Mystery Picnic Date
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Maggie had been staring out the window at nothing for a long time before she turned to him with the question, “What’s your favorite dessert?”
“I don’t think this is something you ask on first dates,” he replied. “It sounds too intimate.” He reached across and covered her hand.
She shrugged. “It just popped into my head.” She glanced over at his profile. She could tell that he was uncomfortable because he didn’t look up from his plate and he wasn’t eating anything but the salad, although it looked like the salad he’d ordered—a wedge of lettuce in a plastic container topped with dressing and croutons.
The rest of the table seemed busy talking about work or whatever they did together all week to have time for lunch. A tall blond woman was holding forth about some project that sounded boring as hell.
He squeezed her hand. “It’s fine, Maggie. What are we doing? This isn’t a date. We’re friends who happen to be working on different things right now and we’ve both got the afternoon free today.” His voice was quiet so even I couldn’t hear what he said next, but it sounded like he might say more if she asked him to, which made me wonder why he hadn’t done so already.
Maybe he thought I needed more convincing before I would agree to go out with him again? That must be it. And maybe that was unfair—he had no idea what I knew about Maggie and me, so I shouldn’t judge how he felt about us when I was pretty sure I wouldn’t want to be on any of those other first dates either.
“You haven’t said what you like yet,” Maggie said gently, and he sighed. He took his hand away from hers and folded his arms instead. He didn’t seem upset by the request; he was actually looking thoughtful again. It made sense: it would take a lot of willpower not to let slip that he loved tiramisu when she asked about dessert.
But he’d held back. She wondered if that had anything to do with me, and I wished we were having a conversation without an audience.
A couple of minutes passed. Then another. Finally, he spoke, his eyes on mine. “Chocolate chip cookies,” he said quietly, almost whispering. “And vanilla ice cream.”
Maggie blinked at him. Her mouth opened, then shut. She tried to remember what happened after that moment where it appeared that the only thing keeping her from falling in love with him forever was the knowledge that I would kill her once this relationship went south.
I watched her carefully. If anyone saw our exchange, they wouldn’t think it strange because most people don’t know that Maggie has unusual power over men. I’d told her as much last night, but since she hadn’t mentioned it this morning, it mustn’t have occurred to her yet that something odd was happening.
But I’d seen it clearly. Maggie’s cheeks reddened; she looked down and fiddled nervously with the spoon in her hands until she finally put it down. I could see her shoulders shaking slightly. My heart thumped. She’s trying to hide the fact that she likes chocolate chip cookies and vanilla ice cream…from me.
This can’t be a coincidence, I realized. There has to be some connection between Maggie and the missing people from the police reports I’d read. So it would make perfect sense that Maggie had decided she should try to convince Matt that the two of them were meant to be together, and one way to do that was by telling him what his favorite dessert was.
If Maggie wants him, he’ll listen to her.
Matt looked up then. And smiled.
His smile was dazzling; it lit up his whole face. For a brief moment, I was reminded that even though he looked like a tough-looking guy, Matt was kinder than almost anyone else I knew. When he smiled like that, it wasn’t because he was making fun of someone or being sarcastic.
It wasn’t because he thought he was better than anyone else; Matt never made assumptions about other people or their abilities, and he was always open to new experiences.
So maybe Matt wasn’t a bad man; he wasn’t a criminal; he wasn’t a murderer. And maybe, like Maggie, he was too trusting, too honest, too naive to notice the signs that everyone around him had been trained to notice, or that he himself had missed.
The smile faded and Matt’s attention shifted back to Maggie’s expression. “Is something wrong?” he asked cautiously, and I was surprised to find myself nodding.
Maggie’s face flushed. “No, no—” She cleared her throat. “Nothing.” She lifted her chin defiantly, although I couldn’t tell whether she was trying to show Matt she liked what he said or just wanted him to get off the subject before she embarrassed herself any further.
I couldn’t blame her for wanting to pretend nothing was happening. After all, Matt wasn’t really asking Maggie what she liked, he was giving her permission to ask him what he liked instead. The look on his face indicated that he would be happy to indulge her every question if she chose to continue.
I waited with bated breath for Maggie’s answer as Matt stared intently into her eyes. His eyes narrowed, and I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck, which is how I knew that he was seeing something more than Maggie’s expression, her tone of voice, or her body language. It was clear as day when Matt turned his gaze upon me. He was reading my mind.
***
It took Maggie a few seconds to understand the implications of Matt’s response. “Are you telling me that…” she began in disbelief. She frowned. “That isn’t possible.”
“What aren’t you saying? That I’m lying?” Matt raised an eyebrow, and Maggie shook her head. I knew why she was doing that: she was trying to make sure that Matt wasn’t thinking I was lying. But I’d already made that assumption.
Instead, I watched Matt turn back to Maggie and take a step closer so that his knees brushed against hers. He reached out, cupped her cheek, and kissed her softly on the forehead.
She didn’t protest. In fact, she leaned into him. I watched the corner of Matt’s mouth tug upward, as though he could hear her thoughts or feel her reaction, and was enjoying his ability to influence her even without talking aloud.
