Cause of Death by Laura Dembowski (sci fi books to read .TXT) 📕

of her and bracing myself on her pillow. Beth says it makes her uncomfortable when I touch her with my hands. She feels like when we touch, we’re making an emotional connection, one she doesn’t want to make. She says it just makes things messier. I don’t think rubbing her breasts or caressing her face does that, but what she says goes.

I’m not really sure how much messier things can get. If we got caught, her husband wouldn’t give a damn whether our relationship was just sex or something more. He’d be pissed simply because we’re fucking. Unless they have an open marriage. Beth mentioned something about that, but I’m not buying it. Beth’s picky about the men she cheats with, she told me. I don’t think Beth’s a liar, but you never can tell. She doesn’t think her sister’s a liar. I say that’s crazy talk.

I think Tracy senses I’m cheating on her, but I don’t think I can be blamed, and honestly, I don’t care. The other day she brought up the M-word: marriage. She’s brought up moving into a neighborhood like this one, similar to Margaret’s, only nicer, with bigger houses and faster cars, and starting a family. She’s not so much suggesting marriage as practically demanding I propose, with a ring I can’t afford. That’s a new one.

She thinks “it’s time” after all these years. Don’t ask me how it’s been almost ten years since we started dating; I have no idea. I think it’s time, too, but for something else entirely.

Beth’s pushing me off of her suddenly. It seems we’re done; more accurately, she’s done. I let her be in control. I have enough things in my life I’m responsible for. Letting Beth take the reins is a relief, a break from the stress and decision-making I deal with every moment of every day, whether I’m at work or at home or at the nursing home, visiting my mom.

She gets out of the bed and puts on her robe. She grabs her cell phone and starts playing with it.

“Devin’s gonna be late tonight and the kids’ll be at their grandma’s for the rest of the day. Wanna stay for dinner?”

I think about it for a minute. It’s my day off, and I’m trying to give Tracy her space, or maybe it’s Tracy I need space from. Going home and eating a frozen TV dinner alone while absentmindedly watching some crappy show on TV sounds depressing, so I say “Sure.”

“Get dressed and meet me downstairs,” she says.

Tracy would have phrased it like a question, giving me the perceived option. Beth doesn’t do that; she doesn’t play games. There is no option, and I know that. Beth knows it, too. So does Tracy, for that matter; she just plays her hand differently. Not necessarily better or worse, just differently.

I pull my Rolling Stones T-shirt over my head and put on my jeans. I poke around Beth’s room for just a minute, since I’m in here alone for the first time since our relationship began. Relationship. I’ve never called an interaction with a woman besides Tracy a relationship.

I think I hear her coming back up the stairs, though it could just be my imagination. Still, I hustle out of the room, not having found anything very interesting.

Just like I thought, she is standing on the top step.

“Thought you got lost or something,” she says.

“Nope. I’m coming.”

I follow her down the stairs and into the kitchen. She’s already got a bunch of ingredients lying on the counter. I don’t mind helping her, but she’s going to have to give me some guidance. I don’t cook. Ever. I’ll do dishes and clean, even do laundry, but don’t ask me to cook. I’ve learned over time that takeout and fast food are good enough for me because I prefer not to burn the house down or give anyone, including myself, food poisoning. Once I met Tracy, I had to add in some chain restaurants and even some fine-dining establishments once in a while. I shudder at the thought of dropping three hundred dollars on a dinner for two; that, and having flowers delivered to her office on her birthday. My God, florists charge an arm and a leg. The things I do for love.

Beth puts a knife in my hand and instructs me to chop some onion and garlic. The only time I hold knives like this are to eat steak, and then there is also a fork involved. Right now my fingers are too close to this sharp blade. My hands shake, and the onion ends up looking like I tore it apart with my bare hands. I’m afraid I’m going to cut myself. Before I can finish that thought, I notice blood on the cutting board.

“Shit!” I yelp, instinctively putting my finger in my mouth.

Beth runs over to me, transitioning quickly into mom mode. I’d be pissed if Tracy ever treated me like her child, but with Beth, it’s different. I like that she runs to my aid and is going to take care of me. Maybe she’ll even kiss my boo-boo . . . and then some other places, if I’m lucky.

“You really aren’t good at cooking, are you?”

“We all have our strengths.”

“Let me see it,” she requests in a soothing voice, while tugging my arm to release my finger from my mouth. I don’t really want to see what I’ve done. For a detective, I’m rather squeamish. I prefer not to see blood, which is pretty hard to avoid in my line of work. I hope I never get shot, even though I know it’s always a possibility—probable, even. When it’s my own blood, I get queasy at the mere thought. I don’t want to have to go to the hospital. In fact, I’ll refuse, especially since there’s no way Beth could go with me and risk being seen by someone she knows. It’s more likely we’d be seen by someone I know, since Kate and I