The Witness

7

Arkansas, 2012

Sometimes being the chief of police in a little town tucked into the Ozarks like a sleepy cat in the crook of an elbow just sucked right out loud.

As a for instance, arresting a guy you played ball with in high school because he grew up to be an asshole. Though Brooks considered being an asshole a God-given right rather than a criminal offense, Tybal Crew was currently sleeping off several more than one too many shots of Rebel Yell.

Brooks considered overindulging in whiskey, on occasion, another God-given right. But when that indulgence invariably caused a man to stumble home and give his wife a couple of good, solid pops in the face, it crossed the line to criminal offense.

And it sucked. Out loud.

And it sucked louder yet as sure as daisies bloomed in the spring, Missy Crew—former co-captain of the Bickford Senior High School cheerleading squad—would rush into the station before noon, claiming Ty hadn’t clocked her, oh no. She’d run into a door, a wall, tripped on the stairs.

No amount of talk, sympathy, annoyance, charm, threats would persuade her—or him—they needed some help. They’d kiss and make up as if Ty had been off to war for a year, likely go home and fuck like rabid minks.

In a week or two, Ty would get his hands on another bottle of Rebel Yell, and they’d all go around again.

Brooks sat in his preferred booth at Lindy’s Café and Emporium, stewing over the situation as he ate breakfast.

Nobody fried up eggs and bacon and home fries like Lindy, but the fat and grease and crunch just didn’t cheer Brooks up.

He’d come back to Bickford six months before to take on the job as chief after his father’s heart attack. Loren Gleason—who’d tried to teach Ty Crew and just about every other high-schooler the mysteries of algebra—bounced back. And with the nutrition and exercise regimen Brooks’s mother had put the poor guy on, he was healthier than he’d likely been in his life.

But still, the incident had left Brooks shaken, and needing home. So after a decade in Little Rock, a decade on the Little Rock PD, the last five as a detective, he’d turned in his papers and scooped up the recently open position of chief.

Mostly, it was good to be home. He hadn’t known how much he’d missed it until he’d moved back full-time. It occurred to him that he’d probably say the same about Little Rock, should he ever go back, but for now, Bickford suited him just fine. Just dandy.

Even when the job sucked.

He liked having breakfast once or twice a week at Lindy’s, liked the view of the hills outside his office window and the steadiness of the job. He liked the town, the artists, the potters, weavers, musicians—the yogis, the psychics, and all the shops and restaurants and inns that drew the tourists in to sample the wares.

The hippies had come and settled in the sixties—God knew why his mother, who’d changed her name from Mary Ellen to Sunshine and still went by Sunny, wandered down from Pennsylvania about a decade later. And so Sunshine had charmed or corrupted—depending on who was telling the story—a young, first-year math teacher.

They’d exchanged personal vows on the banks of the river, and set up house. A few years and two babies later, Sunny had bowed to the gentle, consistent pressure only his father could exert, and had made it legal.

Brooks liked to taunt his sisters that he was the only Gleason actually born in wedlock. They rebutted that he was also the only Gleason who had to pack heat to do his job.

He settled back with his coffee, easing himself into the day by watching the goings-on outside the window.

While it was too early for most of the shops to open, The Vegetable Garden had its sign out. He tried to spread his patronage around, so he stopped in for soup now and again, but he was an unapologetic carnivore, and just couldn’t see the purpose in something like tofu disguised as meat.

The bakery—now, they were doing some business. And Cup O’ Joe likely had its counter full. February had barely turned the corner into March, but the tourists from up north often moseyed down early in the year to get out of the worst bite of winter. The Bradford pears hinted at blossoms. In a week they’d put on their show. Daffodils crowded together in sidewalk tubs, yellow as sticks of butter.

Sid Firehawk’s truck farted explosively as it drove by. On a sigh, Brooks made a mental note to give Sid one more warning to get his goddamn muffler replaced.

Drunken wife smackers and noise polluters, Brooks thought. A hell of a long way from Robbery-Homicide. But mostly it suited him. Even when it sucked.

And when it didn’t, he thought, straightening in his seat for a better view.

He could admit to himself he’d planted himself in that seat early, on the off chance she’d come to town.

Abigail Lowery of the warm brown hair, exceptional ass and air of mystery. Pretty cat-green eyes, he thought, though she mostly kept them behind sunglasses.

She had a way of walking, Abigail Lowery did, with a purpose. She never moseyed or strolled or meandered. She only came into town every couple of weeks, shopped for groceries. Always early in the day but never on the same day. On rarer occasions, she went into one of the other shops, did her business briskly.

He liked that about her. The purpose, the briskness. He thought he might like more about her, but she kept to herself in a way that made your average hermit look like a social butterfly.

She drove a big, burly, black SUV, not that she did a lot of driving around that he’d noticed.

As far as he could tell, she stayed on her own spread of land, pretty as a picture and neat as a pin, according to the FedEx and UPS guys he’d subtly pumped for information.

He knew she planted both a vegetable garden and a flower garden in the spring, had her own greenhouse and a massive bullmastiff with a brindle coat she called Bert.

She was single—at least she had no one but Bert living with her, and wore no ring. The delivery guys termed her polite and generous, with a tip on Christmas, but standoffish.

Most of the townspeople termed her odd.

“Top that off for you?” Kim, his waitress, held out the pot of coffee.

“Wouldn’t mind, thanks.”

“Must be working. You looked cross as a bear when you walked in; now you’re all smiles.” She gave him a pat on the cheek.

She had a motherly way, which made him only smile wider, as she was barely five years his senior. “It’s getting the motor running.”

“I’d say she got it running.” Kim lifted her chin toward Abigail as she walked into the market on the near corner. “Got looks, anybody can see that, but she’s a strange one. She’s lived here almost a year, and not once has she stepped foot in here, or any of the other restaurants. She’s barely gone into any of the shops or businesses, either. Orders mostly everything online.”

“So I hear.”

“Nothing against Internet shopping. I do a bit of it myself. But we’ve got plenty to offer right here in town. And she barely has a word to say. Always polite when she does, but barely a word. Spends nearly every minute of every day up there on her place. All alone.”

“Quiet, mannerly, keeps to herself. She must be a serial killer.”

“Brooks.” Kim let out a snort and walked over to her next table, shaking her head.

He added a little sugar to his coffee, stirred it lazily with his eyes on the market. No reason, he decided, he couldn’t go on over. He knew how to mosey. Maybe pick up some Cokes for the station or … he’d think of something.

Brooks lifted a hip for his wallet, peeled out some bills, then slid out of the booth.

“Thanks, Kim. See you, Lindy.”

The beanpole with the gray braid down to his ass let out a grunt, waved his spatula.

He strolled out. He had his father’s height, and given Loren’s post–heart attack regimen, they shared the same lanky build. His mother claimed he got his ink-black hair from the Algonquin brave who’d captured his great-great—and possibly one more great—grandmother and made her his wife.

Then again, his mother was often full of shit, and often on purpose. His changeable hazel eyes could shift from greenish to amber or show hints of blue. His nose listed slightly to the left, the result of a grounder to third, a bad hop and missed timing. Sometimes he told a woman, if she should ask, that he’d gotten it in a fistfight.

Sometimes he was full of shit, like his mother.

The high-end market carried fancy foods at fancy prices. He liked the smell of the fresh herbs, the rich colors of the produce, the gleam of bottles filled with specialty oils, even the glint of kitchen tools he’d have no earthly idea how to use.

To his mind, a man could get along just fine with a couple of good knives, a spatula and a slotted spoon. Anything else was just showing off.

In any case, when he needed to shop for groceries—a chore he hated like rat poison—he frequented the Piggly Wiggly.

She was easy to spot as she selected a bottle of the pricy oil, then one of those strange vinegars.

And though it wasn’t as easy to spot, he registered the fact she had a sidearm under her hooded jacket.

He continued down the short aisle, considering.

“Ms. Lowery.”

She turned her head, and he had a good full-on look at her eyes for the first time. Wide and green, like moss in the shadows of a forest.

“Yes.”

“I’m Brooks Gleason. I’m chief of police.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Why don’t you let me carry that basket for you? It must be heavy.”

“No, thank you. It’s fine.”

“I can never figure out what people do with stuff like that. Raspberry vinegar,” he added, tapping the bottle in her basket. “It just doesn’t seem like a workable marriage.”

At her blank stare, he tried one of his best smiles. “Raspberries, vinegar. They don’t go together in my mind. Who thinks of things like that?”

“People who cook. If you’ll excuse me, I—”

“Me, I’m a throw-a-steak-on-the-grill kind of guy.”

“Then you shouldn’t have any need for raspberry vinegar. Excuse me. I have to pay for my groceries.”

Though in his experience the smile generally turned the tide with a woman, he refused to be discouraged. He just walked with her to the counter. “How are you doing out at the old Skeeter place?”

“I do very well, thank you.” She took a slim wallet out of a zippered compartment in her bag.

Angling it, he noted, so he couldn’t get a peek inside.

“I grew up here, moved to Little Rock for a spell. I moved back about six months after you got here. What brought you to Bickford?”

“My car,” she said, and had the clerk smothering a laugh.

A hard shell, he decided, but he’d cracked tougher nuts. “Nice car, too. I meant what drew you to this part of the Ozarks?”

She took out cash, handed it to the clerk when he rang up her total. “I like the topography. I like the quiet.”

“You don’t get lonely out there?”

“I like the quiet,” she repeated, and took her change.

Brooks leaned on the counter. She was nervous, he noted. It didn’t show, not on her face, her eyes, her body language. But he could feel it. “What do you do out there?”

“Live. Thank you,” she said to the clerk when he’d loaded the market bag she’d brought with her.

“You’re welcome, Ms. Lowery. See you next time.”

She shouldered the market bag, slipped her sunglasses back on, and walked out without another word.

“Not much for conversation, is she?” Brooks commented.

“Nope. Always real polite, but she doesn’t say much.”

“Does she always pay in cash?”

“Ah … I guess so, now that you mention it.”

“Well. You take care now.”

Brooks chewed it over as he walked to his car. Lack of conversational skills or inclination was one thing. But the sidearm added an element.

Plenty of people he knew had guns, but there weren’t many of them who hid them under a hoodie to go out to buy raspberry vinegar.

It seemed like he finally had an excuse to take a drive out to her place.

He stopped in at the station first. He commanded three full-time deputies on revolving shifts, two part-time, a full-time and a part-time dispatcher. Come summer, when the heat moved in like hell’s breath, he’d put the part-timers on full-time to help handle the tempers, the vandalism that came with boredom, and the tourists who paid more attention to the views than the road.

“Ty’s being a pain in the ass.” Ash Hyderman, his youngest deputy, sulked at his desk. Over the winter he’d tried growing a goatee without much luck, but hadn’t quite given it up.

He looked like he’d smudged his top lip and chin with butterscotch frosting.

“I got him breakfast like you said to do. He stinks like a cheap whore.”

“How do you know how a cheap whore smells, Ash?”

“I got imagination. I’m going home, okay, Brooks? I pulled the night shift since we had that stinking Ty back in the pen. And that damn cot about breaks your back.”

“I need to take a run. Boyd’s due in about now. He can take over. Alma’s due in, too. We’re covered as soon as they get here.”

“Where you going? You need backup?”

Brooks thought Ash would like nothing better than if they’d had some gang of desperados scream into town, blasting at everything. Just so he could be backup.

“I just want to check something out. Won’t be long. I’m on the radio if anything comes in. Tell Boyd to try to talk some sense into Missy when she comes crying how Ty never touched her. It won’t work, but he should try.”

“The thing is, Brooks, I think she must like it.”

“Nobody likes a fist in the face, Ash. But it can get to be a habit. On both sides. I’m on the radio,” he repeated, and left.

Abigail struggled with nerves, with temper, with the sheer irritation at having a task she particularly enjoyed spoiled by a nosy police chief with nothing better to do than harass her.

She’d moved to this pretty corner of the Ozarks precisely because she wanted no neighbors, no people, no interruptions to whatever routine she set for herself.

She drove down the winding up-and-down private road to her house in the woods. It had taken weeks to devise a blueprint for sensors, ones that wouldn’t go off if some rabbit or squirrel approached the house. More time to install them and the cameras, to test them.

But it had been worth it. She loved this house of rough-hewn logs and covered porches. The first time she’d seen it she thought of it as both fairy tale and home.

A mistake, she knew. She’d weaned herself off attachments, but she’d fallen for this spot. So wonderfully quiet she could hear the creek bubble and sing. So private and secluded, with its deep woods. And secure.

She’d seen to the security herself, and she trusted no one else.

Well, she thought, as she stopped the car. Except Bert.

The big dog sat on the covered front porch of the two-story cabin. Body alert, eyes bright. When she got out of the car, she signaled release. He bounded to her, all hundred and thirty pounds of him wriggling in joy.

“There’s my good boy. Best dog in the world. So smart. Just so smart.” She gave him a brisk rub before retrieving her market bag. “You wouldn’t believe the morning I had.”

She took out her keys as they walked to the house together on the narrow stone path. “Minding my own business, buying supplies, and the chief of police comes into the market to interrogate me. What do you think of that?”

She unlocked the two dead bolts, the police lock, then stepped inside to deactivate the alarm with a code she changed every three to five days.

“That’s what I thought, too.” She locked the door, secured the riot bar. “He was rude.”

She crossed the living room she’d set up for relaxation. She loved curling up there, a fire crackling, Bert at her feet. Reading or watching a DVD. And she had only to toggle over to have the view of her security cameras come on the large flat screen.

She moved back to the kitchen, with its secondary office area she’d set up in lieu of a dining room.

Out of habit, she checked the locks on the rear door, the tells she left on the windows. But she wasn’t afraid here. She believed, at last, she’d found a place where she wasn’t afraid. Still, vigilance was never wasted. She turned on the kitchen TV screen so it synched with the security cameras. She could put her groceries away—what she’d managed to buy before being interrupted—and do a perimeter check.

She gave Bert one of the gourmet dog treats she kept in a tin. She’d convinced herself he could tell the difference between them and lesser dog biscuits.

As her bodyguard, he deserved the best.

“I’ve got some work to do after this. I have to earn my fee on the Bosto account. Then we’ll go out, get some exercise. Give me an hour, then—”

She broke off, and Bert came to full alert as the drive alarm beeped.

“We’re not expecting any deliveries today.” She laid her hand on the gun holstered at her side. “It’s probably just someone who made a wrong turn. I should put up a gate, but we get so many deliveries.”

She frowned as she watched the car approach, then moved to the computer, zoomed in.

“Oh, for God’s sake. What does he want now?”

Her tone had Bert growling low in his throat. “Pillow.” Her code word for stand down had the dog relaxing again but watching her for any distress. “Pillow,” she repeated, then signaled for him to come with her.

Bert had a very successful way of discouraging visitors.

She deactivated the alarm, unlocked the front door and stepped out on the porch as the chief of police pulled up behind her SUV.

It made her itchy. He hadn’t blocked her in, or not altogether. She could get around him if she needed to. But the intent was there, and she didn’t like it.

“Ms. Lowery.”

“Chief Gleason. Is there a problem?”

“Well, funny you should ask, because that was going to be my question. Before I do, let me just say that’s a really big dog.”

“Yes, he is.”

Hip cocked, thumbs in front pockets, his body language read relaxed and casual. But his eyes, Abigail noted, were sharp, observant. Were authority.

“Is he going to rip my throat out if I walk over there?”

“Not unless I tell him to.”

“I’d appreciate if you’d not. Why don’t we go inside?”

“Why would we?”

“It’s friendlier. But we’re fine out here. The place looks good. Better than I remember.” He nodded to a patch of ground she’d marked off and covered with black plastic. “Going for flowers or vegetables?”

“Flowers. If you came all the way out here to ask if there’s a problem, I’ll just tell you no. There’s no problem here.”

“Then I’ve got a follow-up. Why are you carrying a gun?”

She knew the instant of surprise must have shown, and wished for her sunglasses. “I live alone. I don’t know you, and you came uninvited, so I have a gun and the dog for protection. I have a license.”

“It’s good you do. The thing is, you were wearing that gun when you went in to buy fancy vinegar. I don’t think you needed protection in the gourmet market.”

Sharp and observant, she thought again, and berated herself for not taking a smaller weapon. “I have a concealed-carry license. I’m within my rights.”

“I’m going to ask to see your license, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind. Why do people say that when they know very well the person they say it to minds?”

“Empty manners, I guess.” He spoke pleasantly, patiently—she thought of the ability as a talent, and a weapon.

“I do want to see the license, just to cover things—Abigail, isn’t it?”

She turned without a word, took out her keys. She felt him follow her onto the porch. “I’ll bring it out.”

“You know, you’re making me wonder why you’re so hell-bent on keeping me out of the house. You running a meth lab, a bordello, running guns, making explosives?”

“I’m doing nothing of the sort.” Her hair, a blunt, shoulder-skimming drape of golden brown, swung out as she turned. “I don’t know you.”

“Brooks Gleason, chief of police.”