When Matt let go of Maggie, her face had gone red again, and she was staring at the floor, looking away. Matt’s hand found mine, and he squeezed my fingers before turning to Maggie and reaching for her hand as well. His grip was warm, strong…and gentle. “Can we talk later?” he asked quietly. “About this?”
“Sure,” Maggie replied automatically, still not looking at him. Her words were short, and there was something strained about her voice, but I was certain she wouldn’t deny Matt anything, not after the look in his eyes had suggested he would be willing to give her anything she wanted.
After Matt left the kitchen, Maggie walked over to the coffee table where I sat and stood beside me. We were alone now, and I felt awkward; I don’t know exactly how to act around Matt when I’m in a situation like this when he’s not with someone else.
But Maggie’s eyes were full of concern and worry, and they seemed to convey the message that she felt guilty for what she’d done to him earlier. And I guess I must have been feeling that guilt too because I wanted to reassure her.
“Hey!” I held my hands out to her but hesitated before reaching for her shoulder. Then I remembered I shouldn’t touch her until she offered me some skin contact, so I settled for putting my arm across the back of her chair. “How’re you holding up?”
“Um—” She glanced away nervously. “Okay.”
My stomach knotted as soon as I heard her word choice. Was she going to lie? “Did Matt say anything interesting?” I asked carefully.
Maggie hesitated, and then looked me straight in the eye. She nodded once, very briefly, then dropped her gaze again.
“Tell me what he said,” I insisted. “You can trust me.” I saw her tense and wondered if she might refuse. But instead, she nodded again and gave me a brief summary.
I thought he was going to tell her she was crazy and ask her if she meant that she loved him. Instead, he smiled and said that he didn’t think so.
Maggie looked confused by this response, and I understood why. It wasn’t a denial that he was right—he hadn’t said much yet anyway—just that Matt believed he had the power to read minds.
As far as Maggie was concerned, Matt was either insane or lying, which was what I expected from her. She had no reason to believe he was telling the truth, especially since he hadn’t told anyone himself that he could do it, and he hadn’t shown us his skills during the week we spent together. I didn’t want Maggie to think that Matt was lying about something so important, so I spoke up.
“Do you remember when we were first dating, and Matt said something similar?” I asked gently, and Maggie looked at me as though she couldn’t recall it. My heart ached for her. I tried to think of what else she could mean when she talked about the same thing Matt had said before.
She looked away and sighed as she recalled the night Matt had given her a rose, and I followed the direction of her gaze to find the box of roses sitting in the middle of our coffee table, surrounded by empty wine glasses.
“Remember when he asked you why you never touched the flowers?” I continued, remembering myself. “He said you never looked at them the way you had looked at other bouquets of flowers before.”
“Yes,” Maggie responded, nodding again. “I remember.”
Matt had told her the only person he’d seen who had the ability to look at a flower and appreciate its beauty without being distracted by what came next. He said that Maggie had been able to see the beauty of every individual petal. I thought back to the times Maggie had admired the flowers in our garden or had picked some blooms to bring inside and place on our kitchen counter.
She always made sure their leaves weren’t damaged when they were brought indoors, and sometimes, just when I started to forget how good they smelled, she would open a window and let the scent of them fill the house for hours. Maggie had the power to take joy in things without having them distract her from other priorities, which is what Matt had meant when he’d called her a rose.
And I suddenly understood what Matt had really implied by asking if she loved him. When she shook her head, I realized he knew all along that she was different.
I watched my best friend closely, wanting to know more about her inner thoughts, but she remained closed off. She looked away, down at the floor, and I saw her shoulders tense under her shirt as she tried to hold herself back from the feelings she had for Matt. She had been honest with us both, but she couldn’t say the words that I knew she desperately needed to hear. Not today.
“He wants to know whether you love him,” I said softly, and Maggie looked at me again, blinking rapidly. Then she took another deep breath, and I saw tears welling in her eyes. I reached for her hand, which trembled in mine, and squeezed gently.
Maggie’s voice was barely audible through the pain it contained. “He said you wouldn’t answer because you were afraid.” Her chin quivered, and she swallowed heavily.
Then Maggie lifted her hand and brushed a tear from her cheek. After she wiped off her hand and leaned forward, I put my hand back over hers. We sat silently, watching each other, until Maggie finally spoke.
“He was right.”
***
We didn’t speak as we drove home from the hospital, but Maggie didn’t seem eager to go anywhere in particular. Our destination was the apartment where I lived with Matt. It felt odd to drive there with Maggie after spending the week with her, but we didn’t have time to talk now.
When we pulled into the parking lot, the sun had already gone down, casting the building in darkness, but we had the lights turned on and the front door unlocked by the time we got inside. The place was a disaster area, which I had expected.
There were boxes stacked on top of each other all around the living room and kitchen, while the rest of the bedroom lay open to the hallway, revealing Matt’s desk, laptop computer, and piles of old papers. A few pieces of furniture were shoved aside or out of their places on shelves in order to clear the path to the bathroom and bedroom. It reminded me of a hoarder’s lair.
