Free Dead of Winter by P. J. Parrish

Cocoa.”
    He went to the kitchen, pulling out a small pot and the can of Nestlé’s from the cupboard. He got out the milk carton and saw it was nearly empty. He poured what was left into the pot and added tap water. As he waited for it to heat, he glanced back at her. She was just sitting there, staring into the fire. He quickly stirred the lukewarm cocoa and brought it back to the living room.
    She took the cup, cradling it in her hands, her eyes on him as he sat back down. He took a drink and grimaced.
    “It’s terrible,” he said.
    “It’s fine.” She glanced over his shoulder at the door. He sensed that she wanted to leave. He wasn’t going to let her, not if he could help it.
    “So, tell me about your paintings,” he said.
    “I’d rather not.”
    “Why?”
    “My work is private. I find it hard to talk to strangers about it.” When she saw the look on his face, she shook her head. “I’m sorry. That sounded pretentious.”
    “No, that’s all right,” Louis said quickly. “I understand.”
    “Do you know the Beauman Gallery on Lake Shore Drive?”
    “Never been to Chicago.”
    “Oh...well, that’s who handles my work.”
    The room was silent except for the crackle of the fire. He was trying to decide whether to tell her he was a cop. He could never tell what sort of reaction that would draw from a woman. Some were intrigued, a few repulsed. Most were just puzzled. Zoe Devereaux, his instincts were telling him, needed only the smallest excuse to bolt and he didn’t want his badge to be it. He took a sip of cocoa, looking at her profile out of the corner of his eye.
    Jesus, what a face. Not exactly beautiful, certainly not pretty. She was obviously mixed. But of what? A faint memory came to him in that instant. A memory of himself as a child, sitting on the worn wooden porch. A woman was brushing his hair. His mother? He couldn’t see her face. He saw the faces, though, of the three little black girls who stood barefoot in the dirt watching in fascination. Can we touch it? One asked shyly, can we touch his hair? It was the first time he realized he was different.
    His eyes traveled to Zoe’s hair. It was almost dry now, forming a soft cascade of tight curls around her face. It was neither black nor brown exactly, but the color of the last leaves of fall, wet from the rain.
    “You’re staring at me again.”
    He smiled slightly. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just — ”
    “What?”
    He shook his head. “It’s personal.”
    “Go ahead,” she said.
    He hesitated.
    “My mother was Korean,” Zoe said evenly. “My father was black. Is that what you wanted to ask?”
    Louis nodded. “You were born here?”
    “No, in Korea. My mother died and I was in an orphanage for a year. Then one day this man showed up, this tall, black, American soldier. He told me he was my father. He took me to California.” Zoe leaned back against the sofa. “I was ten years old.”
    “That’s incredible,” Louis said.
    “What?”
    “That he went back for you.”
    She nodded then seemed to drift off to some private place. “I loved him,” she said after a moment. She looked up at him, her eyes warmed by the fire.
    Louis waited, sensing she wanted to go on. He wanted her to, feeling that if she did the moment could last, maybe grow into something more. But she remained silent, her eyes vacant in the waning firelight. It occurred to him that she talked of her father in the past tense. He was dead and Louis had the feeling it was recent. She had the aura of a person in mourning, still tender to the touch.
    “He passed away?” Louis asked gently.
    She nodded, not looking at him.
    Louis regretted asking the question. It had apparently taken her further into some private place.
    “He was killed,” she said suddenly. “It was during the Watts riot. A sniper bullet.”
    Louis drew in a deep breath. “Jesus,” he said softly.
    “He was a policeman,” Zoe said.
    “What?” he said.
    “He was in one of the