Yes, she decided, anyone who could deliver sarcasm with such a pleasant drawl, such an easygoing smile, had skills.

“Your name and occupation don’t change the fact I don’t know you.”

“Point taken. But you’ve got a big-ass dog there who’s giving me the stink eye because he knows you’re upset and I’m the reason. He must go a hundred and twenty pounds.”

“One thirty-three.”

Brooks gave Bert a long study. “I’ve got about thirty pounds on him, but he’s got sharper teeth and you’ve got a sidearm.”

“So do you.” She shoved the door open, and when Brooks stepped inside, she held up a hand. “I want you to wait here. I’m going to put him on guard. He’ll restrain you if you don’t stay here. You have no right to wander around my house.”

“All right.”

“Bert. Hold.” She turned to the stairs, started up.

“Define ‘restrain.’”

Nearly out of patience—the police chief appeared to have more than his share—she paused, snapped, “Stay where you are and you won’t have to find out.”

“Okay, then.” He let out a breath as she disappeared up the stairs. He and the dog eyed each other. “So, Bert, what do you do around here for fun? Not talking, huh? Nice place.” Cautious, Brooks stood very still, turned only his head. “No muss, no fuss.”

And triple locks, a riot bar, secured windows, top-grade alarm system.

Who the hell was Abigail Lowery, and what—or whom—was she afraid of?

She came back down, a document in hand, gave it to him.

“A Glock 19? That’s a serious gun.”

“All guns are serious.”

“You’re not wrong.” He handed the license back to her, looked into her eyes. “And you’re not wrong that you don’t know me. I can give you the name of my former captain in Little Rock. I was on the police force there for ten years before I moved back home. I’m a good cop, Abigail. If you tell me what kind of trouble you’re in, I’ll try to help you.”

Chief Gleason wasn’t the only one with skills, she reminded herself. Her gaze and her voice remained absolutely steady and level. “I’m not in trouble. I’m just living my life. I have work to do, and I’m sure you have work to do. I’d like you to leave now.”

“All right. If you change your mind.” He took out a card, set it on a table by the front door. “My cell number’s on it, too. If you want help, you just call.”

“I don’t need help.”

“You’ve got a riot bar and three top-grade locks on your front door, security bars on your windows, and a better alarm system than my bank. I don’t think all that’s to keep the dog from getting out.”

He opened the front door, turned back to look at her. “Do you like puzzles?”

“Yes, but I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“I like them, too. See you around, Bert.” He shut the door.

Abigail stepped over, locked it, then, closing her eyes, knelt on the floor and pressed her face to the dog’s strong neck.

8

Boyd Fitzwater, grizzle-haired and paunchy, manned the desk. He stopped chicken-pecking at the computer keyboard when Brooks walked by.

“Missy Crew came around. Like you’d expect, last night’s black eye was an accident. She got creative this time. Said she tripped on the rug and Ty tried to catch her.”

“She fell into his fist?”

“That’s just what she said. And him being a little drunk, he miscalculated when he tried to catch her.”

“And the neighbor calling us in because she ran out of the house half-naked and screaming?”

“That?” With a tight smile, Boyd shook his head. “She saw a mouse, and not the one on her eye. Overreacted, and the neighbor shouldn’t have bothered us. And before you ask, the reason she said Ty socked her last night is she was all confused. Because technically he did, but only trying to save her from a fall.”

“You let him go?”

“Couldn’t much do otherwise.”

“No, but this crap is going to stop. The next call we get on them, I want whoever’s on duty to call me. I want to handle it.”

“You’re welcome to it. I tried, Brooks. Even had Alma talk to her, figuring she might listen to another woman.”

“Well, she didn’t.” Alma Slope walked in from the break room. Her fingernails were painted electric blue today and matched the chunky beads around her neck. Her frizzy mop of guinea-gold hair had been clamped back with a blue silk flower.

She took a swig of the coffee in her hand, left a clear imprint of bold red lipstick on the rim. Pale green eyes, the only thing pale about Alma, peered out behind glasses with cat’s-eye frames studded with rhinestones.

Her face, with its network of fine lines, registered annoyance as she fisted a hand on the hip of her faded Levis.

Alma admitted to sixty, but as she’d admitted to sixty before Brooks had left for Little Rock, he couldn’t begin to guess the real age of his dispatcher.

He wasn’t sure Alma knew anymore.

“I took her in the break room, sat her down and talked to her like a Dutch uncle, whatever the hell that means. She started crying, so I thought I was getting somewhere. But she said how she loved Tybal, and he only gets mean when he’s drinking. And here’s the kicker. How it’s all going to be all right if she can just get pregnant.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“She says she’s trying real hard. Once they have a baby, Ty’s going to settle right down.”

“I want the call when it comes,” Brooks repeated. “Thanks for trying, Alma. You can take the patrol, Boyd. I’ve got some paperwork to see to.”

“I’ll get on it.”

“You want some coffee, Chief?” Alma asked him.

“Wouldn’t mind it.”

“I’ll get it for you. Nothing much to do. It’s quiet today.”

“May it continue.”

He went into his office, booted up his computer, picked up the ancient Slinky on his desk. Walking to the window, he moved his hands up and down to set the coils whispering. He liked the sound of it, found it soothing, like an old blanket or bare feet in warm grass.

He considered himself—and was considered by those who knew him—to be an even-tempered sort of man. Some would say a little on the low side of temper. So it surprised him just how much the incident with Abigail Lowery had pissed him off.

Take the dog. A beautiful son of a bitch, but there’d been no doubt if he’d made the wrong move, or she’d just had a fucking whim, that beautiful son of a bitch would have sunk his teeth into him.

Brooks didn’t mind unsettled situations, because he liked to settle them, find the answer or solution. Do the job, make the peace. But he damn well didn’t like being at such a slippery disadvantage against an armed woman and her big-ass guard dog.

No laws broken, he thought. Not one. And yet.

Some people were unfriendly by nature. He’d never understood the type, but he knew them, had dealt with them. It was more than that with this woman. A whole basketful of more.

He’d found her a strange and interesting mix of nerves and confidence, straightforward and secretive. Northern accent, he considered. Still shy of thirty, if he was any judge, and—barring Alma—he generally was.

On the slim side, but there was a coiled spring in there. Pretty, though she’d worn no makeup, and her clothes had been simple. Good boots, well broken in. No jewelry, no nail polish, no bright colors.

Don’t look at me—that’s what she was saying, in his opinion. Don’t notice me.

“What’s got you worked up?” Alma stepped in, set his coffee on his desk. “You’ve got your toy going,” she added when he turned.

“Just thinking.”

“Anything to do with the woman who bought the old Skeeter place?”

“Are you doing psychic readings these days?”

“I leave that to my girl.”

“How’s Caliope doing?” Alma’s daughter read tarot, palms and auras—and was one of his mother’s tight circle of friends.

“She worked an engagement party the other night. Picked up three more bookings out of it.”

“Good for her.”

“It’s a living. I heard you had what passes for a conversation with the Lowery girl over at the gourmet place.”

“She ain’t no chatterbox.” He sat, picked up his coffee, put his boots on the desk. An invitation for Alma to sit. “What do you know?”

“Not much, which bugs the hell out of me. What I got out of Dean McQueen, as he handled the property sale, is she contacted him by e-mail. Saw the sale online, asked some questions, thanked him politely. Few days later, she e-mailed again with an offer. Wasn’t the asking price, but Dean told me it was a little above what he hoped he’d get, and she offered a cash deal.”

“Cash.”

“That’s right. On the barrelhead. The Skeeters jumped on it. Well, you know Dean, he’s a salesman, and he likes to talk it up. He says he couldn’t get much more out of her than yes and no. She wired the earnest money from a bank in Kansas City. Drove in with that dog of hers for the settlement, pulling a U-Haul trailer. Signed the papers, handed over the cashier’s check, from a bank in Fairbanks, Alaska, this time. Dean wants to take her to lunch to celebrate, but she shuts that down. Wants to take her to the property, walk her through and shut down again. She takes the papers, the keys, thanks everyone and that’s that.”

“It’s a puzzle,” Brooks murmured.

“People who say live and let live? They’re not doing a lot of living, as far as I’m concerned.” She got up as the radio in the dispatch area squawked. “It’d be interesting to find out what her deal is.”

“It would,” Brooks agreed. As Alma went out to answer the radio, his phone rang. “Bickford Police Department, Chief Gleason.” For now, he put Abigail Lowery on his back burner.

He handled the paperwork, the phone calls, took a turn at foot patrol, where he listened to the owner of a pottery shop complain about the owner of the neighboring candle shop once again blocking his delivery entrance with his car.

And once again talked to the offender.

He picked up a ham-and-cheese panini, and while taking a late lunch at his desk, started puzzle solving.

He ran her tags, crunched into the chips he’d gotten with the sandwich. He read her date of birth, noted that she was twenty-eight, so he’d been on the mark there. Her license carried no restrictions. She was an organ donor with a clean driving record.

He accessed the database and ran her criminal.

No criminal record.

That should be enough, he told himself. She was, according to the data, a law-abiding citizen without so much as a single speeding ticket.

But …

Out of curiosity, he Googled her. He got several hits on the name, but none of them were his Abigail Lowery.

Caught up now, he continued to dig. He had her name, address, tag number, driver’s license data. Since he knew she had a license to carry, he started with gun registration.

As the data came up, he sat back.

“Now, that’s an arsenal,” he murmured.

In addition to the Glock 19, she had licenses for a Glock 36, one for a Glock 26, a nine-millimeter Beretta, a long-range Sig, a nine-millimeter Colt Defender and a Smith & Wesson 1911, and a pair of Walther P22s.

Just what did the woman need with that many handguns? He was a cop, for God’s sake, and other than his service weapon, he had only two others.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Hey, Brooks.”

The bombshell blonde stood kind of posed in his doorway. Sylbie’s hair fell in gleaming waves over the shoulders of a white lace shirt loosely belted over jeans that were a thin coat of paint over long legs. She had eyes that reminded him of a tiger, tawny and just a little feral.

In high school he’d wanted her more than his next breath. And when he’d had her, his life had been a seesaw of bliss and misery.

Automatically, he toggled over to screen saver. “How you doing, Sylbie?”

“Oh, I’m just fine. I’ve been working since dawn, so I’m giving myself a little break.” She glided into the room on those long legs, perched on the corner of his desk in a provocative cloud of fragrance. “I thought I’d just drop in and see you, and see if you wanted to get together tonight.”

“I’ve got a lot going on here.”

“If the chief of police can’t take the night off, who can?”

“The law’s ever vigilant.”

She laughed, tossed that glorious mane of hair. “Come on, Brooks. I thought I’d pick up a nice bottle of wine.” She leaned in. “And you can take advantage of me.”

It didn’t make him feel manly, but he had to admit the few times they’d gotten together since he’d come home, he’d felt like the one being taken advantage of.

Not that he’d minded at the time. But afterward …

“That’s a nice invitation, Sylbie, but I’ve got to work tonight.”

“Come on by after.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re hurting my feelings.”

“I don’t want to do that.” But neither did he want to get caught up again. They’d come a long way since high school, when she’d captured his heart, then demolished it—and were a lot closer to her two divorces.

“If you want to play hard to get,” she began, sliding off the desk.

“I’m not playing.” She would have slithered right into his lap if he hadn’t pushed to his feet. “Look, Sylbie.”

As he was facing the door, he saw Abigail step into the opening, saw her immediate jolt of embarrassment.

“Ms. Lowery,” he said, before she could back away.

“I’m sorry to interrupt. I’ll come back.”

“No, that’s fine. I’ll talk to you later, Sylbie.”

“I’m buying that wine,” she murmured, shot him her slow smile. She turned, angled her head as she studied Abigail.

“You’re that woman who lives out at the Skeeter place.”

“Yes.”

“Everybody wonders what in the world you do out there all by yourself.”

“They shouldn’t.”

“People have a curiosity. That’s a natural thing. I’m Sylbie MacKenna.”

“One of the local potters. You do very good work. I bought one of your bowls.” Abigail looked at Brooks again. “I can speak to you later, Chief Gleason.”

“You’re here now. Sylbie’s got to get on.”

“So official. He didn’t used to be.” She gave Abigail a knowing smile. “I’ll see you later, Brooks.”

“She’s very attractive,” Abigail commented.

“Always has been.”

“I’m sorry I interrupted. The woman, your …”

“Dispatcher?”

“Yes. She said I should just come back.”

“That’s fine. Have a seat.”

“May I close the door?”

“Sure.”

After she’d done so, and taken a seat in his visitor’s chair, silence ran for several beats.

“Something on your mind?” he asked her.

“Yes. I realize I mishandled our … business this morning. In the market, and when you came to my house. I wasn’t prepared.”

“Do you have to prepare to have a conversation?”

“I’m not a social person, so I don’t have many conversations, particularly with people I don’t know. In the market, I felt uncomfortable with your interest in what I was buying.”

“My interest in what you were buying was a ploy for conversation.”

“Yes.”

Everything about her was cool, he thought, and still. He considered how she served as polar opposite to Sylbie, who always ran hot, always seemed to be moving.

“We’re a small town, Abigail. A small resort town, full of New Agers and old hippies, second-generation hippies, artists. We’re friendly.”

“I’m not. I’m sorry if that’s rude, but it’s fact. I’m not a friendly person, and I moved here for the quiet, the solitude. When you came to the house so soon after the market, it made me nervous, and angry. I have my reasons for carrying the pistol. I’m not obligated to share those reasons. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“That’s good to know.”

“I like my property, and the land around it. I like this town. I feel comfortable here. I just want to be left alone.”

“What Sylbie said about curiosity’s true. It’s a natural thing. The more mysterious you are, the more people wonder.”

“I’m not mysterious.”

“You’re a walking mystery.” He rose, came around the desk. As he did, he saw her brace, stay on alert, even when he leaned back against the front of the desk.

He wanted to ask her who’d hurt her, who she was afraid of. But he’d lose her if he did.

“You’re a really attractive woman who lives alone—with a big, muscular dog—outside of the town proper. Nobody knows for sure where you came from, why you came here, what you do for a living. And since this is the South, nobody knows who your people are. You’re a Yankee, so people will give you a certain latitude. We like eccentrics around here, it fits right in with the community. If people decide you’re eccentric, they’ll stop wondering.”

“By certain standards I am eccentric. I can be more so if that would satisfy everyone.”

He grinned at her, just couldn’t help it. “You’re definitely different. What do you do for a living, Abigail? If it’s not a mystery, or a matter of national security, you should be able to tell me. And that would be a simple conversation.”

“I’m a freelance computer programmer and software designer. I also design security systems, and improve or redesign existing systems, primarily for corporations.”

“Interesting. And not so hard to talk about.”

“Much of my work is highly sensitive. All of it is confidential.”

“Understood. You must be pretty smart.”

“I’m very smart.”

“Where’d you study?”

She stared at him, cool, calm, contained. “You see, when you ask all these questions, it doesn’t feel like conversation. It feels like interrogation.”

“Fair enough. Ask me a question.”

She frowned at him, eyes level. “I don’t have a question.”

“If you’re so smart, you can think of one.” He pushed off the desk, went to a dorm-sized refrigerator and took out two Cokes. He handed her one, popped the top on the second. “Something wrong?” he asked, when she just stared at the can in her hand.

“No. No. All right, a question. Why did you go into law enforcement?”

“See, that’s a good one.” He pointed at her in approval, then leaned against the desk again, the hills at his back in view out the window. “I like to solve problems. I believe in a lot of things. Don’t believe in a lot, too, but one of the things I believe in is there’s right and there’s wrong. Now, not everybody figures right and wrong exactly the same. It can be a subjective sort of thing. When you’re a cop, sometimes it is black and white, and sometimes you have to decide—in this situation, with these people, is it wrong, or just something that needs handling?”

“That seems very confusing.”

“Not really. It’s solving problems, and the only real way to solve them is to use your head. And your gut.”

“The intellect is a more accurate gauge than emotion. The intellect deals with facts. Emotions are variable and unreliable.”

“And human. What good are laws if they’re not human?”

He set his Coke down to take hers. He opened it for her, handed it back. “You need a glass?”

“Oh. No. Thank you.” She took a small sip. “Chief Gleason.”

“Brooks. Aren’t you going to ask me how I got a name like Brooks?”

“I assume it’s a family name.”

He pointed at her again. “You’d assume wrong. Now, aren’t you curious?”

“I … Yes, a little.”

“Brooks Robinson.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I was afraid of that. Baseball, Abigail. Brooks was one of the best third basemen to ever guard the hot corner. My mother came from Baltimore, where he played. My mama, she’s a fiend for baseball. Even when she drifted here, back toward the tail end of the seventies, she followed baseball, and worshipped the Baltimore Orioles. According to her, when she watched Brooks win MVP in the 1970 World Series against the Cincinnati Reds, she vowed when she had a son, she’d name him Brooks.”

“She must be very serious about baseball.”

“Oh, she is. Where’d Abigail come from?”

“It’s just a name.”

“I like Abigail. Old-fashioned class.”

