I brought home Chinese takeout, both my favorites and Elliot’s, to celebrate the breakthrough in the case and to apologize for being late. I’d bought extra for Henry, who I knew was obsessed with shrimp fried rice and scallion pancakes.
I pushed through the front door, setting down the bulging bag of food so that I could take off my boots, then shuck my coat, mittens, and scarf.
“Do I smell Chinese?” I heard Elliot call from the living room.
I smiled as I picked up the bag and carried it into the kitchen. “Either that, or you’re having a stroke,” I called back.
I was unpacking the big white bag when Henry shuffled in. “I’ll get out of your hair,” he said.
“I brought fried rice and scallion pancakes just for you, though,” I told him, offering a smile along with the two containers.
Henry’s wrinkled face split into a grin. “Well, now, that’s nice.” He went to the cupboard and got out plates, handing me two before taking the last and dishing himself up some food.
I opened the other containers, making up a plate for myself and another for Elliot while Henry carried his dinner back into the living room and settled in the armchair. I followed, handing Elliot his plate. He set it on his lap, then immediately took his fork and started eating, making happy sounds.
I hid my smile behind my own food.
I’d meant to tell Elliot—and Henry, if he was there—immediately that Smith now had evidence linking Buettner to the dead animals, but he seemed quite happy just to be eating Chinese food.
“Henry?” I asked.
“Hmm?”
“How many of the little seafoam green pills did he take?” The surgeon had given Elliot a prescription for oxycodone.
“One this morning, and then another tonight,” Henry replied. “But only about forty minutes ago.” Which meant that the initial rush of being pain- and care-free had just hit him. Shifter metabolism meant that we needed higher doses—or more frequent doses—of medications to get the same effect.
“Ah,” I replied. Now was probably not the time to try to talk to Elliot about anything serious.
“Why?”
I shrugged. “He just seems happier than normal to have Chinese food.”
“I like Chinese food,” Elliot objected.
Henry let out a little huff of a laugh.
“I know,” I told Elliot. “That’s why I got some.”
He nodded happily. “Especially sweet and sour chicken. And the crab rangoon. You got me crab rangoon.”
Given that the little friend wontons were stuffed with cream cheese, we didn’t often get them, since Elliot usually wanted us to be able to share everything.
“I did,” I replied, amused.
“Because you love me.”
I couldn’t help laughing, both at Elliot’s drugged earnestness and Henry’s clearly entertained expression. “Yes,” I confirmed. “Because I love you.”
Call me?
It was Noah.
Henry had left—sent off with the leftover shrimp fried rice and scallion pancakes, as well as some of the dozens of fortune cookies they threw in the bag—and I’d gotten Elliot settled in bed. He’d fallen asleep pretty much instantly as soon as I’d given him his night-time meds, although these were basic anti-inflammatories, aspirin, and steroids, not narcotics.
I closed the bedroom door on Elliot’s sleeping form, then went into the living room to call Noah.
He answered after the second ring.
