EverHeart

Chapter 10: The Things We Don't Ask

LUCY

The piece of metal from Cala Verde sat on my kitchen table for three hours before Marco asked about it.

I considered that impressive.

He had asked about almost everything else.

Why the ceiling fan clicked every seventh rotation. Why I kept three kinds of tea when I only drank coffee. Why I owned two identical white shirts.

He had not asked why I'd scrubbed the sand from a burned fragment of metal and spent most of the morning turning it beneath the kitchen light.

Instead, he made pancakes.

Badly.

“That's burning.”

“No, it isn't.”

Smoke drifted toward the window.

“Marco.”

“It's caramelizing.”

“Pancakes don't caramelize.”

“Maybe mine do.”

He lifted one edge.

Black.

We both stared.

“Rustic,” he said.

“Carbonized.”

“You're very negative before coffee.”

“I've had coffee.”

“That explains the focus.”

The pancake went into the bin.

The next one survived.

Progress.

I turned the fragment beneath the light.

Slightly longer than my thumb. Thin along one edge, thicker along the other. Heat damage blackened one end.

The grooves bothered me.

Four narrow channels.

One wider.

Too deliberate.

Marco placed a plate beside my elbow.

A pancake sat on it.

Brown this time.

“That one's safe.”

“Reassuring.”

“I ate part of it.”

“Less reassuring.”

He sat opposite me with four pancakes of his own.

Of course.

I took a bite.

Surprisingly edible.

Marco noticed.

“Good?”

“Acceptable.”

“You like it.”

“I said acceptable.”

“You took a second bite.”

“That's how food works.”

His grin widened.

Behind him, the pale blue shirt he'd bought in San Telmo hung over a chair.

“Your shirt.”

He glanced back.

“What about it?”

“Bedroom.”

“It's drying.”

“It is dry.”

“How do you know?”

“I have eyes.”

He looked at the shirt.

Then me.

“I'll move it.”

He did not.

I decided to lose that battle later.

His gaze finally dropped to the metal.

“So.”

“So?”

“You know what it is?”

“No.”

True.

“But you have an idea.”

“That wasn't the question.”

His fork stopped.

Then he laughed.

“Right.”

“What?”

“You're good at that.”

“At what?”

“Answering exactly what I asked and absolutely nothing I meant.”

Denying it would have insulted both of us.

“Yes.”

“At least you admit it.”

“Sometimes.”

He looked at the fragment again.

I could feel the larger questions behind his silence.

Why did I recognize heat damage?

Why had restraint marks on his wrists meant something to me?

Why did someone in administration travel constantly, carry cash, notice exits and know how to ground someone through a traumatic memory?

Marco wasn't stupid.

He was patient.

That was becoming a problem.

“You can ask.”

His eyes lifted.

“Can I?”

“Yes.”

“Will you answer?”

“That depends.”

“There it is.”

“What?”

“The trap.”

“There isn't a trap.”

“You say I can ask, then reserve the right to answer nothing.”

“That is how questions work.”

“Not normal ones.”

“Especially normal ones.”

A faint smile.

Then he looked down.

The question never came.

Instead—

“Do you want another pancake?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

He reached over, took the remaining half from my plate and ate it.

I stared.

“What?”

“That wasn't yours.”

“You stopped eating it.”

“That doesn't make it yours.”

“I thought we'd established a system.”

“We've established nothing.”

“You give me food.”

“I gave you chicken once.”

“And mango.”

“You stole the mango.”

“Shared custody.”

“Marco.”

He grinned.

The moment passed.

Deliberately.

I knew because he knew I knew.

That was new too.

---

Cami arrived before lunch carrying laundry detergent.

“I need both of you.”

“No.”

“You don't even know why.”

“I've learned.”

Marco leaned out of the kitchen.

“What's wrong?”

Cami pointed at him.

“This is why I like him.”

“He says yes before learning enough to regret it.”

“Exactly.”

“That isn't a strength.”

“It is for me.”

Her aunt needed tables moved.

That was apparently an emergency.

As Cami opened the refrigerator for juice, she said, “Unlike certain people, I notice things.”

“I notice things.”

“You notice suspicious strangers, exits, and whether people are lying.”

My hand stilled.

One second.

Nothing more.

Marco answered before I could when Cami asked where the juice was.

“Bottom shelf.”

He knew my kitchen now.

Cami found it.

Then stared at the eggs.

“Why are there three trays?”

“Responsible planning,” Marco said.

“You've corrupted her.”

“He has not.”

“You bought thirty-six eggs.”

“Thirty.”

Marco lifted a finger.

“We've used six.”

I closed my eyes.

“Can we move the tables?”

---

Aunt Teresa's café did not need four people to rearrange its outdoor furniture.

That became obvious immediately.

“This one there,” she said.

Marco and Nico lifted a table.

“Where?” Nico asked.

“There.”

Nico stared.

“That's where it was.”

“No, it wasn't.”

“It absolutely was.”

“Move it.”

They moved it.

Aunt Teresa considered the result.

“No. Back.”

Nico muttered something that made Cami choke on her food.

Marco laughed.

I leaned against the railing.

There was no reason for me to be there.

I had planned to spend the morning reading.

Instead, I was watching Marco argue with an elderly woman over forty centimeters of furniture placement.

I didn't mind.

That was the problem.

“Lucy.”

Cami's voice had gone quiet.

Marco and Nico had disappeared around the building for another table.