“Thank you.” She rose. “I need to go. I still have work to finish today. I apologize if I seemed rude this morning, and I hope I’ve cleared things up.”

“I appreciate you coming in. What I said this morning stands. If you need anything, call.”

“I won’t, but thank you for the Coke and the conversation.” She handed the can back to him. “Good-bye.”

When she left, he studied the can. What did it say about him, he wondered, that he was actively thinking of sending it off for DNA and prints?

Didn’t seem right, on several levels, he decided. But he took the can to the restroom, poured the contents down the sink. Back in his office, he slipped the empty can into an evidence bag, and stored it in his bottom drawer.

Just in case.

The entire day left Brooks feeling restless, and it wasn’t his usual state of mind. He didn’t want his own company, and since he’d told Sylbie he had to work instead of just saying no, thanks, he couldn’t justify dropping by McGrew’s Pub for a beer, a game of pool, some conversation.

Instead of heading home, he drove to the end of Shop Street, hung a left and pulled into the rambling, never-quite-finished house behind his mother’s Prius.

Scaffolding clung to the side, where he could follow the progress on her current mural. Sexy fairies, he noted, with flowing hair, delicate wings. Under the roofline on the front, burnished-skinned, leanly muscled men and women rode dragons with iridescent scales of ruby or emerald or sapphire.

It was impressive work, he thought. Maybe a little strange for house and home, but no one could miss the O’Hara-Gleason place.

He stepped onto the cherry-red porch to the door flanked by pointy-eared elves.

And stepped inside music and scent and color. Clutter and comfort reigned, dominated by his mother’s art, cheered by the flowers his father brought home at least twice a week.

Tulips to celebrate the coming spring, Brooks decided. Every color of the rainbow and tucked into vases, bowls, pots scattered around the room. The black cat his father named Chuck curled on the sofa and barely slitted his eyes open to acknowledge Brooks.

“No, don’t get up,” Brooks said under the blast of Fergie filling the house.

He wandered back, past his father’s office, the tiny, crowded library, and into the hub—the kitchen.

The biggest room in the house, it mixed the thoroughly modern in sleek appliances—the cooktop with indoor grill, the glass-fronted wine cabinet—with the charm of lush pots of herbs, a thriving Meyer lemon tree blooming away. Crystal drops in varying shapes winked in the windows, catching the sun. More sun poured through the skylight in the lofted ceiling, over the bounty of flowers and vines and fruit his mother had painted over the soft yellow.

He could smell fresh bread, and the allure of whatever she stirred on the stove while she sang along with Fergie. She gave Fergie a run for her money, Brooks thought.

As far as he was concerned, his mother could do damn near anything, and everything.

She had her hair, a gold-streaked brown, braided down her back, with silver beads dangling from her ears. Her bare feet tapped to the beat.

A peace symbol tattoo on her right ankle announced her sixties sensibilities.

“Hello, gorgeous.”

She gasped, then turned around with a laugh, eyes warm and brown. “Hi, handsome. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“You can’t hear anything. How many times do I have to tell you kids to keep the music down?”

“It helps the creative process.” But she picked up a remote and muffled Fergie. “What’s up with you?”

“This and that. Where’s Dad?”

“He had a meeting with parents. He’ll be home soon. Stay for dinner?”

“Whatcha got?”

“Minestrone, rosemary bread and a field-greens salad.”

“I’m in.” He opened the fridge, got out a beer, waggled it.

“Well, if you insist.”

“I do.” He got out a second beer, opened them both.

“Now.” She gave him a little poke in the belly. “What’s up? I know your face.”

“You gave it to me.”

“And a fine job I did. You got troubles, sweetie?”

“Not really. Sylbie came by the station this afternoon.”

She took a swallow of beer. “Mmmm.”

“And I know your mmmms. She wanted to hook up tonight.”

“Yet here you are in your mother’s kitchen, opting for minestrone over sex.”

“You make really good minestrone. I lied to her.”

“And you are that rare creature, an honest cop.”

Now he poked her. “You’re just holding on to your flower child’s disdain for authority. Anyway, it’s one thing to lie to a suspect, that’s the job. It’s another just to lie. I don’t like it.”

“I know. Why did you?”

“To avoid a scene, I guess, which is just stupid, as it’s just postponing it. I don’t want to go back to high school. Been there, done that, got the letter jacket. And she doesn’t want me; she wants somebody. The sex is really good, but nothing else is.”

“So you’re looking for more than sex.” Sunny wiped an imaginary tear away. “My boy’s growing up.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. But I do know I don’t want it with Sylbie. I’m hoping for the easy way. Somebody else catches her eye and she loses interest.”

“I thought you didn’t want to go back to high school.”

“Yeah. I know I’ve got to fix it, and I should have when she came in today. Pisses me off that I didn’t. So I will.”

“Good. She’s not a happy woman, Brooks. She equates her worth with her looks and sexuality, and she won’t be happy until she doesn’t. I think she could be happy, and make someone happy, once she realizes she has more to offer. You just remember you can fix the problem, but you can’t fix her.”

“You’re right. I’ll work on it.”

“Now, what else. Something else in there.” She tapped his temple.

“I met, officially, Abigail Lowery today.”

“Oh, now, this is good. This is sit-down-and-relate-every-detail good.” She settled down at the breakfast counter, patted the next stool. “I’ve been dying to pin that one down. What’s she like?”

“At first I’d’ve said rude, abrupt and downright unfriendly, but with a little more exposure, I have to put it down to socially awkward.”

“Poor thing.”

“The poor thing carries a Glock on her hip to the fancy market.”

“A gun? When are people going to realize that going around armed is just asking for—”

She broke off when he tapped a finger to her lips.

“I know how you feel about guns, gun control and what you see as a perversion of the Second Amendment, Sunshine.”

She huffed, shrugged. “It can never be too often repeated. But go on.”

He told her about the market, going out to her place, the dog, the locks. By the time he got to his digging into her licenses, and the number of registered handguns she owned, Sunny decided the story called for a second beer.

“What’s she afraid of?”

“See that? Exactly. That’s what I want to know. And as chief of police around these parts, that’s what I need to know. But to finish up, then Sylbie came in.”

Once he’d told her the rest, her outrage over the guns had subsided, and her focus shifted. “That just breaks my heart.”

“What?”

“Honey, she’s so alone. Of course she’s socially awkward when she’s got herself barricaded up by herself, and against God knows what. She’s not sounding like one of those survivalists or those crazies thinking they’ve gotta load up on the guns and locks for the revolution or the Rapture. You said she does programming, and security business. Maybe she found something or invented something. Now the government’s after her.”

“Why is it always the government, Ma?”

“Because I find it often is, that’s why. She could’ve been a cyber spy or something like that.”

“I love you.”

She slitted her eyes, kicked him lightly in the shin. “Now you’re using those fine words to be amused and patronizing.”

He couldn’t quite disguise the smirk. “Let’s just say she didn’t strike me as the espionage type.”

“Well, they’re not supposed to, are they? They’re supposed to blend.”

“In that case, she’s a crappy spy, because she doesn’t blend.”

“All right, maybe she’s on the run from an abusive boyfriend.”

“I didn’t find anything in her record about filing charges.”

“Some women don’t go to the police. Some just run.”

He thought of Missy and her latest black eye. “And some stay. One thing I know, the way she’s loaded up and barricaded, whatever she’s hiding from—if that is the case—it’s bad. And if the bad finds her, it finds her here. I’m responsible for here, and whether she likes it or not, for her.”

“I love you.”

“Was that amusement and patronizing?”

“No.” She cupped his face. “That’s just fact.”

9

As Sunny wound down the road toward Abigail Lowery’s cabin, she doubted her son would approve. But she had a habit of doing as she pleased, as long as it didn’t hurt anyone—unless they deserved it. In any case, her son’s visit there the day before gave her the perfect excuse to drop by.

She parked, mentally clucked her tongue at the gas-guzzling SUV.

Still, she approved of the house, the way it nestled right into the landscape. She could see beds were being prepped for spring planting. And the glimpse of a corner of a greenhouse caught her eye and her envy.

It was a fine morning for a visit, she determined, with spring whispering on the air, the leaves a pretty haze of green on the trees, and the hint of wild dogwoods scattered around.

As insurance, she’d baked a huckleberry pie that morning. No one resisted her huckleberry pie.

She got out of her car, went up and knocked on the door.

When it opened a few cautious inches, she beamed out a smile.

“Hi, there. I’m Sunny O’Hara, Brooks’s mama.”

“Yes.”

“I know Brooks came out to see you yesterday, and it made me think I should do the same. I thought, why, that girl’s been here for nearly a year now, and I haven’t paid her a call.”

“Thank you, Ms. O’Hara, but—”

“Sunny. I baked you a huckleberry pie.”

“Oh.”

In her life, Sunny had never seen anyone more baffled by a pie.

“Thank you. That’s very nice of you. I’m afraid I have work, so—”

“Everybody can take a few minutes for pie. Do they call you Abby?”

“No, no, they don’t.”

“Well, Abigail’s a sweet, old-fashioned name. Abigail, I ought to tell you straight off I’m a woman who tends to get her way. You’re going to find it’s easier to just invite me in for a few minutes rather than deal with me coming around until you do. Now, I expect you’ve got a gun on you or nearby. I don’t approve of guns, but I won’t lecture you about it. Yet.”

She shot out another smile, bright as her name. “I don’t have one, or anything else dangerous on me. Except the pie. It’s got a hell of a lot of calories in it, but you’re slim as a willow stem, you can handle some calories.”

“I don’t want to be rude, but—”

“Oh, I imagine you do,” Sunny interrupted, with considerable cheer. “Who could blame you? I’ll make you a deal. You ask me in, have a piece of pie. Then you can be rude, and I won’t take offense.”

Trapped and annoyed, Abigail removed her hand from the gun fixed to the underside of the table by the door.

She didn’t doubt the woman was Brooks Gleason’s mother. She had the same pushy nature disguised as friendliness, the same bone structure.

Saying nothing, Abigail opened the door wider, stepped back.

“There, now, that wasn’t so—oh, what a gorgeous dog.” Without a hint of fear, Sunny pushed the pie dish into Abigail’s hands and crouched down. “Oh, hello, big boy.” She looked up. “Can I pet him? We lost our Thor about six weeks ago. Seventeen when we had to let him go, and blind as a bat.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“Oh, me, too. I cried my heart out. We still have old Chuck. That’s our cat, but it’s not the same. We’re going to get another dog, but I’m just not ready to love like that again. It hurts so when you have to say good-bye.”

Helpless, Abigail clutched the pie. “Ami,” she said to the dog. “Ami, Bert. You can pet him now.”

Bert submitted to the strokes, even hummed a little at the pleasure. “Ami? That’s French. Are you French?”

“No. I speak French.”

“How about that. Bert, you speak French, too? You’re so handsome. He has hazel eyes, a little like Brooks’s. What a good dog you are.”

Her eyes filled, and she sniffled back the tears as she straightened. “Sorry. I’m just not over the loss.”

“Death is difficult.”

“It certainly is.” Sunny flipped back her braid, let out a breath as she glanced around. “You’re very tidy, aren’t you?”

“I … I suppose, yes. I prefer things in order.”

“I guess I like chaos, mostly. Anyway, I can never keep anything tidy for long. I have a painting that would work very well in your living room. It’s what I do. I’m an artist.”

“I see.”

“I paint mainly mythical and mythological studies. Fairies, mermaids, gods and goddesses, dragons, centaurs—that sort of thing.”

“Mythology is fertile ground for artists and storytellers. Ah … did you paint the murals on the house off Shop Street?”

“Yes. That’s our house.”

“It’s very interesting. The work is very good.”

“Thanks. I enjoy it. How about some coffee to go with that pie?”

Abigail stared down at the pie. “Ms. O’Hara.”

“Sunny.”

“Sunny. I’m not good company.”

“Oh, honey, that’s okay. I am.”

However awkward and unsettling it might be, it had to be easier—and more efficient—to simply let the woman have her few minutes. And that would be that.

“I’ll make the coffee.”

She started back toward the kitchen, thinking for the second time in two days she had someone in her house. Still, the woman meant no harm. Unless …

“Did your son ask you to come here?”

“No. In fact, he’s not going to be pleased with me for intruding on you when he finds out. But I—oh! Oh! I love your kitchen. Look at all your counter space. I have this same cooktop—an older model. And you grow your own herbs. So do I. Look at that, we’ve already found something in common. I love to cook. It’s like painting, only you’re mixing herbs and spices and mixing up sauces instead of paints.”

“I think of it as a science. There’s a formula. If you diverge from the formula, you may create something new or slightly different.”

Sunny only smiled. “However you look at it, you wouldn’t have a kitchen like this unless you liked to cook, and were good at it.”

She walked over to look out the window. “I’m envious of your greenhouse. I have a tiny one Loren and I built. We don’t have room for a larger one. Got your lettuce in, I see. Looks like a nice-sized vegetable garden.”

“I grow most of my own vegetables and herbs.”

“So do we. I came here in the seventies with a group of other free spirits. We formed a kind of commune, an artist community, you could say—and grew our own food, wove our own cloths—sold our wares. A lot of us are still here. Old hippies.”

“You were part of the counterculture.”

“I like to think I still am.”

As Abigail brewed the coffee, got out cups and plates, Sunny glanced over to the office area. And raised her eyebrows at the views of the drive, the back area, sides, on the computer screen.

“Isn’t that something? Nobody’s going to sneak up on you, are they? You work on security systems, isn’t that right?”

“I do.”

“There was a time nobody even locked a door at night around here, and if you had a shop and needed to run out, why you’d just leave a note. People could come on in, and just leave the money on the counter if they wanted to buy something before you got back. Sometimes progress and change is a good thing; sometimes it isn’t.”

“It’s better to be secure.”

Socially awkward, Brooks had said. Yet the girl set out nice plates, put milk in a little pitcher, set out sugar, cloth napkins. She knew how to entertain company, even if the company was unexpected and not particularly welcome.

Sunny took a seat at the counter. She imagined Abigail had two stools only because they’d come as a set. Sunny added milk and considerable sugar to her coffee, then patted the second stool.

“Come on and sit. Tell me about Abigail.”

“There isn’t anything to tell.”

“There’s always something. What do you like to do?”

“I like my work.” Obviously reluctant, Abigail sat.

“I feel for people who don’t. Besides your work?”

“I work quite a lot.” When Sunny just cocked her eyebrows, Abigail struggled to find more. “Bert requires exercise, so we walk or hike. It was part of the appeal of this property, that there was enough land. I work in the greenhouse or the garden. It’s satisfying. I like to read. I like television.”

“So do I, more than they say you should. But what do they know? And you like solitude.”

“I do.”

“When I was raising three kids, I used to think I’d pay any price for a few hours of alone.”

“I didn’t realize your son had siblings.”

“Two older sisters.”

“You’re very young to have children that age, in their thirties, I assume.”

“I was nineteen when I came to Bickford. I’d been rambling around for about two years.”

“You … you left home at seventeen?”

“The day after I graduated high school. I’d put too much time into that to walk away from it. But once that was done, I was gone.” Sunny snapped her fingers. “I didn’t get along with my parents, which is no surprise, as we saw everything, I mean everything, from opposite sides. We still do, mostly, but we’ve made amends. When I came here, I met a young schoolteacher. He was shy and sweet and smart, and had beautiful hazel eyes. I seduced him.”

“I see.”

“That part was easy, I was quite beguiling,” she said with a laugh. “What wasn’t easy was coming to realize I was making love with someone I’d fallen in love with. I was so sure I didn’t want that kind of life. The man, the home, the roots, the family. But he was irresistible. He wanted to marry me. I said no, none of that for me.”

“Marriage as an institution is part of our culture’s fabric, but it remains only a kind of contract, and unnecessary, as it’s easily broken.”

“You might be speaking my own words from that time. When I learned I was carrying Mya, I agreed to a kind of handfasting. I was dabbling in Wicca back then. We had a lovely ceremony by the river, and moved into a tiny cabin, oh, not half the size of this. No indoor plumbing, either, and I was fine with that.”

She sighed into her coffee at the memory. “I had two babies there. And it wasn’t quite so fine. My man wanted a real marriage, a real home. He’d let me have my way for nearly three years. I realized it was time to let him have his. So we loaded up the babies, went to the justice of the peace, made that legal contract. And with the money I’d made from my art—I got a greeting-card contract, and that was reasonably lucrative. And the money he’d saved from teaching, we bought that ramshackle of a house off Shop Street. We started fixing it up, and Brooks came along. I never regretted a moment. Not one.”

Abigail wasn’t sure it was conversation when a virtual stranger imparted a synopsis of her life story. But it was fascinating.

“You’re very fortunate.”

“Oh, I am. How’s that pie?”

Abigail blinked, glanced down. She’d eaten nearly half, as she’d been caught up in Sunny’s story. “It’s wonderful.”

“I’ll give you the recipe.”

“I’ve never made a pie. It’s just me. A pie doesn’t seem practical.”