But we weren’t here for an inspection tour. Maggie stopped near the kitchen, where the stove stood covered in a mess of pots and pans. She glanced down at her arms, then at her hands, which were streaked with oil and sauce. Her long hair hung limp against her neck and shoulders. She looked tired, and her expression matched her appearance.
I was ready for her to sit down and relax after being cooped up in the car for half an hour, but Maggie seemed determined to finish this job before leaving Matt’s apartment, even if it took her until midnight to do so.
“You need a shower,” I said, trying to encourage her to take care of herself before she went home. My words must have hit their mark, because she nodded, though it wasn’t much of a response. I helped her push the oven door shut, then grabbed the closest pot from where it was sitting on the kitchen counter and filled the sink with hot water.
As I waited for it to heat up, I found myself wondering what Maggie’s life would be like once we left town.
If she stayed here, she could probably handle Matt on her own. But if she went back to New York—which was where she belonged, given that she worked for the government—she might not be able to manage anything on her own, at least not until she’d gained the experience Matt would have imparted during his time with her.
I thought of how many questions Matt had asked Maggie about her work, and wondered how well he’d done explaining the specifics of what she did to her. Maybe he’d learned enough from her that she could figure out something else on her own, but I doubted it.
She’d told him about her job. And he’d asked about it when we talked last night, but I don’t think he understood any of the details. He didn’t seem very interested, anyway. He just listened, and I suspected his attitude hadn’t changed since yesterday morning.
I didn’t see him asking any more about her past. I hoped Matt had decided it was safe to trust her—enough that he no longer needed to know everything. Maggie certainly deserved some privacy, even if she hadn’t given him much to start with.
Once the water heated up, I grabbed two towels from the hall closet and headed back to the kitchen, carrying them with me as I went. I saw Maggie standing near the stove, staring at it as steam billowed out of the vent, her face drawn.
It wasn’t hard to imagine she was picturing Matt inside, boiling his brains away as soon as he returned to work tomorrow morning. Maggie’s lips moved in a silent prayer of protection.
The sound of running water made me turn toward the sink, and I watched as Maggie washed her hands and scrubbed them until they were completely dry. When she finished, she wrapped a towel around her head and another around her waist, covering most of her front but leaving her midriff bare. “Can you give me a hand?” she asked, gesturing with a finger towards the stove.
I set the towels down on the floor beside us and picked up one of the pots, then reached in to pull up the handle of a pan hanging from the stovetop. As I straightened up, my eyes caught the reflection of the cabinets reflected in the pan and I noticed something strange in the reflection.
Something black. Or maybe red. Then I realized what it was—a small piece of fabric attached to the edge of a cabinet shelf. The same kind of cloth I’d seen earlier in the bathroom mirror. I turned in a slow circle and scanned the rest of the kitchen, looking for more such scraps. Nothing. No sign anywhere that anyone had been here recently.
Maggie must have spotted it first. She pointed at it, her voice full of concern. “That’s blood.”
I dropped the pan back onto its hook and knelt next to her, peering closely at the spot. “Is it?”
She shook her head and leaned closer to inspect it, wiping her hands on the sides of her apron. “No, it’s just paint…or glue. Matt’s doing something here, but I can’t tell what from this distance.” She glanced over her shoulder into the kitchen where Matt’s apartment was behind us, then at the stove again, her eyebrows raised in confusion.
I stood up and crossed to the sink, turning on the water and leaning in close to the taps to adjust the temperature. It took several minutes to get the water warm enough to wash off whatever was splashed on the cabinet door—though considering the amount of time Matt spent with a knife in his hands, I wouldn’t have been surprised to find that the whole thing was covered with blood.
Instead, I only managed to wash off some of the dried paint from the metal cabinet handle.
Maggie joined me by the sink, looking carefully at the cabinet handle in question. Her face scrunched up in disgust when she found an area where there was still blood on the metal. “This is so awful,” she murmured, wringing her hands together as if she could erase it somehow.
“It’ll come right off with some water and soap,” I replied.
“We should call the police about this,” she said, shaking her head. “They have to send someone out here to clean this mess up, don’t they?”
I looked around the room again. “Where do you think they’d take evidence like this? How would we ever get it back from them?”
I heard Matt open his bedroom door, but I ignored him.
After drying off, Maggie retrieved the towels from the kitchen and folded them before handing them back to me. “Matt isn’t going to be home for a while, is he?” she asked, glancing around the living room.
My stomach sank as I realized Matt wasn’t in his apartment at all. I followed her gaze and my heart lurched to a stop. There he was, standing in the hallway outside of his bedroom, naked except for the bandages covering half of his torso. The other side was still exposed, though not nearly as much as before.
His hair was matted and tangled and dark circles hung under his eyes, and yet he seemed to glow with energy and vitality compared to how he looked just minutes ago. I hadn’t seen him without clothes on since he was sixteen, and now that I did, I felt myself blush.
Even with his injuries, I couldn’t help noticing his physique, strong muscles that rippled beneath his skin, a six-pack I imagined Matt didn’t have until today. A man, I realized uncomfortably, even when injured.
The End