that she felt abandoned. And his expression showed that he also felt guilty.
That was something JoJo’s father had never felt. Still didn’t.
Mark excused himself to go to the restroom. “If the waiter comes—”
“You want a beef burrito,” Sophie said. “Like that’s news.”
Mark paused and a small smile lit up his face. “You know how tempted I am to say I want fajitas?”
“Cutting off your nose to spite your face. You know you want the burrito.”
His smile only grew larger. “You’re right. I do.”
JoJo watched him walk away and tried not to notice how nicely his jeans fit over a firm ass. Nice shoulders, nice ass. Oh, my. When was the last time she’d taken in a man’s appearance like that? And of all men, it had to be her new boss?
When she looked at Sophie, the girl was biting her fingernails again. As soon as she noticed JoJo’s eyes on her, Sophie dropped her hands into her lap.
“Why aren’t you supposed to bite your nails?”
Sophie wiggled her fingers. “Don’t want anything messing with the tools. A hangnail or infection could be death for an artist like me.”
JoJo heard the sarcasm that was obviously a big part of who Sophie was. But it also let JoJo know the girl didn’t take herself too seriously. Which was probably a good thing in someone so talented.
“I really am sorry about your mom. I’m not just saying it.”
There was a shimmer in the girl’s eyes that she would hate to know was there. A small crack. Instantly JoJo felt contrite for making the girl crack in front of company. As a concession she offered her own pain. “I lost my sister. When I was young.”
“I’m sorry, too.”
“It blows.”
Sophie nodded. “It’s like...I get up every day and I do the stuff I am supposed to do. Like nothing happened. Only everything happened.”
“You feel guilty.”
“Yeah. Like I should be in my room crying every day. And some days that’s all I want to do, but I don’t. I go to practice, I go to rehearsal. I get ready to perform. It’s like this horrible thing didn’t happen. Only it did. I forgot it was more than a year ago.”
This was where JoJo was supposed to offer up some nice words. You’ll work through it. It will get better. It was the least she could do.
“It will get better.” JoJo choked out the words.
“Will it?”
“No,” JoJo admitted truthfully. The girl was too smart and would see through any fabrication. When you removed the bullshit there was only the truth. “No, it doesn’t get better. It just gets less worse.”
Sophie took a chip from the basket. “She died in a car accident. The guy wasn’t even drunk. It was just some stupid car accident.”
“My sister was murdered. She was my twin and she was murdered.”
JoJo had belched up the words—they never came out freely. But she’d played a game with a master spy and had won. Sort of. And she had gulped down a really good margarita on a stomach that was empty except for a few chips.
It felt like Sophie got it. They both knew the same pain. It was different when people died when they were supposed to because of old age or after a long illness. When they died young, the pain was sharper because it happened so abruptly. Sophie’s pain was fresher, but JoJo’s was no less intense.
“Murder. Oh, my God, that, like, totally sucks. I’m really sorry. Is that why you became a detective?”
“It’s why I became...everything.”
* * *
MARK OPENED THE door to his apartment and let Sophie pass by him.
“I was thinking of watching a movie. You up for it?”
“I’m going to read. I have work to do for Nancy that I’d rather get out of the way tonight.”
She’d rather do homework than watch a movie with him.
Ouch.
Still, he wasn’t going to complain. Today, by far, had been their best day together. She’d been almost happy while playing with baby Kelly. She’d agreed to go with him to meet JoJo. And he knew she liked JoJo.
To quote Sophie on their ride to their apartment, JoJo was cool.
The best news of all was that she knew he preferred beef burritos. It meant they were getting to know each other. Maybe reluctantly on her part, but it was happening.
“Yeah, sure. If you’re interested, maybe we could take in the new superhero movie that’s coming out this weekend.”
She halted. “You’re into superheroes?”
“Honey, I was a superhero.”
She rolled her eyes, but at least he got her to smile. “Yeah, sure. Okay. What—”
“Please. I beg of you. No more whatevers. Not tonight.”
“Lame. First one up makes breakfast.”
“Deal,” he said, even though he knew it was a trap. Sophie had mastered the art of staying in bed until he was awake, so he would be stuck with breakfast duty. One time he tried to outwait her and ended up lying in bed staring at the ceiling until almost ten in the morning. While dinner was his responsibility, they both agreed breakfast and lunch were a free-for-all. During the week they stuck to toast or cereal.
On Saturdays he went the extra mile. They both liked egg, pork roll—a Pennsylvania tradition she’d introduced him to—and cheese on a bagel. Saturdays were quickly becoming his favorite day of the week. On Sundays they visited Dom and Marie, and while he didn’t mind visiting