“There’s nothing practical about a pie. We’ll trade. I’ll give you the recipe for one of yours.”

“I don’t know what you’d like.”

“Surprise me.”

After an internal debate, Abigail walked over to her laptop, called up her recipe file. She printed out her recipe for chicken paprika. “You can adjust the spices to taste.”

“This looks great. I think I’ll stop at the market on the way home, pick up what I don’t have, and try this tonight. Here, let me write out the recipe for the pie.” She pulled a notebook and pen out of her purse.

“You have it memorized?”

“I’ve been making this pie for too many years to count. It’s Loren’s favorite.”

“You smile when you say his name.”

“Do I? We’ve been married—I count from the handfasting—for thirty-six years. He still makes me happy.”

That, Abigail thought when she was alone again, was the most vital and compelling statement on a relationship. That happiness could last.

She studied the recipe in her hand. She’d transcribe it onto the computer later. Dutifully, she gathered up the plates and cups, and with some surprise noticed the time.

Somehow she’d just spent more than thirty minutes in her kitchen, having pie and coffee and fascinating conversation with a stranger.

“I suppose that means she’s not a stranger now.”

She couldn’t decide how it made her feel, couldn’t decipher it. She looked at her work, looked at her dog.

“Hell. Let’s go for a walk.”

“You did what?” Brooks gaped at his mother.

“You heard me very well. I took a pie over to Abigail’s. We had a nice chat over pie and coffee. I like her.”

“Ma—”

“I think socially awkward’s a good term for it. She’s not shy, just rusty when it comes to interaction. Once we got going, we did just fine. We exchanged recipes.”

“You …” At his desk, Brooks dropped his head in his hands. “Did you hear me last night?”

“Of course I did.”

“It may be she’s on the run. It may be she’s in trouble. It may be, if that trouble finds her, dangerous. And you just breeze on over with pie?”

“Huckleberry. I had to make two so your father wouldn’t get his feelings hurt. She’s got a wonderful kitchen. And looking at the recipe she gave me, I’m betting she’s quite a cook. She also has cameras or some such thing set up all over the property. I saw on her computer screen. She has views of the drive, and the back and so on.”

“Christ.”

“She spoke French to the dog.”

That had him lifting his head again. “What?”

“I just wonder why somebody would teach their dog French, is all. She has very nice manners. She listens to you with her whole body. Something about her just pulled at me. I swear, I wanted to pet her like I did the dog.”

“You … you petted that big-ass monster dog?”

“She told it in French it was all right. He was very sweet. He’s devoted to her, I could see that. Never strayed more than two feet away. He’s a very good dog, and I’m sure a fine companion. But that girl needs a friend. Now, I’ve got to run by the store and pick up some things. I want to try this recipe she gave me.”

“Ma, I don’t want you going over there until I know more.”

“Brooks.”

He was thirty-two years old, and that tone, that look, could still make his balls shrink to marbles.

“You’re a grown man, but it still hasn’t come to the point where you tell me what to do. If you want to find out more about her, why don’t you go out there and be friendly, like I did?”

“And take her pie?”

“You might try a bottle of wine.”

He went with a nice, mid-range pinot grigio. It seemed reasonable, friendly without too many overtones. It also seemed like it was overthinking the whole thing, so he stopped thinking and just drove out there.

The rain that had blown in the night before teased out a little more green. Now, early-evening sun shimmered through those greening branches, splashed on the road, flickered on the busy water of the little stream that wound through.

He bumped his way up her drive, caught a glimpse of the smoke curling out of her chimney.

Then he saw her.

She stood, the big dog at the heel of her knee-high black boots. She wore jeans, a black leather jacket, and a gun on her hip.

He decided not to overthink the fact that everything about her at that precise moment struck him as grab-your-balls sexy.

It just was—right down to the edgy annoyance on her face.

He snagged the wine, slid out of the car.

“Evening.” He strolled toward her as if she wasn’t packing a Glock, didn’t have a dog who could probably sink its teeth into the jugular before he cleared his own weapon from its holster.

She eyed the bottle he carried. “What’s that?”

“It’s a couple of things, actually. One, it’s a pretty nice wine. Second, it’s an apology.”

“For what?”

“My mother. I was over there for dinner the other night, and mentioned I’d been out here. She hopped right on that. So … sorry for the intrusion.”

“So you’re intruding to apologize for an intrusion.”

“Technically. But it’s a pretty nice wine. So, been out for a walk?”

“Why?”

“You got some mud on your boots. Some rain last night. It gets things greening up, but it brings the mud, too. Do you always carry a gun when you walk your dog?”

She always carried a gun, period, but that wasn’t any of his business. “I was target shooting. The wine isn’t necessary.”

“Wine’s not necessary, but it’s one of those enjoyable perks that comes along.” He turned it so the pretty straw-colored wine caught the light. “Where are you set up, for target practice?”

“Why do you ask so many questions? Why do you keep coming here, with your wine and your pie? What is wrong with you people? What are you grinning at?”

“Which question do you want me to answer first?” When she merely gave him a stony stare, he shrugged. “In order, then. I’m a naturally curious sort of man, plus cop. So questions are part of it. It’s likely I got some of that curious from my mother, who came out here, with pie, because she was. And because she’s a friendly sort of woman. I already explained about the wine. From my point of view, nothing’s wrong with us. We just are what we are. Your point of view might come in different. I was grinning because I’d wondered if there was any temper in there. It lights you up. It’s nice to see the light. Did I cover it?”

His eyes were amber in the late-afternoon sun, and his smile appealing. She thought he owned that easy, conversational style the way other men owned socks. “You think you’re charming.”

“Yeah. That’s probably a flaw, but who wants perfect? I answered your questions, but you didn’t answer mine. Where are you set up?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“A couple of reasons. One, that curiosity again. Second, as a cop, knowing I’ve got a woman who carries habitually? I’d like to know if she can handle what she carries.”

“I’m an excellent shot.”

“So you say. I could tell you I can tango like an Argentinean, but unless I demonstrate, I might be lying—or exaggerating.”

“It’s doubtful every Argentinean can tango.”

“Like one who can, then.”

“If I demonstrate my shooting skills, will you leave me alone?”

“Well, now, Abigail, I can’t make a deal like that. I may have to come back. What if a gang of extremists tried to abduct you? Or aliens. We’ve got any number of people around here who’ll swear about those aliens—the E.T. kind, I mean. In fact, Beau Mugsley claims he gets abducted twice a year like clockwork.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Not according to Beau Mugsley. Don’t get him started on anal probes. And putting that aside, you’re an intriguing woman.”

“I don’t want to be intriguing.”

“And see that? Now you’re just more intriguing.”

“And if there’s intelligent life on other planets, I hardly think they’d spend their time attempting an abduction on someone who’s minding her own business.”

“You never know, do you?”

She simply didn’t know how to argue with someone like him, someone who made no sense and was so damn affable about it. Add in the tenacity and the cop curiosity, she determined she was stuck.

“I’ll satisfy your misplaced concern about my target-shooting skills. Then you can go.”

“That’s a good place to start.” He noted that she laid a hand on the dog’s head before she turned. “Ma tells me your dog speaks French,” Brooks said as he fell into step beside her. “I took two years in high school, mostly—okay, completely—because the French teacher was hot. Smoking. Not a lot stuck with me, but I had two years of gazing at the hotness of Ms. Gardner.”

“Studies show adolescent males often make decisions based on sex. Many fail to grow out of it.”

“Can’t really blame us for genetic makeup. That’s an impressive setup.” He paused to study her target area.

Where he’d expected a couple of circle targets, she had a trio of police-style silhouettes on draw pulleys backed by thickly padded boards. Ear and eye protection sat on a wooden bench along with spare clips. By his gauge, she had them set at a good fifty feet.

“I don’t have a second pair of ear protectors or glasses,” she said as she put them on.

“No problem.”

He stepped back, pressed his hands to his ears as she took position.

Cop stance, he noted, and she took it in a smooth, practiced motion. She fired six rounds without a flinch, then holstered her weapon before pulling the target in.

“Nice grouping,” he commented. All six center mass, in a tight, damn-near-perfect pattern.

“As you can see, I’m an excellent shot. I’m capable.”

“No question of that,” he said as she picked up her brass, dropped them in a bucket. “Mind if I try it out?”

She didn’t answer, but took off the ear protectors and glasses, passed them to him.

She looked back to where the dog sat, patiently waiting. “Pillow.”

“What?”

“I was speaking to my dog. Otherwise, he’d … object when you draw your weapon.”

“Wouldn’t want that.” Brooks passed Abigail the wine, put on the glasses and the ear protectors.

“You use a Glock 22,” she noted. “It’s a good weapon.”

“Gets the job done.” Now he took his stance, loosened his shoulders, fired six rounds.

He glanced back at the dog as he holstered the weapon. Bert hadn’t moved.

Abigail drew in the target, stood a moment, studying the grouping that was a near twin of hers.

“You’re also an excellent shot.”

“I always figure if you carry, you’d better hit what you aim at. I got a good hand with a long gun. My mother’s got a flower child’s objection to guns, could be why I honed a skill with them. Standard rebellion, I suppose.”

“Yes.” She looked up at him. “Have you shot anyone?”

“Not so far. I’d like to go on saying that. I had to draw my weapon a few times, but it never came to firing it.”

“Could you?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know if you never have?”

“Protect and serve.” He looked at her, those changeable eyes sober now. “Protect comes first. I’ve got no business having a badge if I can’t protect. But I’d be happy if it never came to putting a bullet into anyone.” He, too, picked up his brass. “Have you?”

“Shot anyone? No. But then, I’d say that even if I had, to say I had would only lead to more questions.”

“You’re not wrong. Could you?”

“Yes. I could.” She waited a moment. “You don’t ask how I know.”

“I don’t have to. Have you got any of that pie left? And before you ask why, I’ll tell you. Now that we’ve shown each other what good shots we are, I thought we could crack that bottle open, have a glass of wine and a piece of pie.”

“The wine was a ploy.”

“In part, but it’s still a pretty good wine.”

He had his mother’s charm, she decided, and very likely the same skill in getting his way. There was no point denying she found him physically attractive. Her hormonal reaction to his looks, his build, his demeanor, even his voice? Completely natural.

“I can’t eat all the pie. It’s too much for one person.”

“Shame to waste it, too.”

She stowed the protective gear in the seat of the bench. “All right. You can have the pie and the wine. But I won’t have sex with you.”

“Now you hurt my feelings.”

“No, I haven’t.” Deciding to make her position clear, she started for the house. “I like sex.”

“See there, we just keep finding common ground. If this keeps up, we’ll be best friends inside a week.”

“If I wanted friends, I’d join a book club.”

Loosening up, he thought, delighted with the sarcasm. “I like to read, which is another check mark on common ground. But we were talking about sex.”

“The act of sex is a normal physical function, and a pleasant experience.”

“So far, we’re on the same page.”

She took out her keys, unlocked the door. Once inside, she reset the alarm. “It may be you find me physically attractive on some level.”

“All of them, actually.”

“And that may be the reason you came here, with wine. I’ll have a glass of wine with you, but I won’t have sex with you.”

“Okay.” Absolutely delighted with her, he followed her to the kitchen. “Any particular reason why not, other than the fact we haven’t even shared huckleberry pie yet?”

“You ask too many questions. Answering them is annoying and tiresome.”

“Damn that curiosity. Jesus, Abigail, did you smile?”

“It was probably a grimace.”

“Now you made a joke. Any minute you’re going to put on a party hat and dance on the table.”

“You’re funny. I’m not, so I can appreciate someone with natural humor.” She took off the jacket, opened a door to what he assumed was a small utility room and hung it on a peg. “And you’re physically attractive and fit. I prefer having sex with someone who keeps physically fit.”

She got out a corkscrew, and though he would have taken it, opened the wine for her, she set about doing so briskly and efficiently.

What the hell, he thought, and sat. “So far the only strike against me is curiosity?”

“There are others. Proximity, for one, which would make it awkward and problematic when I no longer want to have sex with you.”

“What makes you think you’re going to want to stop having sex with me?”

She got out two glasses, two small plates, two forks. “The law of averages.”

“Oh, that. I defy the law of averages.”

“A lot of people believe they do. They don’t.” She poured the wine, studying him as she offered a glass. “I like your nose.”

“Abigail, you fucking fascinate me. Why do you like my nose?”

“It’s been broken at some point. The lack of symmetry adds character and interest to your face. I like character.”

“And still, no sex for me.”

She smiled again, fully this time. “I’m sure you have other options.”

“That’s true. I make them take numbers, like at a deli.” He waited until she got out the pie, uncovered it. “Do you want to know why I’m not going to have sex with you?”

He’d surprised her, he noted. Stirred her curiosity. “Yes, I would.”

“You’re attractive, and you look pretty … physically fit to me. You’ve got a way of looking at me that feels like you’re looking right through to the back of my brain. I don’t know why that’s sexy, but it is. You need help.”

“I don’t want any help.”

“I didn’t say anything about want. You need help, and I’ve got a weakness for people who need help. I like your dog even though I figure he’s as dangerous, or damn near, as that Glock on your hip. I like the way you talk, like you’re just a little rusty at it. I’d like to feel the shape of your mouth under mine. I’d like that more than I’d considered. But.”

On an exaggerated sigh, he lifted his hands, let them fall. “I’m always going to have questions. So that’s a problem. And while I’m a man, so I’m fairly up for sex if a woman sneezes in my direction, I generally like to get to know her first. Dinner, conversation, that sort of thing.”

“A date. I don’t go on dates.”

“You know, hearing you say that doesn’t surprise me. Now, we’ve shared an activity, shooting at targets. We’ve shared conversations and viewpoints. Now we’re sharing wine and pie. If I stretch that, I could ease it over the line into a date.”

The look she gave him was the definition of flustered. “It’s not a date.”

“By your gauge.” He gestured at her with a forkful of huckleberry pie. “I’ve got my own. That means the only thing stopping me from having sex with you is my naturally curious nature. I can work around that. I can decide it’s not a problem for me; then the only thing stopping me from having sex with you is you being willing.”

“I’m not, so if we’re going to talk, it should be about something else. That wasn’t a challenge,” she added, when it occurred to her. “I didn’t mean to pose a sexual challenge.”

“No, I got you didn’t mean to, but it sure has that flavor. And it’s tasty. Like the pie.”

He scooped up a bite. “Did you design the security system here?”

She looked wary again. “Yes.”

“Cameras, too?”

“Yes. Obviously, I don’t actually manufacture the hardware.”

“Obviously.” He angled to study her computer station. “It’s quite a setup.”

“It’s my work.”

“I’m okay on a computer. I can get done what I need to get done, usually find what I need to find. My father, now, he’s amazing. I get a glitch, he’s my man. It must be the math nerd in him. Were you a math nerd?”

At one time, she remembered, she was an everything nerd. Perhaps she still was. “I enjoy math. Its logic.”

“I coulda figured.” He angled back to her, drank some wine. “I like your place. My mother wants your kitchen.”

“You should get her a dog.”

“What?”

“She says she isn’t ready, but it was clear by the way she behaved and reacted to Bert she is. She misses having a dog in her life. She—I’m sorry.” Color rose up to her cheeks. “It’s not my place.”

“We don’t stand on place so much around here. She loved that dog. We all did. It just about flattened us when we had to have him put down.”

He looked down at Bert, resisted—because he liked having his hand—reaching out to pet the dog. “You really think she’s ready to start with another?”

“I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“You did. I’m asking your opinion.”

“Then yes. It seemed to me she felt it would be disloyal if she herself got another dog. But a gift, from one of her children. That’s different, isn’t it?”

“It is. Thanks. She liked you, my mother.”

“I liked her. You should take the rest of the pie, and her dish.” Abigail rose to cover the remaining pie.

“Here’s your hat; what’s your hurry?”

“You weren’t wearing a hat.”

“It’s an expression. Like, say, don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.”

“Oh. Then yes, you have to go. I need to feed my dog, and I have work waiting. Please tell your mother I enjoyed the pie.”

“I will.” He rose, picked up the dish.

“And thank you for the wine. I’ll let you out.”

At the front door he waited for her to unlock, turn off the alarm. Then he set the pie on the little table.

“Tell your dog to relax.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to put my hands on you, and I’m going to need them to drive after I do. I don’t want him biting one off at the wrist.”

“I don’t like to be touched.”

“You like sex. A kiss is somewhere between being touched and having sex. Aren’t you curious, Abigail?”

“A little.” She studied his face in that X-ray manner, then looked to the dog. “Ami,” she said, laying a hand lightly on Brooks’s arm. “Ami, Bert.”

Still, she stiffened when Brooks took her hand—her gun hand.

“Ami,” he murmured. “That one stuck with me. So let’s be friendly.”

He laid his other hand on her cheek, eased his way in. And she watched him. That ready, steady look in her eye just hit some chord in him. He kept it light, maybe a little over the friendly line, but light and soft. Lips meeting, eyes locked.

He pressed, just a bit more, body to body, until her hand came to his shoulder. Until it slid around to the back of his neck, up into his hair. Until her tongue teased his, and those watchful eyes went a deeper green.

