Through the Heart by Kate Morgenroth

INVESTIGATION
    STATISTICS
     
     
     
     
    “Who kills whom?” This question is posed in Martin Daly and Margo Wilson’s book Homicide.
    To try to answer the question, Daly and Wilson did an analysis of the murder cases in Detroit in 1972. In that year 512 cases of homicide were solved: 243 were unrelated acquaintances of the murderers, 138 strangers, 127 “relatives,” and in 4 cases the relationship was unknown.
    The fact that 127 perpetrators out of 512 were “relatives” means that one of every four victims was related to the killer. Of the 127 victims who were related to their killers, 32 were blood relations, 10 were in-laws, 5 were step-relations, and 80 were spouses (36 women were killed by their husbands and 44 men were killed by their wives).

Nora

    Nora Says Yes to a Date
     
     
     
     
     
     
    He walked back into Starbox first thing the next morning. No suit this time. He wore a pair of slacks and a long-sleeved T-shirt, but both looked crisp and perfect in the way that clothes usually only look in the movies.
    I watched him come in, my face (I hoped) a blank.
    He didn’t smile either. He was very serious as he walked up to the counter and said, “I’d like a pumpkin-spice latte please.”
    I nodded. “To stay or to go?”
    “To stay?” When he said it, he made it a half question.
    I just nodded again.
    I took a mug, and even though Neil wasn’t in yet, I made the pumpkin latte as if he were standing there watching me: four full squirts of pumpkin syrup.
    When I was done, I brought it back to where Timothy stood waiting and put it down on the counter.
    He picked up the mug, and he drank the whole thing. What was even more impressive was that he didn’t even flinch. He put the cup down, took a napkin out of the dispenser, and wiped the edges of his mouth with it.
    Then he said, “You were right yesterday about me trying to prove something.”
    “You’re still trying to prove something,” I pointed out, flicking my finger at the cup.
    “You’re right again.”
    “So?”
    “So . . . do you think you could make me an espresso? I think I might need a palate cleanser.”
    I laughed. And then I made him a double. I brought it back over to him, and he picked it up and tossed it back expertly, like he did it every day of the week—which he probably did.
    “That’s better. Thank you.”
    He paused, running his finger around the rim of his empty espresso cup. Then he said, “What I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry for how it went yesterday.”
    “Just saying sorry might have been easier,” I said. “You didn’t need to drink the pumpkin latte.”
    The wince he had suppressed while drinking showed itself then.
    “Now you tell me. I don’t remember you saying anything about that before you made it and put in down in front of me.”
    “You seemed very determined.”
    “I was. I am.”
    He let that sit out there for a minute.
    Then he said, “Can I take you out for another cup of coffee? Maybe a slice of apple pie loaded with shortening?”
    “You ate my apple pie, didn’t you?”
    “I did,” he said. “It was delicious.”
    “I know.”
    “It would have been even better if I could have eaten it in peace.”
    “Jeanette?” I guessed, though it wasn’t really a guess.
    “Good Lord,” he said, with feeling. “Like getting thrown into the lion’s cage before dinner.”
    “No one but yourself to blame for that,” I pointed out. “You encouraged her.”
    “Because I thought you would be there to protect me.”
    I raised my eyebrows at him.
    “I miscalculated,” he admitted.
    “And that doesn’t happen often,” I guessed.
    “Almost never.”
    “And the times someone has walked out on you?” I asked.
    He thought for a second. “Never.”
    “Well, it’s not a party trick. It was a first for me too,” I said.
    “I know,” he told me. “I can smell a strategy a mile away. You never expected to see me again, did you?”
    “No.”
    “But you don’t seem upset