Rose Petal Graves

CHAPTER FOUR ROSE PETALS

"It wasn't me," Blake said. I could hear he was at work from the sound of oil sizzling.

"What do you mean it wasn't you?" I asked, putting my cell phone on speaker so I could pull off my jeans.

"Maybe your dad cleaned it up?"

I frowned as I turned on the shower. "Maybe," I said, but considering the state my father was in that morning, I doubted it was him. "Is your grams keeping the place open tonight?"

"Yes and it's packed. Who knew blizzards could be so good for business?"

"People are getting dinner and a show."

Blake laughed. "Did the new medical examiner already leave town?"

"Nope."

There was silence on the other end of the line. "Is he still at your place?"

"Yep."

"Is he staying the night?"

"Yep." I picked up the tweezers from the mug in which I kept my makeup, the one with the quote written in rainbow colors that read, "Don't count the days. Make the days count." Bee had given me that mug for graduation because of the calendar I kept pinned to our fridge on which I would tick off the days until college. She knew how excited I was to leave home. I plucked stray hairs around my eyebrows, then dropped the tweezers back into the mug.

"He knew there'd be a snowstorm," Blake said. "He should've left your place earlier. He did it on purpose."

"Look, I got to go."

"Call me later?"

Steam blurred my reflection in the mirror. "Sure, but don't worry."

"I care about you, Cat. I cannot not worry," he said as I dragged my finger through the condensation.

I'd drawn a heart. I wiped it off. "I'll be fine." Blake had feelings for me. He'd had feelings for me since the summer I'd turned thirteen and we'd kissed in his tree house. "I'll call you later," I said, and then disconnected.

I placed my phone on the edge of the sink and stepped into the shower. The dried paint flaked off my skin and glided down the drain along with the warm water. I scrubbed my body with the lavender-scented bar of soap Aylen had cooked up in her kitchen. Making soap was her hobby; she was a naturopath by profession. Like Mom, she believed in the power of nature, which had led to heated conversations around the dinner table when I'd announced my desire to be a real doctor. Aylen had taken my comment to heart. Although she was quick to forgive me, she was also quick to point out the flaws in modern medicine.

As I dried off, a plate broke in the kitchen. When I heard my dad swearing, I hurried to get dressed, pulling on a fresh pair of jeans and a red sweater. I hurtled down the stairs just as a glass shattered. My father was crouched on the floor, scooping up the pieces of porcelain and glass with his bare hands.

"Let me take care of that, Dad," I said, helping him up. Both his palms were bleeding.

"She's not coming back, Cat. Never coming back," he murmured. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot.

I guided him toward the sink and ran cool water over his hands, then I blotted away the blood and water, sprayed antiseptic on the cuts, and plastered bandages that would probably not hold.

"Am I interrupting?" Cruz asked from the doorway. He was holding a bottle of wine with a peeling, yellowy label.

Dad sniffled. "No, no. Just clumsy, that's all."

"I brought wine," Cruz said.

"That's very kind of you," he said softly.

"The corkscrew's in the top right drawer," I told Cruz, as I walked Dad to the living room and sat him down. I passed him the box of tissues and fluffed a pillow behind his back, then returned to the kitchen to clean up, but Cruz had already swept away the mess, which reminded me... "Did you clean the car?"