As he stepped back, he released her hand. With a shake of his head, he picked up the pie. “You know I’m going to have to come back.”

“It’s a mistake.”

“For who?”

“For both of us.”

“Different points of view, remember.” He leaned in, quick—and this time friendly—touched his lips to hers. “I’ll be coming back. See you, Bert,” he added as he walked out and to his car.

Abigail closed the door, locked it before she heard his engine turn over. She let out a huff of breath, looked down at the dog.

“It’s a mistake,” she repeated.

10

Brooks spent most of his day putting righteous fear in a trio of preadolescent shoplifters, dealing with a traffic accident—which primarily involved preventing the two drivers from coming to blows—handling the resulting paperwork, and listening to Sid Firehawk whine when Brooks finally cited him for the blown-out muffler.

To reward himself, he opted to make a quick run to the bakery for some fancy coffee and a snickerdoodle, but Alma stuck her head in his office. Rainbow peace signs the size of babies’ fists dangled from her ears.

“Grover called in. There’s a dispute over at Ozark Art.”

“What kind of dispute?”

“He just said things were getting a little hot, and asked for you to go by.”

“All right. I’ll walk over. I could stop at the bakery on the way back if you want anything.”

“Get away from me, Satan.”

“Just saying.” Brooks got up from his desk, grabbed his jacket.

“If a chocolate macadamia cookie and a skinny latte found their way onto my desk, it wouldn’t be my fault.”

“No one could blame you.” As Brooks headed out, he wondered why she’d put the skinny in a latte when she was having a cookie. But that was one of the female mysteries he didn’t worry himself into a headache over.

He glanced at the sky as he walked. The temperatures refused to settle, shooting up, diving down and clashing in the middle as a welcome mat for tornados. But the sky held to a harmless faded denim.

He crossed over to Shop Street, pleased to see the Saturday-afternoon bustle of locals and tourists. He passed the gourmet market, thought of Abigail, and walked down another block to Ozark Art.

He didn’t see any signs of a dispute through the display window. In fact, he didn’t see Grover or a customer or anyone else. The little bell jingled as he stepped in, scanned the main showroom and its walls of paintings, the stands displaying sculptures, shelves of handblown glass and local pottery.

The air carried the fragrance of a spring woodland from one of those reed diffusers. Grover’s work, he thought absently. The guy looked like a storybook gnome, and was a wizard with scents.

He started back toward the storeroom and office, saw no one at the checkout counter.

And heard the click of heels on wood.

Sylbie, hair tumbled, eyes slumberous, slipped out of the back room.

“Well, there you are … Chief.”

“What’s the problem, Sylbie?”

“I’ll tell you.” She crooked a finger, tossed her hair and her own personal scent as she opened the back-room door. “In here.”

“Where’s Grover?”

“He’ll be back in a few minutes. Somebody has to watch the shop.”

Brooks felt the trapdoor creak under his feet. “Sylbie, Grover called the station, said there was a dispute that needed police involvement.”

“There is a dispute, but there doesn’t have to be. Come on into the back, and we’ll settle it.”

“We’ll settle it here.”

“All right, then.” She wore a dress swirled with black and white. And then she didn’t.

“Jesus Christ, Sylbie.”

She laughed, again tossing her hair and perfume before she leaned against the doorjamb, naked but for a pair of high red heels that showed a peek of toenails painted the same shade.

“You didn’t come see me the other night, Brooks. I had to drink that wine all by myself.”

“I told you I was busy. Put your clothes back on.”

“Now, that’s something I don’t recall you saying in the past.”

He kept his eyes on hers, surprised and a little disconcerted that it took little effort to keep them from roaming down. “I’m saying it now. Put your dress on, Sylbie.”

“Come on over here and make me.”

“What’s wrong with you?” he demanded. “You talk Grover into calling the station, requesting an officer.”

“Not just any officer, honey.” She pursed her lips in a kiss. “I wanted you.”

“Shut up.” Temper he rarely lost strained against the leash. “If you’re not back in that dress inside ten seconds, I’m arresting you.”

“Oh … you want to play that way.”

“Look at me, God damn it. Am I playing?”

His tone, his face, finally got through. Temper lit her eyes in turn as she bent down, pulled the dress back up.

“Don’t you think for one minute you can speak to me that way.”

“I’ll do more than speak to you if you pull something like this again. I’m the fucking chief of police, Sylbie. I’m on duty.”

She fit the dress straps in place with two defiant snaps. “Like anything ever happens around here.”

“I’ll tell you something that’s going to happen. I’m going to find Grover, and I’m going to fine him for calling in a false report.”

“You will not.”

“Believe it.”

She took a quick step forward. “Don’t do that, Brooks. Don’t. He only did it because I asked him.”

“Then he’ll know better next time. And so will you.”

“Why do you act this way?” Tears sizzled through the temper. “You make it so I have to throw myself at you, and all you do is get mad. Back in high school, you couldn’t keep your hands off me.”

“This isn’t high school. I don’t want high school.”

“You don’t want me.”

He knew those tears. He’d swam through rivers of them before, and they were sincere enough. “Sylbie, you’re beautiful, probably the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. You’re talented, and when you make an effort, you’re an interesting companion. But I don’t want you the way I did back then. I don’t want what we had back then.”

“You didn’t say that a couple weeks back when you were on top of me in my bed.”

“No, I didn’t, and I’m sorry, Sylbie.” Plenty of sorry to go around, as far as he could see. “The sex was always good with you and me, but we never did have much else going on.”

“What do you care, as long as you get off?”

“Honey, you ought to think better of yourself. I do.”

“Something’s wrong with you.” Anger and embarrassment ran color hot in her face. “You ought to want me when I’m offering.”

“If that’s all you want, you know there are plenty who’ll be willing.”

“But not you.”

“No, not me.” They’d come to the end of that road, he realized, and felt little more than relief. “Not anymore. Maybe we’ll like each other better without the sex. One thing I can promise you, and you better hear me. If you ever pull a stunt like this again, you’re going to see the inside of our cells down at the station.”

Her color stayed high, but her face went stony and cold. “You’ve changed, Brooks.”

“God, I hope so. You’d best watch the shop until Grover gets back.” He started out, glanced back. “That’s a nice dress, Sylbie. Keep it on.”

When he stepped out, he spotted Grover—round-bodied, stoop-shouldered and balding—puffing on a Marlboro as he sat on the bench between his shop and the next.

“Oh, hey, there, Chief.”

“Hey, there, Grover. Come with me.”

“Ah …”

“There’s a fine for calling in a false report, and you’re paying it.”

“But I—”

“Next time a pretty woman asks you to do something stupid, think first.”

“But she said—”

“You take what she said up with Sylbie. I’m saying you don’t call for help unless you need help. You don’t waste my time, or the Bickford Police Department’s time. I could put you in jail for what you did.”

Grover’s face went splotchy, pink blooming over sick white as the man got shakily to his feet. “Jail? Holy God. I just …”

“Don’t just ever again. Fine’s two thousand dollars.”

He was prepared to catch Grover, should he faint, and considered it a near thing. “I-I-I—”

“I’m cutting it down to twenty-five dollars, giving you a stupidity discount. You come in by the end of the day and pay it, or it’s back up to the two thousand. Clear?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry. I just thought—”

“No, you didn’t think. Next time you will.”

“I’ll pay it, Grover.” Sylbie stepped out. “It’s my fault. I’ll pay the fine.”

“I don’t care where it comes from, just pay it by five.”

“You didn’t have to scare him so bad.” Sylbie sat on the bench, drew Grover down beside her and put her arm around his stooped shoulders. “It was my fault.”

“No argument. Pay the fine, slate’s clean.”

Though he’d lost his appetite for cookies, he crossed to the bakery, picked up Alma’s order. He left it on her desk, went into his office and filled out the citation.

He puzzled over the charge, then opted for “crying wolf.” It seemed to fit, and wouldn’t embarrass anyone.

He took it out, set it beside Alma’s latte. “Either Grover or Sylbie’s coming down to pay this citation. Don’t ask.”

“Whenever somebody hears ‘Don’t ask,’ they’re duty-bound to.”

“Not when somebody else just bought them a latte and a chocolate macadamia cookie.”

Alma tapped her blue-tipped nails on the go-cup. “So this is a bribe.”

“It could be so construed. Don’t ask, Alma.” He glanced up as Ash walked in.

“I had to run some skateboarders off the parking lot down at the bank. Again. And I pulled Doyle Parsins over for speeding. Again. Some people never learn. You got cookies?”

“Cookie,” Alma said. “Singular. Mine.”

“I swung by the Little League park. Saw that little Draper kid hit a solid three-bagger. And I got me a steamer. A cookie sure would top that off.”

Alma smiled as she took a deliberate bite, rolled her eyes in pleasure. “Mmm-mmm!”

“That’s just mean.”

Leaving them to it, Brooks went back in his office, shut his door. He spent some time poking at Abigail Lowery—who, he discovered, had a master’s degree in computer science, and another in security engineering, both from MIT. Pretty impressive.

It took him a while, but he learned she worked on a freelance basis for a company called Global Network.

He switched his focus, poked at the company.

Privately owned, he discovered. Founded by one Cora Fiense, age thirty-three. No photo on file, not that he could find. But he scanned a couple of articles describing the small, exclusive company launched by a media-shy agoraphobic.

The website offered no real information on the owner or the employees, but simply stated that Global offered security system analysis and design.

He sat back, asked himself why he persisted. She hadn’t done anything, as far as he could tell. He liked her, but there was an itch, he couldn’t ignore it. One that told him if he kept scratching he’d uncover something … else.

He toggled off when he heard the knock at his door.

“Yeah.”

“I’m off,” Alma told him. “Calls routed to your cell. Ash is on the desk till eight, Boyd’s on the road.”

“That works.”

“Sylbie and Grover came in together, paid the fine.”

“Good.”

“I don’t know if the cookie was worth it. Anyway, you were off shift ten minutes ago. Go home.”

“Might just. Thanks, Alma.”

He checked his calendar, noted he had his monthly meeting with the board of selectmen on Monday—joy. And he’d need to complete his quarterly reviews and inspections by the end of the month. He could go home, get some of that done. It wasn’t like his social calendar was bursting with activity.

His own fault, he admitted. He could go by the pub, or just make a call to one of his friends, see what was up. And he wasn’t in the mood.

The incident with Sylbie had left him mildly depressed, irritable. And horny. And the horny portion just pissed him off.

Because after his baffled shock and annoyance, he’d been tempted. Just a little tempted.

Hard to blame himself for it, he thought, as he rose, wandered to the window. A man would have to be dead a year not to be tempted by a naked Sylbie.

Now he was edgy and itchy, and up until that walk down to Ozark Art, he’d been in a pretty damn good mood. Soured now, he thought, as he’d deprived himself of quick, hot sex, fancy coffee and a cookie.

But Sylbie was right. He had changed. He hoped he never lost his taste for quick, hot sex, but he no longer wanted the price of guilt and emptiness that came after it when it just didn’t matter a damn.

What he needed was a distraction. Maybe he’d drive out to Mya’s, mooch some dinner, hang out with the kids. Nothing drove sex out of a man’s mind surer than a couple of wild kids fighting over the Wii or PlayStation.

He shut down, once again grabbed his jacket. He called a good night to Ash on the way out. On impulse, he jogged over to the florist, nipped in with five minutes to spare till closing.

A bunch of tulips was a good trade for a meal and distraction, he figured.

He drove out of the town proper, started to make the turn toward his sister’s big, noisy house near the river. He didn’t know until he’d turned the other way that he’d changed his mind.

Abigail had a nice fire crackling. On the stove, a pot of pasta e fagioli soup simmered. She’d baked a pretty little round of olive bread, put together a mixed salad she intended to toss with raspberry vinaigrette.

All the work she’d earmarked for the day was complete. She’d spent ninety minutes on weights and cardio, exercised Bert.

She was going to treat herself to dinner and a movie—maybe even a double feature, with popcorn for the follow-up.

Considering all the interruptions, she’d had a very good, very productive week. Her fee for the job she’d just completed would fatten her bank account and add to her peace of mind.

And Sunday? She’d give the computer a rest. She’d clean her weapons, work in her garden and greenhouse, maybe get a little hiking in. Then settle down with her leftover soup and read the evening away.

For her, it encompassed a perfect weekend.

“I think action/adventure with a comedy to follow,” she said to Bert as she gave the soup another stir. “And wine. The chief of police was right. It’s a very nice one. It won’t be cool enough for a fire in the evenings much longer, so we should take advantage. I think we should—”

They both came to alert when her system beeped. “Someone’s coming,” she murmured, and rested her hand on the weapon at her hip.

Her brows drew together when she saw the cruiser coming up her drive. “Why is he here again?”

She moved to her computer, zoomed in to make certain Brooks was behind the wheel, and alone. After a moment’s thought, she unstrapped the holster. He’d ask more questions if he saw her wearing it inside on a Saturday evening.

She stowed it in a drawer, waited until he parked. At least he’d parked beside her car, not behind it, this time.

She walked to the door, unlocked it, lifted the bar. She rested her hand on the pistol under the table as she opened the door a few inches.

And her frown deepened when she saw the tulips.

“Why are you sorry this time?”

“I’m not sorry. Oh, the flowers. Funny thing. I was going to use them to bribe my sister into feeding me, then I ended up driving here.”

His eyes seemed more amber in the quieting light, and the casual smile he offered didn’t quite ring true.

“To use them to bribe me?”

“I hadn’t thought that far. Will they get me in the door?”

She opened the door a few more inches. “They’re very pretty. You should go give them to your sister.”

“Probably, but I’m giving them to you. I had a crappy day. It didn’t start out that way, but it ended up in the crapper. I was going over to Mya’s to use her family to get me out of the mood. Then I figured it wouldn’t work.”

“It’s not likely that being here will change your mood.”

“It already has.” He gave her an easy smile that almost—almost—reached his eyes. “Something smells really good, besides you.”

“I don’t know why you’d come here.”

“I’m not sure, either. You can close the door on me. You still get the flowers.”

No one had given her flowers before, and she nearly said so before she caught herself. “I was going to have a glass of the wine you brought, and now you’ve brought flowers. You make me feel obligated.”

“I’ll take it, which shows how crappy my day ended up.”

She stepped back, closed and locked the door behind him. And when she turned, he held the flowers out to her.

“Thank you, even though you bought them for your sister.”

“You’re welcome, even though.”

“They’ll need water.”

He followed her, and the cooking smells, back to the kitchen.

“It’s a good night for soup and a fire,” he commented, hoping he’d get a share of both. “We may get a little frost tonight. Then tomorrow, it’s shooting up toward seventy. Have you ever been through a tornado?”

“I’m prepared.” She took a pottery pitcher in hues of green and brown from a cabinet.

“Is that from one of our shops?”

“Yes. The local artists are very good.”

She got a container of flower food from beneath the sink, added a small scoop before filling the pitcher with water. He sat, said nothing while she arranged the tulips.

She set them on the counter, then studied him the way he might study a suspect. “You can have a glass of wine.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

She retrieved the bottle, glasses, poured some out. “You seem to want to tell me about this problem with your day. I don’t know why you would, as I’m not part of your circle.”

“Could be that’s why. Another why is I realized you were a part of it, indirectly.”

“How could I be?”

“I’ll tell you.” He sampled the wine, but she neither sipped nor sat. So he shrugged. “Okay. I had an unusual and uncomfortable incident with a woman today. Back in high school, she was the love of my life. Know what I mean?”

Abigail had an image, clear as glass, of Ilya Volkov’s face. He was as close as she came, she supposed, and that wasn’t close at all. “Not really.”

“No heartbreaking crushes for you?”

“I took accelerated courses, so I was ahead of my age group in school.”

“Still. Anyway, about me.” He lifted his glass, toasted her, drank. “She was my first. The first always has a little hold on you, right?”

“You mean first sexual consummation. I don’t have any emotional attachment to my first sexual partner.”

“You’re a tough audience, Abigail. When she dumped me—for a college freshman, football captain—she dumped me hard. I’m talking kick-in-the-balls, fist-in-the-teeth hard.”

“I don’t understand why someone chooses to hurt a previous partner before moving on to another. I’m sorry she chose to.”

“I got over it, or figured I had. Then I moved to Little Rock, did ten years. When I came back, the woman in question was in the process of shedding husband number two.”

“I see.”

He realized how it all sounded, how he made Sylbie sound—all from his perspective. “She’s not as hard-hearted as I’m making her, but I’m still a little pissed off, and that colors it. So when I came back, took the job here, I was busy for the first couple months. Settling in, and my father wasn’t well.”

“I’m sorry. I hope he’s better.”

“He is, thanks. He’s good. A little while back, Sylbie and I revisited the past, we’ll say.”

“You had sex with her.”

“I did, a time or two. A couple weeks ago, we had an encore. But it just wasn’t there for me.” He studied his wine with a frown. “Maybe you can’t go back.”

