Cast the First Stone by David Warren (i have read the book a hundred times txt) 📗

they can stop hoping and start figuring out how to live with the wreckage of their lives.”

I hear my own jaded history in my words, the fact my parents spent the better part of their lives holding onto a barren hope. I’m not sure why I let this spill out, maybe remnants of the frustration of my waking life, the fact that I still haven’t mended from my own jagged pieces. Maybe you never do, really. Maybe, when tragedy hits, all you have left is the broken shards of happiness.

My sudden morose comment has pushed silence between us, stolen the magic from the dream.

As is her nature, Eve rescues me. “That’s why I became a CSI. Answers.” She offers me a smile. “We’ll find the bomber, Rem.”

I nod, the image of Melinda Jorgenson and her son suddenly in my head.

And, she called me Rem. Nice. We’re making progress.

She grabs a napkin and wipes off her fingers. “I think I’ll get my father your book for Christmas. Maybe you could sign it for me.” She grins, and something about it strikes me as different, odd. Whole, unreserved.

It makes me, ache, suddenly, to see it. Because I really miss that smile, the one without the fractures.

If I could stop her father and brother’s murders, that would also be on my list of items to revisit. Another dream for another day, perhaps.

“No problem,” I say.

Her cell phone rings and she pulls out an ancient, but probably fairly new, Nokia, presses it on. “This is Eve.”

By her wince, the way her fingers go to her nose, pinching the bridge, I immediately want to leap in and fix whatever the problem is.

Habits.

“Okay, fine Sams. Just get the water on as soon as you can…”

Samson, her younger brother. He’s a big real estate mogul now, but he started out working with his hands. He comes over every now and again and gives me grief about my meager remodeling skills, which frankly aren’t that terrible.

I remember the wretched job he did on her kitchen in that tiny bungalow. Those terrible ice-blue tiles—wait, she must be mid-remodel right now. And, if I’m reading the conversation clues right, without plumbing.

I’m barely stopping myself from offering her the use of my place, because I really do know better, but see, I also know…well, my wife. And how she loves her nightly baths. And more than that, seeing her young, and pretty and without the grief and worry and years and years of frustration that I’m about to put her through…

I’d like to skip that part, please. Get right to the moment I come to my senses and propose. But that’s a good decade from now, so…

Except, this is a dream, right? I can do what I want.

“Yeah, I was there. It was bad.” Her conversation has switched direction, and she glances at me. She’s talking about the bombing. “I can’t discuss the case, Sams—fine. No, I don’t think it was political. Why would it be? It was a coffee shop.”

She’s frowning.

Samson, for all his brawn, started out with a philosophy degree, and has spent most of his life exploring the planet, when he isn’t installing reclaimed wood in new suburban kitchens. Two years ago, he hiked Machu Picchu, and before that spent a summer in the Borneo rainforest working on a clean water project. Eve has always thought it’s his way of living Asher’s dreams.

But his question has my ears perking up. We never nailed down a motive for the bombings. I file it away however when she hangs up, returning to my previous thought.

“You’re out of water?”

She nods, then shakes her head. “I bought this cute bungalow off—

Webster Ave South.

I nearly say it, but something inside me cuts me off. A weird gut feeling I can’t put a name to.

“Webster and Lake. It was built in 1941, so the plumbing is archaic. I don’t know why I agreed to a full-on remodel, but—”

“You like a challenge,” I say quietly, smiling.

She meets my eyes, something playful in them that I like.

Burke is rolling his eyes. He’s finished with his brat and I’m guessing the photos have processed by now, so I signal to the waiter for the check.

We’re back in the photo lab thirty minutes later and Eve lays out the pictures on a massive work table. “Which ones do you want enlarged?”

I lean over her, aware that she smells good for a woman without a shower, and point to the twenty or so of the crowd.

Meanwhile, I’ve asked Burke to get that list of coffee shops together because I’ve been wracking my brain for hours and I still can’t pull up the location of the second bombing.

While my subconscious tracks it down inside my dream, I’ll drive around, maybe help the memory surface. Once I find it, I’ll just grab a table inside, study the pictures and wait for the bomber to show up.

The hardest part will be convincing Burke that I haven’t lost my mind. I’ve toyed with the idea of simply telling him that we’re in my dream, but I’m not sure that’d make him any more cooperative.

So, I’m back to my gut, my instincts, and hoping that’s enough for my partner of three years.

Eve slides the negatives into an envelope and hands them to an assistant, with the request. “Can I bum a ride back to the warehouse with you? Silas has identified some of the bomb fragments.”

I have to pick up my wheels anyway, so I nod.

We drop her off at the warehouse, and with everything inside me, I want to suggest a get-together, later, at my place, something involving my shower.

But I’ll wait until I wake up. Until it’s real, despite the magic of this dream that allows me to smell the scent of her in Burke’s car when I climb back in.

In this time, this dream, she’s not mine yet, and somehow that thought puts a hand to my heart. Me, trying to be the guy I should have been.

Besides, I