“What?”

“You like having him there.”

“Who?”

She gave me a look.

“That was embarrassing.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Marco.”

“He needs somewhere to stay.”

“I know.”

“He has no money.”

“I know.”

“No memory.”

“I was there for that part.”

“So?”

“So nothing.”

“Good.”

She watched me.

I disliked socially perceptive people.

It felt invasive.

“You're different with him.”

“No, I'm not.”

“You are.”

“How?”

She actually thought about it.

Worse.

Then—

“You make room.”

I said nothing.

Marco and Nico returned before I had to.

They were arguing.

“Your side hit the wall.”

“Because you turned.”

“You said left.”

“My left.”

“You don't get a personal left!”

Cami laughed.

Aunt Teresa shouted another direction.

The conversation disappeared beneath the noise.

I told myself I was grateful.

---

Marco and I walked home after lunch.

Our steps had started matching without discussion.

I noticed because I noticed things.

Nothing more.

“What did Cami say to you?”

“When?”

“At the café.”

“Why?”

“You looked annoyed.”

“I often look annoyed.”

“Yes, but differently.”

I disliked that answer.

“She said nothing important.”

“Mm.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“That isn't nothing.”

He smiled.

We walked another half block.

“You don't have to tell me,” he said.

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“Okay.”

There should have been relief.

Instead, something pressed beneath my ribs.

“You didn't ask about the metal.”

Marco looked at me.

“I did.”

“No. You almost did.”

“There's a difference?”

“Yes.”

He adjusted the paper bag he was carrying.

Then—

“You'll tell me if it's dangerous?”

I stopped.

Marco took another step before turning.

He hadn't asked what I knew.

Or why I might know it.

Just that.

Danger.

“Yes.”

His shoulders loosened.

“Okay.”

“You believe me?”

“Yeah.”

Simple.

Immediate.

It landed harder than it should have.

“Why?”

He frowned.

“Because you said you would.”

“That isn't a reason.”

“Seems like one.”

“You barely know me.”

Something almost amused entered his expression.

“Lucy.”

“What?”

“I woke up with no idea who I was, and you were there.”

I went still.

“You could've lied to me about anything.”

“You don't know that I didn't.”

“No.”

His voice remained easy.

“But you took me to a doctor. Reported me to the police. Went to San Telmo when you didn't have to. Took me back to Cala Verde because I asked, even though you clearly hated the idea.”

“I didn't hate it.”

“You cleaned the same counter three times.”

Twice.

Possibly three.

Irrelevant.

“So yeah.” He shrugged. “I trust you.”

My hand tightened around my bag strap.

There were things I could have said.

That trust should be earned more carefully.

That he didn't know enough about me to make that decision.

That Lucy Hart was true only in the ways I allowed her to be.

Instead—

“That's reckless.”

Marco smiled.

“Probably.”

Then he started walking.

I followed.

Of course I did.

---

At the cottage, Marco put the remaining pastry on my plate without eating it.

A peace offering.

He went outside to deal with the laundry.

I returned to the metal.

Four narrow channels.

One wide.

Not civilian construction.

The spacing was familiar.

Not the piece itself.

The design philosophy.

Conduction paths. Energy routing.

Something intended to carry more than electricity.

I'd seen similar work years ago, in reinforced rooms where engineers argued over tolerances until midnight.

There were people who could identify it.

One person in particular could probably tell me within minutes.

A photograph.

One message.

I would get an answer.

Then questions.

Where did you find it?

Was anyone hurt?

Questions became conversations.

Conversations became reports.

Eventually someone would decide whatever I'd found required attention.

Possibly it did.

For years, being reachable had been less a habit than a condition of existence.

Someone always needed an answer.

A decision.

Approval.

Intervention.

Moira was supposed to be one month in which nobody needed anything from me.

Then a dying man washed onto my beach.

Through the open back door, Marco was attempting to fold a fitted sheet.

Badly.

He held two corners and stared at the rest with open hostility.

The sight shouldn't have affected my decision.

It did.

Whoever had hurt him had restrained him.

Injected him with something.

Done enough damage that the wound I'd watched close should have killed an ordinary man.

And if I asked the wrong person the right question, Marco would stop being a man recovering in my guest room.

He would become information.

A report.

An anomaly someone needed explained.

Perhaps a problem someone believed they had the authority to solve.

I knew too well how quickly that could happen.

My fingers tightened around the metal.

No.

Not yet.

Not without knowing more.

I placed it in the small wooden box inside the kitchen drawer.

Not discarded.

Not forgotten.

Later.

“Lucy!”

I closed the drawer.

“What?”

“How is this supposed to fold?”

“It's a sheet.”

“That wasn't my question.”

“Use your medical training.”

“That feels insulting to medicine.”

I went outside.

Marco held up the fitted sheet.

Somehow, it looked worse.

I took one end.

He looked at me.

Neither of us mentioned the metal.

He didn't ask why I knew what danger looked like.

I didn't ask why a man without memories knew how to check a pulse, redirect a rope, identify ingredients by smell, or go quiet at the sight of open water.

There were questions between us.

More every day.

We knew where they were.

For now, that seemed enough.

“Your corner,” I said.

Marco looked down.

“This?”

“No.”

“This?”

“The other one.”

“There are four.”

“That is generally how rectangles work.”

He stared at me.

Then laughed.

The sheet sagged between us in the afternoon light.

And together, badly, we folded it.