“Why would you, if what was back was a mistake?”

“Good point. But, you know, sex. I decided I had to resist yet another repeat performance, and I’d have to tell her—which I should have done straight out instead of evading, avoiding. This afternoon, she … well, what she did was have the guy who runs the shop where she has some of her art displayed, and where she works part-time, call me down there. Officially.”

His conversational style, Abigail thought, was like his mother’s. Personal, rambling. Fascinating. “He reported a crime?”

“A dispute, which required my intervention. Instead, she’s there alone, with the idea we’ll make some use of the back room.”

“To have sex?”

“Yeah. I’m reasonably sure that was the plan, particularly since when I didn’t jump on that idea, she dropped her dress. She just”—he flicked out a hand—“dropped it, and she’s standing there in her skin and red shoes.”

“She’s confident, and was probably certain of your agreement.”

“Confident on some levels, and I didn’t agree. I was …”

“You said it was awkward and uncomfortable.”

“It was all that. Not that I didn’t …”

“You were aroused. It’s natural.”

“Like a reflex. But mostly? It just pissed me off. I was on duty, for God’s sake, and she sweet-talked an easy mark to call me down.”

Abigail considered it a fascinating example of human dynamics and miscommunication. “It appears she might not fully understand how seriously you take your duties.”

“I’m not a horny teenager. I’m the chief of the goddamn police.”

The spike of his temper, and the guilt so clearly wrapped around it, added another level of interest. “You’re still angry with her, and with yourself for the natural reflex.”

“I guess I am. I had to tell her I didn’t want her—partly because of ground I already covered here, partly because, for Christ’s sake, she didn’t show an ounce of respect for either of us. Another part was knowing I was going to have to slap poor Grover back for making the call, scare the shit out of him so he didn’t pull a stunt like that again.”

“That’s several parts.”

“And I’ve got one more. I realized when I was looking at this beautiful, naked woman I’d once loved the way you love when you’re sixteen, I didn’t want her for all the reasons I just said. And because I want you.”

She turned away, stirred the soup again. It was fitting, she supposed, as he stirred something in her.

“I said I wouldn’t have sex with you. Do you think I said that to pique your interest?”

“No. I think you say just what’s on your mind, except what you’ve got behind locked doors in there. But I figure you wouldn’t have brought it up if you hadn’t had some level of want in there yourself.”

She turned back, remained standing across the counter from him. “It was probably unwise for you to come here when you’re still a little angry and most likely experiencing some residual arousal from this incident.”

“God, I like the way you talk. And you’re right, it wasn’t the smartest move.”

“If I reconsidered because—”

She broke off when he lifted a hand. “Do me a favor? Don’t reconsider right yet. If you changed your mind on it, I’d be hard-pressed to pass it up. If you didn’t, well, I’d just be depressed. I didn’t come by for sex, though, like I said, hard-pressed. Let’s just take it off the table for tonight. I’d be willing to settle for some of that soup, some conversation.”

She didn’t want to like him, didn’t want to find herself engaged by a man—a police officer—who talked his way past her guard and sat in her kitchen, drawing out her interest with a personal story.

Logically, she should tell him to go. But she didn’t want to, and wondered what would happen if she did something just a little foolish.

“I planned to watch a movie with dinner.”

“I like movies.”

“I was going to watch Steel Magnolias.”

He let out a long, long sigh. “I probably deserve that.”

When she smiled, it seemed to him the whole room lit up.

“Actually, I was going to watch Live Free or Die Hard.”

“I should’ve brought you more flowers.”

He discovered she was a damn good cook, and that he liked raspberry vinaigrette just fine. He also learned she watched a movie with quiet intensity—no chatter.

That was fine with him, especially since the dog appeared accustomed enough to his presence to curl up and sleep at Abigail’s feet. Though Brooks had no doubt if he made the wrong move, Bert would be up, alert, and have him pinned with those unblinking eyes, if not the teeth.

He relaxed himself. Good food, a good movie, a simmering fire and a quiet woman. When the credits rolled, she rose to gather the dishes.

As expected, the dog came to attention, shot Brooks a look that said: I’m watching you, buddy.

“I’ll take care of that.”

“No. I have my own way.”

“I’ll help you take them back, then.” He stacked bowls before she could decline. “You turned my mood around, Abigail,” he said as they walked back to the kitchen.

“I’m glad I could help.” She set dishes on the counter, turned to him. “You should go now.”

He had to laugh. “Okay. Listen, why don’t I pay you back for the mood changer. Take you out to dinner.”

“We just had dinner.”

“Some other time.”

“I don’t go out to dinner.”

“Ever?”

“As a rule, I’m more comfortable here.”

“I’ll bring dinner, then. I’m very skilled at picking up pizza.”

She liked pizza. “It’s not necessary.”

“Neither was letting me have soup and Bruce Willis. Consider it balancing the scales. I bet you like things nice and balanced.”

“I’m not good company.”

“You’re wrong about that. I’ll call you.”

“I haven’t given you any contact numbers.”

“Abigail.” He brushed a finger down her cheek, a gesture so casually intimate her pulse scrambled. “I’m a cop.”

She couldn’t forget that, she reminded herself. Couldn’t afford to forget that. “I’ll walk you out.”

“Do you have to remind the dog I’m a friend every time I kiss you?” he asked when she’d unlocked the door.

“Not unless I give him a different command.”

“Okay.”

This time he put his hands on her hips, stepped in to her. He took her mouth as those hands skimmed up her body, awakening nerves, kindling needs.

She did forget, for a moment. With the night air cool, his mouth warm, she forgot everything in the pleasure of the contact. Let herself take that pleasure, let her body press against his. Parted lips, a tease of tongue and teeth, that lovely liquid weight in the belly.

She wished—she wished for his flesh under her hands, his flesh sliding hot and damp against hers. Wished, wished for his hands, his mouth on her breasts, on her body. And for the good, strong thrust of him inside her.

Yearned for that primal human contact as she hadn’t allowed herself to yearn for nearly a year.

When he broke the kiss, her mind and body waged war. If she let her body win …

Then he said, “Good night, Abigail.”

“Good night.”

“Take it easy, Bert.” He stepped out, and she welcomed the cool rush of air. Then he paused, looked back at her with those changeable eyes, that easy, effortless smile. “Wine, conversation, dinner, a movie and a good-night kiss. Definitely a second date.”

“It—”

“You could look up the definition. I’d say we hit it. I’m looking forward to date number three.”

When she shut the door without a word, he grinned.

Arousal, he thought, as he grinned his way to his truck, wasn’t always just a reflex. Sometimes it was a result.

11

After his Monday meeting with the selectmen, where he always felt a little bit like a fraud, Brooks headed over to Lindy’s with Russ Conroy. Old friend, current selectman, and just-announced mayoral candidate for the fall election.

“Mayor Conroy.”

“That’s the plan. Vote early, vote often.”

Brooks shook his head. They’d gone through school together from kindergarten right through high school graduation. They’d played ball together, with Russ on the mound, Brooks at third. They’d lied and bitched about girls, then women—and if it hadn’t been a lie on Russ’s side, they’d lost their virginity within the same week.

He’d served as best man at Russ’s wedding three years before, and stood as godfather for their daughter when Cecily was born some eighteen months later.

He’d seen Russ, a redheaded runt with a face full of freckles and teeth too big for his head, go from grumbling general dogsbody at the pretty hotel the Conroys owned to the buff, compact manager of same.

His love-’em-and-leave-’em, let’s-take-a-road-trip-to-Key-West friend had become a canny businessman, a loving husband and a devoted to the point of giddy father.

But he’d never expected there’d come a day when he’d cast his vote for Mayor Russell Conroy.

“Why is that the plan?”

“I’d be good at it.” Russ pulled open the door to the diner, wagged a finger at the waitress as he aimed for a booth. “Bickford’s been good to me. It gave me a home, a living, and more, it gave me Seline and CeeCee. I want a chance at helping it grow—and stay stable, to pump up the tourist trade here and there.”

“You would be good at it.” Brooks sat back as Kim served them coffee without being asked, and as Russ chatted her up.

He’d probably been born for it, Brooks realized.

“Mayor Conroy,” Brooks murmured as he lifted his coffee.

“Chief Gleason.”

“Ain’t it a kick in the nuts? We’re the grown-ups. Especially you, Daddy.”

“Daddy times two, come September.”

“Again? Really?”

Pride and pleasure shone on Russ’s face. “As real as it gets.”

“Hey, congratulations, Russ. You do good work in that department.”

“We’re keeping it quiet for another month, but word’s getting out.” He leaned forward a bit. In the Monday-morning quiet of the diner, ears were always pricked for gossip. “Seline’s sick as three dogs in the morning. A couple of the other teachers—including your dad—noticed she was, well, we’ll say glowing some.”

“He didn’t say a word to me, and I saw him for a bit yesterday.”

“She asked him not to. Your dad’s a vault.”

“He is that.”

“So, with me being an old married man and father of one and a bump, I have to live vicariously.” Russ wiggled red eyebrows. “Hot date this past weekend?”

“I got called in just before eleven to help break up a fight at Beaters. Justin Blake, apparently taking on all comers.”

“Boy’s a troublemaker.”

“That plus belligerent, spoiled and still underage. I’m adding substance-abuse problems. His daddy didn’t appreciate me putting his firstborn in a cell.”

“Lincoln’s an older troublemaker, with the money to back it up. I’m surprised they served the kid at Beaters.”

“According to all the witnesses I talked to, they didn’t. He shoved his way in, already lit, then got rowdy when they wouldn’t serve him and tried to haul him out. Anyway, Blake dragged himself and his lawyer down to the station.”

“Doesn’t sound like a fun-filled Saturday night for you.”

“Or most of Sunday,” Brooks added. “But the kid’s out on bail. He’ll have to go to alcohol school, do some community service, pay a fine and damages. Barely nineteen, and booted out of two colleges, already with two DUIs and more moving violations than I can count. He can’t drive, legally, for another year, but it doesn’t seem to stop him from getting drunk or high, then going someplace else to pick a fight.”

“Ah, youth.”

Brooks gestured with his coffee. “We were never that stupid, or that arrogant.”

“We were pretty stupid, but no, not that. We never got behind the wheel after we got piss-faced on beer we were too young to buy and drink.” Russ sat back, shoved a flop of his carrot-juice mop off his forehead. “You need a Saturday night off, son. You know Seline’s got a list of eligible friends she’s dying to pair up with you.”

“I’ll kill you first, and as chief of police, I know how to get away with it.”

“Just saying. Unless you’re still bumping hips with Sylbie.”

“That’s done. Good and done.”

“Then—”

“Actually, I’ve spent some time recently with Abigail Lowery.”

“No shit?” Eyes bright, Russ edged forward again. “Do tell, and I mean do.”

“I’ve got to get to work.”

“You can’t drop that and not follow through.”

“Let’s just say she’s interesting, mysterious, sexy without trying to be. She’s got a dog who looks big enough and smart enough to operate heavy machinery. And she can handle a Glock.”

“Then why’s she spending time with you?”

“I keep getting in her way. I’ve got to get to work. Pay for the coffee, and I’ll vote for you.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Hey, come on over for dinner, bring the lady.”

“I’m still working on her getting used to letting me into the house,” Brooks said as he slid out of the booth. “Getting her out of it’s going to take more doing.”

In the late afternoon, Brooks took some personal time and ran the errands to complete a mission. By the time he’d finished them and drove to his parents’ house, his father had changed from his work clothes to his gardening clothes.

Sunny and Loren worked on one of the front beds, plugging in young, colorful annuals.

Both of them wore hats, his father’s a battered ball cap that went back to Brooks’s third-base days, his mother’s a wide-brimmed straw with a clutch of red flowers tucked in its ribbon.

He loved the way they worked together, hip to hip, with music spilling out of the screened windows and doors—all wide open, though there was still a chill to the air.

When Brooks pulled in, Loren pushed to his feet, rising up on his long legs. Healthy color in his face, Brooks thought, easy smile, hair curling out from under the cap showing plenty of gray but still thick.

One day, maybe, he’d stop seeing his father as he’d been in the hospital before the bypass. Stop seeing him pale and gray and old and a little afraid.

His mother got to her feet as well, planted her hands on her hips. Brooks remembered the fear in her eyes, too. She’d talked a good game as they’d waited and paced and prayed. But the fear had lived in her eyes.

Now they looked like they were supposed to, he thought. Grubby from gardening, happy to see him, and still hip to hip.

He got out, hoped to hell he hadn’t made a big mistake, and retrieved the travel crate from the back of the car.

“Hey, there,” his father began.

“Hey, back. Hi, Ma.”

“What have you got there?”

“I brought you a present.” As he spoke, the contents of the crate woke with a yip that trembled with nerves and joy.

“Oh.” Sunny actually put her hands behind her back. “Brooks, I told you, I’m not ready for—”

“He comes with a return policy. You know Petie out at the county pound? He’s bending the rules just a little so you can have a look at the pup here, and he at you, before all the papers I filled out get finalized.”

“Brooks, I just can’t … Oh, God, look at that face.”

“Petie says it looks like he’s got some shepherd and some retriever in him, and God knows what else. But he’s got a sweet nature, and some balls. The literal ones have to go, that’s the rules, but he’s a brave little bastard.”

“Oh, Brooks. Loren, do something.”

“We ought to let him out, don’t you think?” Loren put an arm around Sunny’s shoulders. “At least take a real look at him.”

“Some help you are. All right, let him out of there. It’s not right he has to be in a cage like a criminal.”

“That’s the thing.” Brooks set the crate down, opened the door and scooped out the bundle of wiggling, licking, yipping delight. “He’s about ten weeks old. If he doesn’t find a home in another month, say, it’s curtains. The green mile. Riding the lightning.”

Deliberately, Sunny folded her arms. “Stop.”

“Dead dog walking,” Brooks added as his mother sighed and his father struggled not to laugh. “What?” Brooks held the dog’s nose up to his ear. “You sure? Okay. He says he wants me to tell you … ‘Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen,’” Brooks sang in somber tones.

“Oh, give me that pup.” Sunny stepped forward, gathered up the dog, who trembled with the force of love at first sight as he lapped at her face. “Oh, damn it. Damn it. Damn it,” she said a third time, with the words soft and muffled against the pup’s fur.

Beside her, Loren gave his son a thumbs-up before he ruffled the dog’s ears. “Has he had his supper?”

“Not yet, but I’ve got everything you need in the car. That is, if Ma’s willing to save his life.”

“I should’ve at least tried out spanking with you.” She held the pup up so his paws ran in the air and his tail wagged. “Loren, he’s going to dig in the flower beds and poop on the floor. He’ll chew everything he can get those milk teeth on.”

“Oh, yeah.” Loren reached over, tickled the pup’s belly. “He’s going to be a whole world of trouble.”

She brought the pup down, hugged him to her. “Come here, you brat.”

“You talking to me?” Brooks asked her.

“You’re the only brat I see in my front yard.” When he was close enough, she grabbed his ear, pulled him in. “Thank you.” Then she laid her head on Brooks’s shoulder and cried a little. “Love finds a way. I didn’t think I had it in me to do this again, feel this again. But love finds a way.”

She sniffled, straightened. “I’m going to take him around back, show him where he’s supposed to do his business. Y’all can get his stuff out of the car.”

“What made you bring her a puppy?” Loren asked.

“Actually, somebody put the idea in my head, and I ran with it.”

“It’s a good run. Let’s get his gear.”

“I thought he should have his own, so it wouldn’t seem like a replacement. So I got it all,” Brooks said as they started unloading. “Toys, bed, chew bones, leash, collar, bowls, puppy chow. Got these papers. He has to see the vet for the rest of his shots and the—” He made snipping motions with his fingers. “I’ll take the copy back to Petie tomorrow.”

“We’ll take care of it. This means the world to her, and to me. I’ve missed having a dog. I bet he perks up old Chuck, too.”

“Might at least get that cat off the couch a couple times a day.”

“Might. Your mama’s going to be busy with that pup for a while. How about I toss some burgers on the grill?”

“I say—hell,” he said when his radio squawked. “Chief Gleason.”

“Hey, Brooks, are you down at your folks’ yet?”

“Yeah, right in the yard,” he told Alma.

“Mrs. Willowby’s reporting an intruder again.”

“Okay, I’m two minutes away. I’ll take it.”

When he clicked off, he shrugged. “Old Mrs. Willowby reports an intruder about once a week. The house settles, the faucet drips, the sun shines the wrong way on the window, they’re coming for her. I’ll have to stay for weak tea and stale cookies after I go through the house.”

“Then we’ll wait to throw the burgers on.”

“That’d be great. Shouldn’t take but about thirty minutes.”

“We’re not going anywhere.”

Once or twice a week, when her workload allowed for the time, Abigail gave a few hours an evening to personal business. In the normal course of things, she paid any bills that weren’t on auto-payments as they came in, did her online shopping as the need—or sometimes just the whim—demanded. She followed the news, a handful of blogs on a weekly or daily basis, and even allowed a certain amount of time each day for games.

