In Death 28 - Promises in Death

want to finish the clothes first?”
    “Yes, that’s probably best.” He led the way into the bedroom where he had painfully begun the process of packing Ammy’s things. Now he continued the task with the woman he believed had murdered his lover.
    They spoke of her, and other things. He looked straight into Cleo’s eyes as she folded one of Ammy’s favorite sweaters. He could do that, Morris thought. He could let this woman touch Ammy’s things, speak of her, move around the room where he and Ammy had been intimate, had loved each other. He could do whatever he needed to do, and for now—at least for now—feel nothing.
    A twinge, just a twinge cut through when she began to box and wrap jewelry.
    “She always knew just what to wear with what.” Cleo’s eyes met his in the mirror, smiled. “It’s a talent I don’t share. I used to admire . . . oh.” She held up a pair of small, simple silver hoops. “She wore these a lot, for work anyway. They’re so her, you know? Just exactly right, not too much, not too little. They’re just . . . her.”
    It hurt, heart and gut. But he did what he had to do. “You should have them.”
    “Oh, I couldn’t. Her family—”
    Bitch, he thought as he watched her. You cold bitch. “Her family told me to give what was appropriate to friends. She’d want you to have those since they remind you of her.”
    “I’d really love to, if you’re sure. I’d love to have something of hers.” Tears sheened her eyes as she smiled. “I’ll treasure them.”
    “I know you will.”
    There were so many ways to kill, he thought, as they closed and sealed boxes. Slow, painful ways, quick, merciful ways. Obscene ways. He knew them all. Did she? How many ways had she killed?
    Had she felt anything when she’d taken Ammy’s life? Or had it been simply a task to be done, like sealing a box for shipment? He wanted to ask her that, just that single thing. Instead, he asked if she’d like coffee.
    “I wouldn’t mind, actually. Why don’t I get it? I know where everything is.”
    When she went out to the kitchen, he followed as far as the living room and crouched in front of the droid kitten. He activated it, then stepped away to carry boxes and protective wrap to a chair.
    He began, meticulously, to wrap the pale green glass vase she’d used for the roses he’d sent her. And the kitten mewed, as programmed. It stretched its silky white body as Cleo came back with the coffee.
    “Thanks.” He kept his hands full—coffee, wrapping—while the kitten wound through Cleo’s legs.
    “She loved this thing.” Cleo looked down as the kitten gave a plaintive meow and stared up at her with adoring eyes. “She just loved it. Will you keep it?”
    “I suppose I will. I haven’t thought that far yet.”
    Cleo laughed a little as the kitten continued to rub, meow, stare. “Do droids get lonely? You’d swear it’s desperate for a little attention.”
    “It’s programmed for companionship, so . . .”
    “Yeah. Okay, okay.” Cleo set down the coffee, bent down.
    Morris continued to wrap even as he held his breath.
    “It is kind of sweet if you go for this sort of thing. And she did. She bought it little toys, and the cat bed.” Cleo picked up the kitten. Gave it a stroke. Cursed.
    “Don’t tell me it scratched you.” Morris put aside the wrapping to go to her.
    “No, but something did.” Cleo held up her hand, and blood welled in a shallow cut on her index finger. “Something on the collar.”
    “Damn rhinestones.” His own blood pumped hot, but his tone, his touch were both easy as he took Cleo’s wounded hand. “It’s not deep, but we’ll clean it up.”
    “It’s nothing. A scratch.”
    “You should wash and protect it.” He took a handkerchief out of his pocket, dabbed at the blood. “She’ll have what you need in the bathroom. Doctor’s orders,” he said.
    “Can’t argue with that. I’ll be right back.”
    He folded the cloth, tucked it into an evidence bag. He removed the collar from the droid, studied—just for a moment—the faint smear of blood on the glittery stones he’d sharpened himself. And he bagged it as well.
    Then he picked up the kitten, nuzzled it. “Yes, you’ll come home with me. You won’t be alone.”
    When Cleo came back in, he was sitting in one of Ammy’s living room chairs. “All right?” he asked.
    “Good as new.” She held up her finger with the clear strip on the tip. “Where’s the cat?”
    “I turned it to