Since she’d designed and programmed one and hoped to do more one day, she felt she needed to keep abreast with current trends and technology.

But once or twice a week, she went hacking.

She checked on her mother by hacking into bank accounts, brokerage accounts, the hospital work schedule.

She knew Dr. Susan L. Fitch planned to take a three-week vacation in May to tour Provence. She knew which hotels Susan had booked, which private charter service she and her companion of the last several months—one Walter P. Fennington III—would use.

She knew quite a bit about her mother’s life, activities, finances.

They had neither seen each other nor spoken since the night Susan had left her with Terry and John at the first safe house in Chicago.

But she checked, off and on, out of curiosity, and to reassure herself the Volkovs had taken no reprisals in that area.

Why would they? Abigail wondered. They had moles in law enforcement. And those moles knew Susan Fitch knew nothing, cared to know nothing about the daughter she’d so meticulously conceived, then walked away from.

She checked on John’s family. She hoped he’d be happy his wife had remarried eight years after his death. He’d be happy his children were well and apparently happy. She knew where they lived, worked, attended school. Just as she knew Terry’s parents had moved to Sarasota.

She’d programmed an auto-search so any mention in any media outlet of the Volkovs popped on her computer. She followed them carefully. Ilya was engaged; a fall wedding was planned. His fiancée was from a wealthy family with ties to another bratva. She considered it as a kind of merger, though she imagined Ilya was pleased enough, as the woman was very beautiful.

Hacking into Ilya’s computers regularly took more effort, more time and a great deal of research. But she didn’t mind. On every visit, she copied and downloaded all of his files, e-mails, stored them, reviewed all the sites he visited.

People like him thought they were careful, but they weren’t. She knew his business nearly as well, she imagined, as he did. She knew his life, his fiancée’s, his girlfriends’, how he spent his money, where he bought his clothes, his shoes.

Everything.

And she knew the Volkovs still looked for her.

She wasn’t a priority, but from what she could extrapolate, she was more than a loose end. Elizabeth Fitch was a principle.

She was to be found and eliminated. As long as Sergei Volkov served as head of the bratva, she would remain a target. And she believed, absolutely, she would remain one when Ilya officially took his place.

She knew Yakov Korotkii continued as enforcer. She’d compiled a list, one she added to on these visits, of people she believed he’d terminated. She knew—as she’d hacked those agencies as well—that the FBI, the U.S. Marshals Service and Interpol, among others, had similar lists.

But nothing stuck to Korotkii. He was, perhaps because of her, a highly favored and well-protected tool.

She also knew the FBI and the marshals continued to look for her. Or for Elizabeth Fitch.

She remained a witness in the murders of Julie Masters and Alexi Gurevich, and also a person of interest in the deaths of John Barrow and Theresa Norton.

John had spoken the truth, protected her to the end. She could trust no one. To the Volkovs she was a target to be terminated out of pride and principle as much as any potential testimony she might give. To the authorities she was witness to the murder of two federal marshals, or, depending on the analysis, a fugitive who may have, out of desperation, boredom, madness, incapacitated one federal marshal, killed another, wounded one more, as Cosgrove had been shot in the hip during the melée.

Some theorized she’d initiated the gas explosion to cover up her crimes while she fled.

The plan to eliminate her had been in place, she imagined, for days, even weeks, before her seventeenth birthday. Keegan and Cosgrove had initiated it.

She had been meant to die along with John and Terry in the explosion.

She rarely thought of those first few months on the run, that first year in hiding, all the terror and grief. But she’d found her way.

She had a life now, and she meant to keep it.

With the dog at her feet, she tiptoed into Ilya’s accounts. He changed his passwords routinely, updated his security, his firewalls.

But she’d spent a decade studying, developing, programming systems—their ins, their outs. Whatever he built, she could break. It gave her a great deal of satisfaction to invade him, to peer into his private world, shatter his privacy.

Her only regret was he’d never know.

He’d never fear as she had feared.

But she cost him.

Every now and again, when she had enough, when she was sure of the data and her own safety, she found a way to leak bits of information to an agent with the FBI—one she’d thoroughly researched, one she felt she knew as well as she knew herself.

Whoever she happened to be at the moment.

She signed the brief, data-heavy memos tvoi drug. Russian for “your friend.” There were files, profiles, searches, queries, on tvoi drug. Most believed the informant male, and connected within the Volkov bratva.

Tvoi drug had cost lives. Abigail hoped she’d saved some. Her greatest achievement, on her gauge, had been compiling enough information to generate a raid on a warehouse in South Chicago, and dismantle and destroy the forced prostitution ring operating out of it.

Now she studied recent activity. Codes, cryptic phrases, false names. She passed over information on basic computer scams. If the federals couldn’t handle those on their own, they didn’t deserve any help.

But the money laundering, she considered.

Scraping away at the Volkovs’ bottom line offered satisfaction. Maybe not the deep and visceral satisfaction of knowing she’d played some small part in freeing more than twenty girls from sexual slavery, but diminished funds made their business more difficult to operate.

Yes, the money laundering would be her new personal project. She’d consider it a kind of wedding gift to Ilya.

She set about compiling snatches of information from e-mails—Ilya’s, the accountant’s, a handful of other contacts. It amazed her, always, what people revealed with keystrokes, how careless they were. While she worked, she thought in Russian, entrenched herself in it. So much so that when her phone rang, she muttered a mild Russian oath.

She expected no calls, but a few clients seemed to prefer phone conversations or texts over e-mails. She glanced at the display. Frowned.

Brooks had managed to dig up her cell phone number. Not really that hard, but it would’ve taken some time and effort.

Why?

Cautious, she answered.

“Hello.”

“Hey. It’s Brooks.”

“Yes, I know.”

“What do you like on your pizza?”

“I … It doesn’t matter.”

“Pizza toppings matter, Abigail. They’re vital to the pie.”

She supposed he had a point. And she wished everything about him didn’t appeal and confuse. “I like black olives and hot peppers, particularly.”

“That’s a go. Any objection to pepperoni?”

“No.”

“Perfect. I’ll be by in about a half-hour.”

“I didn’t ask you to come by.”

“Yeah, I noticed. You really have to start doing that.”

“I’m working.”

“It’s going on seven. Let’s take a break. Besides, I have news for you.”

“What news?”

“It comes with the pizza. About a half-hour. See you.”

She set the phone down, studied it.

She wasn’t prepared. Why did he always interrupt and insert himself when she wasn’t prepared? Now she’d have to close up the work.

And she’d planned to have chicken stir-fry for dinner.

He’d expect conversation, and she wasn’t sure she had any more. Between him and his mother, she was out of what struck her as appropriate small talk.

Still, she wondered what he’d meant by news.

Resigned, she shut down the work, then reluctantly put her gun and holster in the drawer.

She assumed he’d also expect a drink, so she considered her nicely balanced selection of wines and chose a good Chianti.

Then she stopped, stared at the bottle.

She was having dinner with him again. That made twice in one week, and that didn’t count the huckleberry pie.

She was dating the chief of police.

“For God’s sake. How did he do this? I don’t date. I can’t date.”

She set the wine down and did something else she didn’t do. She paced. She needed to find a solution, a resolution to this … situation. Clearly refusing to see him would only make him more determined and suspicious. In any case, her attempts in that area had failed.

She understood the concept of pursuit and conquer. The male felt challenged, driven to persuade, capture, conquer. Perhaps she should reconsider having sex with him. With sex the pursuit would end, the challenge would be removed. His interest would begin to wane.

Those were logical reasons.

It would also include the benefit of eliminating this yearning. Once her own physical needs were met, his challenge met, his interest faded, she would have no reason to think of him at inopportune times. Everything would go back to normal and routine.

She considered the theory valid.

They’d have sex, then each would get on with their own separate lives and agendas.

Relieved, pleased with her qualified decision, she went upstairs, Bert trailing, to make certain there was nothing in her bedroom, bathroom, or indeed anywhere on the second floor, that would catch his eye.

He’d have no reason to ask about the second bedroom, and the door was secured. She took another moment, asking herself if breaking her own precedents—good precedents—and having an intimate encounter with a local, in her own home, made the best sense.

She believed it did. She believed she was capable of handling the one-time abnormality.

She glanced toward her bedroom station when her security signaled. Murmured to Bert to stand down.

Brooks was prompt, she thought, as she watched him drive toward the house.

She liked pizza, she decided, as she started downstairs. She liked sex. As she unlocked the door, she assured herself the plan was sound, and both parties would complete it amiably.

12

There she was, he thought, her canine companion at her side and those eyes of hers so carefully guarded he just knew they held secrets.

She didn’t project annoyance this time, and still she watched every move he made when he climbed out of the truck with the pizza and a six-pack of Rolling Rock.

They kept watching him when he stepped onto the porch, leaned in and kissed her.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” She stepped back, then went through the locking-up routine. “You brought beer. I have wine breathing, but—”

“That’ll work, too. We’ll just put this in the fridge.” He passed her the six-pack, then pulled a rawhide bone out of his pocket. “Something for Bert, if it’s okay.”

The gift touched her. Ploy or not, she thought it showed kindness. “He won’t take it from you.”

“You give it to him, then.”

He handed her the bone, saw Bert’s eyes click between the two of them, the rawhide. But the dog didn’t move a muscle.

“It was very nice of you. He likes them.” She turned to the dog, murmured a command. Bert’s butt hit the floor.

“That wasn’t French.”

“Italian.” She gave Bert the bone, followed it with another command.

“He speaks Italian, too. That’s some sophisticated dog. He’s smiling.”

“Dogs don’t smile.”

“Give me a break, look at those eyes. He’s smiling. Where do you want the pizza?”

“The kitchen’s best. You’re in a good mood.”

“I’m about to have pizza with a pretty woman, one who goes for hot peppers, a personal favorite. And she opened wine. I’m off duty until eight hundred hours. I’d be stupid not to be in a good mood.”

“You’re not stupid.” She got down wineglasses. “And though your job includes a high-stress factor, you rarely appear stressed. That I’ve observed.”

“I like the job.”

“But if your father hadn’t become ill, you’d still be in Little Rock.”

“Yeah, probably. I was meant to come home, take this job and settle back here.”

She shook her head as she got out plates. It occurred to her she did have more conversation. “There’s no such thing as predestination or fate or destiny. Life is a series of choices and circumstance, action and the reaction, and results of other people’s choices. Your father’s illness influenced you to choose this position at this time. I think it was a loving and loyal choice, but it wasn’t meant.”

He poured the wine himself. “I believe in choice, and in fate.”

“How? We can’t have choice and free will and still be fated.”

“It’s a puzzle, isn’t it?”

He looked so natural in her kitchen, in her space, with his jeans and T-shirt, his high-top sneakers and battered leather jacket. Should she be concerned about that?

“Why don’t we eat out on the back porch? It’s a pretty night.”

That threw her. She never ate outside, and never went outside without a weapon.

“Look at the wheels turn.” He flicked a finger down her temple. “You’ve been cooped up working most of the day, I imagine. I can’t believe you bought this place if you don’t appreciate a soft spring night.”

Just another choice, she thought. “All right.” She opened the drawer, took out her holster. “I don’t go outside without my gun.”

“Okay.” The Glock 19 again, apparently a favorite. “I wish you’d tell me what you’re afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid.” If it was a lie, it was a small one. She considered herself too well prepared and secured for real fear. “I prefer to have a gun when I’m outside.”

“All right.” He waited while she put it on, unlocked the kitchen door. “But when you decide to tell me, I’ll find a way to help you.”

“How do you know I’m not a criminal? A fugitive from justice?”

“Do you believe in instinct?”

“Yes, of course. It’s—”

“You don’t have to explain. Just put it down to instinct.”

She had a little table on the porch, a single chair. Brooks set the pizza down, went inside for her desk chair.

“It’s nice out here, the view, the air. You’ve started your garden.” He took the desk chair, sipped his wine. “What do you have in the greenhouse?”

“Plants. Flowers, some vegetables. I have some small fruit trees. They do very well in the greenhouse environment.”

“I bet.”

At her signal, Bert lay down by her feet and began to gnaw on his bone. “He’s smiling again.”

This time she shook her head but smiled a little, too. “You have a fanciful nature.”

“Maybe it offsets that stress.” He took the pizza she served him, balanced the plate on his lap, then, stretching out his legs, held his silence.

She did the same.

“You’re not going to ask,” he decided. “That’s some control you’ve got there, Abigail.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said I had news, but you’re not going to ask about it. Most people wouldn’t have waited three minutes to ask.”

“Maybe it was another ploy.”

“Not this time.” He waited a few beats, sighed hugely. “Now you’re not going to ask because you’re messing with me.”

Her smile bloomed again, and damned if he didn’t feel a sense of victory every time he made those lips curve. “All right, all right, if you’re going to nag about it, I’ll tell you. I took your advice. Rescued a pup from the pound for my mother.”

“Is she pleased?”

“She cried, in a good way. My sister texted me today that I was a suck-up, and Ma still likes her better. That’s the middle of us. She was kidding,” he added, when Abigail frowned. “We like to rag on each other. After an intense debate, during which I ate my burger and kept my mouth shut, the happy parents named their new child, because, believe me, he’ll be treated like one, Plato. My dad wanted Bob or Sid, but my mother claims the puppy looked philosophic and very bright, and deserves an important name.”

“It’s a good name. Names with strong consonant sounds are easier to use in training. It’s good news. Happy news.”

“I think so.” He pulled his phone off his belt. “Got a picture of him.” He scrolled through, offered it.

“He’s very handsome, and has bright, alert eyes.” And it softened her to look into them, imagine him in a good, loving home. “You’re a good son.”

“They make it easy to be. How about your parents?”

“There’s only my mother. We’re estranged.”

“I’m sorry. Where is she?”

“We haven’t communicated in several years.”

Off limits, Brooks deduced. Way off limits. “I end up communicating with my parents damn near every day. One of the ups, or downs, depending on your viewpoint, of living in a small town.”

“I think in your case it must be an advantage, and a comfort.”

“Yeah. I took it for granted when I was growing up, but that’s what kids do. Take for granted. When I lived in Little Rock, I talked or e-mailed a lot. And I came up every month or so, to see them, my sisters, my friends who still live here. But I never thought about moving back.”

“You were happy in Little Rock, and with your work there.”

“Yeah, I was. But when my father got sick, I not only felt I had to come back, I realized I wanted to.”

He pointed a finger at her. “Fated.”

She gave that little head shake and smile he was growing very fond of. “You have a close nuclear family.”

“You could say that. How’s the pizza?”

“It’s very good. When I make my own, I make a whole wheat crust, but I like this better.”

“Make your own? Like from a box?”

“If it’s in a box, it’s not making your own.”

“Most everything I make’s out of a box. You make pizza from scratch?”

“Yes, when I want it.”

“Even my mother doesn’t do that.” He put another slice on her plate, one on his, then topped off their wine. “Maybe you’ll show me the greenhouse later.”

“I’m not growing marijuana.”

He laughed, so quick, so delighted, it made her jump a little. “Wouldn’t that be interesting? But it’s not what I was thinking. I grew up with gardeners, so I’m interested. Not to say we don’t have a few around these parts growing some weed, for personal use or as a second income. My own mother did until she started having kids. And she’d still argue at the blink of an eye for legalizing it.”

“Legalizing, inspecting and taxing marijuana would eliminate the funds spent on the attempt to enforce the current laws, and generate considerable revenue.”

“There’s that viewpoint thing again.”

The dog shifted, sat up, stared at Abigail. “Allez,” she said, and he climbed off the porch, headed for a tree.

“Back to French. Did that dog just ask permission to pee?”

“He wouldn’t leave the porch without my permission.” She shifted herself, took a sip of wine. “I’ve reconsidered.”

“Too late, you’re already into your second slice.”

“Not the pizza. I’ve reconsidered having sex with you.”

He was grateful he’d just swallowed or he’d have choked. “Is that a fact?”

“Yes. After weighing the pros and cons, I’ve decided sex with you would be mutually satisfying. You’re attractive and pleasant. And clean. You kiss very well, and while I’ve found that’s not always a reliable gauge for skill in bed, it often follows. If you’re agreeable, we can finish dinner, I’ll show you the greenhouse, then we can go in and have sex. I’m on birth control, but I would require you wear a condom.”

He was damn near speechless. “That’s an offer, all right.”

“You don’t accept?” She hadn’t factored in a refusal. “I thought you wanted me, physically. You don’t?”

He put his plate down, got to his feet. Too wound up to give a damn what the dog thought—or did—Brooks pulled Abigail up, gave her a good, hard yank against him.

No soft kiss this time, no easy exploration. This exploded, firebombing shrapnel through her senses. Her balance swayed, crumbled. She had to cling to him or fall.

“Wait. Wait.”

Perhaps it was the tremble in her voice—or the low, warning growl from the dog—but though he didn’t let her go, he eased up.

“Ami. Ami.” Her hand trembled like her voice as she laid it briefly on Brooks’s cheek. Then she added a hand signal for the dog. “Ami, Bert. Pillow.”

When the dog sat, Abigail let out a shaky breath. “He thought you were hurting me.”

“Was I?”

“No. But I’d like to sit down.”

“Look at me.”

She took that breath again, then lifted her gaze to his. “You’re angry.”

“No, I’m not. I’m not sure what I am, but I’m not mad.”

“You don’t want me.”

“Do I have to answer that question again, and if so, will I need an ambulance when your dog gets done with me?”

“I … oh. Oh.” He heard the humiliation in the sound as she closed her eyes and nodded. “I understand. I was too blunt, too matter-of-fact. I should have waited for you to approach the subject, or, failing that, I shouldn’t have been so calculating. I’d really like to sit down.”

He let her go, sat beside her. “First, I’ve got nothing but good feelings about the idea you’re willing to go to bed with me. The problem, on my side, is having the feeling you’re handling it like a chore you want to cross off your to-do list.”

Exactly true, she thought, in delivery and intent. “I’m sorry. I thought it was the right approach. You’re not angry, but you’re at least a little insulted. I am sorry.” She gathered enough courage to look at him. “I know approach matters to some people. I know that. This was as poorly presented and demeaning as the woman in Ozark Art.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. And I hoped you’d reconsider at some point.”

“I wasn’t going to, then … I was nervous, and I mishandled it.”

“Nervous?”

“This isn’t how I usually … I don’t know how to explain.”

“Not without telling me more than you want to. All right. Let’s try this. We’ll finish this glass of wine, and you’ll show me the greenhouse. We’ll see how things go from there.”

“I’m not good with seeing how things go.”

“I’m real good at it. Let’s give it a try. If you don’t like how they go, we can always do things your way. I figure I can’t lose.”

“You mean you’d have sex either way.”

He laughed again, reached out and took her hand for a squeeze. “What a woman. Let’s just see—damn it.” He broke off when his cell phone rang. “Hold that thought. Yeah, Ash, what’s the problem?”

She saw his face change as he listened, saw it go quiet and a little hard. “No, you did right. I’m on my way. You wait, you hear? Wait until I get there.

“I’m sorry,” he said to Abigail as he closed the phone.

“It’s all right.” But she didn’t look at him as she rose to pick up the plates.

“This kind of thing is part of the package,” he began.

“I understand that, of course. But you’re off duty.”

“So I must be using it as an excuse? No.” Gently, he laid a hand on her arm. “No, Abigail. This particular problem is one I ordered whoever got the call on it—which was inevitable—to contact me. On or off duty. I need to handle this situation.”

“I see. I do understand.”

“I’d like to come back.”

“You don’t have to feel—”

“Abigail, I’d like to come back, if I can. If I can’t, I’ll call you. I’m not sure which it’s going to be.”

“Because you have to see how it goes.”

“That’s exactly right. I have to go.” He leaned down, kissed her. “I’d rather stay.”

She believed him, and the belief warmed something inside her as he strode off the porch and around the house toward his car.

So tonight, the job sucked, Brooks thought, as he drove toward Tybal and Missy Crew’s. But he’d given this situation considerable thought since the last time Ty had drunk himself mean. Tonight, one way or another, Brooks intended to fix it.

Every window in the Crews’ House glowed up like Christmas, while neighbors gathered on the lawns as if the domestic disturbance qualified as a party. Ash kept them back from the house where bluegrass blasted through the wide-open door and the occasional crash rang out.

As Brooks got out of his car, Jill Harris—house on the left—walked over.

“Somebody’s got to go in there before he wrecks what’s left of that place.”

“Is Missy in there?”

“She ran out, barefoot, crying, her mouth bleeding. I can’t keep making these calls if nothing’s going to be done about it.”

“Will you file a complaint?”

“I have to live next door.” At five-foot-nothing, Jill folded her arms across her pink cardigan. “I tried talking to Missy about it once, while she sat in my kitchen holding a bag of my frozen peas to her black eye. She ended up calling me a dried-up old bitch who couldn’t mind her own business. Now she doesn’t speak to me. You think I want him banging on my door one drunken night?”

“All right, Ms. Harris. Come on, Ash.”

“Do you want to send someone out to find Missy?”

“No. She’s around here somewhere, or she hightailed it over to her sister’s. She knows we’ll respond.”

Part of him wondered if she’d come to enjoy the drama of it all, and he didn’t like the wondering.

“She’ll wait for us to haul him off,” Brooks continued, “then she’ll come back home, wait till morning to come tell us she slipped on the soap or some shit. I want you to stand by, but don’t talk to him. I don’t want you to say anything.”

“I can do that.”

Brooks didn’t have to knock, as Missy had left the door wide open when she fled. He stayed on the stoop, called out.

“I don’t know as he can hear,” Ash began.

“He’ll hear. We’re not going inside. We’re staying out here, where we’ve got better than a dozen witnesses.”

“To what?”

“To what happens next. Ty! You got company at the door.”

“I’m busy!” Brooks watched a lamp fly across the living room. “I’m redecorating.”

“I see that. Need a minute of your time.”

“Come on in, then. Join the fuckin’ party!”

“I come in there, I’m hauling you to jail. If you come out here, we’ll just have us a conversation.”

“Chrissake. Can’t a man get some chores done in his own home?” Ty stumbled to the door, big, glassy-eyed, blood pockmarking his face where Brooks assumed flying glass had nicked it. “Hey, there, Ash. Now, what can I do for you officers of the goddamn law tonight?”

“Looks like you’ve been sucking down that Rebel Yell pretty hard,” Brooks said, before Ash forgot himself and responded.

“No law against it. I’m in my own home sweet fucking home. I ain’t driving. I ain’t operating heavy machinery.” He cracked himself up, had to bend over and wheeze as the laugh took his breath away.

“Where’s Missy?”

“Hell if I know. I come home. There’s no supper on the table. But she had time to whine. Whine, whine, whine, nag, nag, nag. Where I been, what I been doing and who I’m doing it with.”

“Is that when you hit her?”

The glassy eyes went sly. “You know how clumsy she is. And when she’s on the whining and nagging she can’t see straight. Stupid bitch walked right into a door. Then she takes off.” He gestured, spotted the neighbors.

“Buncha assholes got nothing better to do than stand around outside. I’m in my house.” Ty pointed to his own feet to prove a point.

“Redecorating.”

“That is key-rect!”

“Maybe if you spent less time redecorating and more time fucking your wife, she wouldn’t walk into walls and take off.”

“I’m gonna get me some paint and … What’d you say?”

“You heard me.” Beside him, Ash goggled, but Brooks kept his eyes trained on Tybal. “I guess you can’t get that pea-shooter you call a dick up anymore.”

Ty swayed back and forth on his size-fourteen boots, blinked his bloodshot eyes. “You better shut your fucking mouth.”

“Then again, when you’re equipped with a cock the size of a gherkin, what’s the point in trying to get some wood?”

“Get off my property, you fucker.” Ty shoved him, and that was enough. But Brooks wanted to nail it shut.

“That the best you got?” Brooks put a sneer on his face. “I guess it figures a dickless wonder does the pushy shove like a girl. Next thing, you’ll be pulling my hair and crying.”

Though he was prepared for the punch and Ty was teetering drunk, it still carried some weight. Brooks tasted blood as Ash let out a wondrous Jesus Christ beside him.

And on a roar, Ty charged.

Brooks sidestepped, turned his foot just enough that Ty tripped over it and went flying into the yard.

“Now you’ve done it. You’re under arrest for assaulting an officer.”

“I’ll kill you.” Scrambling to his feet, Ty came at Brooks, fists flying.

“Add resisting arrest.” Brooks dodged or blocked most of the blows. “You want to give me a hand securing the prisoner, Ash?”

“Yes, sir.” Breaking out of his openmouthed shock, Ash ran forward.

“You keep your hands off me, you pissant cocksucker.” He swung at Ash, went wide, but connected with his shoulder.

“That’ll be a second count of assaulting an officer. I think it’s clear we’ll be throwing drunk and disorderly into the mix.”

Between the two of them, they got Ty down on the ground, cuffed him. As they hauled a struggling, cursing Ty up, Brooks scanned the faces on neighboring lawns.

“I’m sending a deputy out shortly,” he said, raising his voice. “He’ll get statements from y’all. I don’t want any bullshit, you hear? You say what you saw. Anybody doesn’t, I’m charging with obstruction of justice. Don’t test me.”

He put a hand on Ty’s head, boosted him into the back of the cruiser, then swiped the back of his hand over his bloody lip. “Deputy Hyderman, you follow me in.”

“Yes, sir, Chief.”

He ignored Ty’s rantings as he drove to the station, did his best to ignore his aching jaw as well. The warning look he shot Ash had the deputy keeping his mouth shut as they loaded Ty into a cell.

“I want a lawyer. I’m suing your ass, then I’m kicking it for saying that shit.”

“What shit?” Brooks locked the cell door.

“That shit about I ain’t got a dick, and I can’t get it up to do Missy. You fucker.”

“Damn, Ty, you must be drunker than you look. I haven’t seen your dick since the showers in high school PE, and I can’t say I paid it much mind then. I never said anything about it.”

“You lying sack, you said it was the size of a—a—something small.”

“You’re drunk, you had the music blasting. You don’t know what you heard. Deputy, did I say anything to impinge the prisoner’s manhood?”

“I … ah. I didn’t hear anything.”

“I’m going to have Deputy Fitzwater go out and take statements from the witnesses. Here’s what’s going to happen now, Ty, and this time you should listen good. You can get a lawyer, all right. You’ll need one. I’m filing charges for assault, for resisting, for D-and-D and for creating a goddamn public nuisance. You’re going to jail, and not just overnight. Not this time.”

“Bullshit.”

“Assault on a police officer? That’s a felony, Ty. You got two counts, plus the resisting. You could do five years.”

His rage-red face went white. “Bullshit.” And the word shook.

“You think about that. A lawyer might get that down to, oh, eighteen months in, with probation. But you’ll do real time for it, that’s a promise.”

“You can’t send me to jail. I’ve got to make a living.”

“What you’ve been doing the last couple years? I don’t call it living.”

He thought of Tybal out in center field—fast on his feet, an arm like a rocket. Of Ty and Missy shining all through high school.

And told himself what he’d done, what he would do, was for that bright, shiny couple.

“You think about that tonight, Ty. Think about spending the next year or two, or more, down in Little Rock. Or the chance I might give you of spending that time on probation, contingent on attendance and completion of alcohol rehabilitation, anger management and marriage counseling.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ty dropped down on the bunk, putting his head in his hands. “I feel sick.”

“You are sick. You think about it.” Brooks stepped back, secured the door to the cells.

“You baited him.”

“What’re you talking about, Ash?”

“Come on, Chief, he can’t hear us out here. You baited him into the assault.”

“Ash, I’m going to say this once. Sooner or later, it wasn’t just going to be Missy with a split lip or black eye. The neighbors, they’d get tired of calling us in. Maybe one of them would get it into his head to stop it himself. Or Missy would get tired of getting smacked and pick up one of the guns they’ve got in that house. Or he’d get tired of having her run out and hit her hard enough she couldn’t run anymore.”

“He never broke up the place like he was doing tonight.”

“No. He’s escalating. I don’t want to get called out there to deal with one—or both—of their bodies.”

“Can you do like you said? Make him go to rehab and stuff?”

“Yeah, I’m going to make sure of it. Officially? What you heard me say to him tonight was the same as you’ve heard me say before. Did he hit Missy, where was she, what was the problem, and so on. You got that?”

“I got it.”

“All right, then, I’m going to write it up, have Boyd go on out there to get those witness statements, and check to make sure Missy’s back home.”

“She’ll come in tomorrow, like always.”

Yeah, she would, Brooks thought. But this time she’d have to make a different choice. “And I’ll deal with her. You can go on home.”

“No, sir. I’ll stay here tonight.”

“You caught it last time.”

“I’ll stay. You should ice down that jaw. You took a pretty good shot. In the morning, maybe you could bring in some of those sticky buns from the bakery.”

“I can do that. Fancy coffee, too?”

“They got that one with the chocolate in it and the whipped cream on top.”

“I know the one. How’s that shoulder?”

“It’s not bad. Probably bruise up some, but that’s more weight on it. Tybal’s okay when he’s not drinking. Maybe, if what you did sticks, he’ll be okay.”

It took longer than he’d hoped, but Abigail’s lights were still on when he got back to her house. The four Motrin he’d swallowed took the throbbing in his jaw down to an annoying ache. That would’ve been good, but the lessening there made him aware of the few other spots Ty had landed a fist or a boot.

Should just go home, he told himself as he eased out of the car. He should go home, take an hour-long hot shower, drink two fingers of whiskey and go to bed.

The whole business with Ty had ruined his mood, anyway.

He’d just ask her for a rain check, since he’d driven out here.

She opened the door before he knocked, stood there in that braced and ready way of hers, studying his face.

“What happened?”

“Long story.”

“You need an ice pack,” she said as she stepped back.

The first time, he thought, she’d let him in without him asking or maneuvering. He went in.

“It took a while. Sorry.”

“I did some work.” She and the dog turned, walked back to the kitchen. She opened the freezer, got out an instant cold compress and offered it.

“People usually go for the frozen peas.”

“These are more efficient, and less wasteful.”

He sat, laid it against his jaw. “Get punched in the face often?”

“No. Do you?”

“It’s been a while. I forgot how much it fucking hurts. You wouldn’t have any whiskey handy, would you?”

Saying nothing, she turned to a cupboard. She took out a bottle of Jameson—and right there he wanted to kiss her feet—and poured him two fingers in a thick lowball glass.

“Thanks.” The first slow sip eased the rawness in his mood. “Anything you don’t have handy?”

“Things I don’t feel I have any use for.”

“There you go.”

“Do you want to tell me the long story?”

“Honey, I’m from the Ozarks. Long stories are a way of life.”

“All right.” She got out a second glass, poured more whiskey, and sat.

“God, you’re a restful woman.”

“Not really.”

“Right now you are, and I sure need it.” He sat back, ignoring twinges, and took a slow sip of whiskey. “So, Tybal and Missy. Back in our high school days, they were the golden couple. You know what I’m saying?”

“They were important in that culture.”

“King and queen. He was the all-star athlete. Quarterback with magic hands. Center fielder with a bullet arm. She was head cheerleader, pretty as a strawberry parfait. He went to Arkansas State, mostly on an athletic scholarship, and she went along. From what I hear, they sparkled pretty good there, too. Up until junior year, when he messed up his knee on a play. All the talk of him going pro, that blew up. Ended up coming back home. They broke up, got back together, broke up, that sort of thing. Then they got married.”

He sipped more whiskey. Between that, the Motrin and the restfulness of the woman, he felt better.

“He coached high school football awhile, but it didn’t go well. He didn’t have the wiring for it, I guess. So he went to work in construction. Missy, she tried some modeling, but that didn’t work out. She works at the Flower Pot. They never prepared, I’m thinking, for things not to keep on sparkling, so dealing with the dull took a toll. Ty, he started paying that toll with Rebel Yell.”

“He yells?”

“No, honey, it’s a whiskey not nearly as nice as what you poured me. My predecessor in this job let me know about the problem. The DUIs, the bar fights, and the D-and-Ds—that’s—”

“Domestic disputes. He becomes violent and abusive when he drinks.”

“That’s right. The last year or so, it’s been worse.”

“Why hasn’t he been arrested?”

“He has been, then he ends up with a warning or community service. Missy won’t press charges when he smacks her around, and denies it ever happened. She fell, she slipped, she walked into a door.”

“She enables him.”

“That she does. And the fact is people gave them a blind eye on the trouble. The kind of shine they had lasts a long time in a small town like this. But I spent some time away, so maybe I see it—them—differently. Since repeated attempts at getting them into therapy, rehab, counseling have failed, I went another way.”

“That resulted in your injury.”

“You could say. When my deputy called to report they were at it—which means Ty came home drunk, hit her, she ran out—I got Ty to come out on his stoop, in full view of the fourteen people outside to watch the show. He had music blasting to accompany his wrecking of every breakable in the house he could get his hands on. This was a plus, as nobody but Ty and my deputy could hear me incite this drunken asshole to violence by questioning the size and virility of his penis. If that hadn’t worked, I was prepared to suggest that his long-suffering and idiotic wife might find the size and virility of my penis more to her liking.”

On a long breath, he shook his head. “I’m glad it didn’t come to that. He punched me in the face in front of witnesses, and is now contemplating serving time for a felony or two.”

“That was very good strategy. Men are sensitive about their genitalia.”

He choked a little on the whiskey, then rubbed his hand over his face on a laugh. “God knows we are.” Then he sobered, took a small sip. “God knows we are that.”

“Your method wasn’t conventional, but the result was good. But you feel sorry and a little sad. Why?”

“He was a friend once. Not best, not close to best, but a friend of mine. I liked them, and I guess I liked seeing that sparkle, too. I’m sorry to see them brought low like this. I’m sorry to be a part of bringing them low.”

“You’re wrong. It’ll be up to them to address and seek help for their problems, but as long as they were both unable to do that, they’d never resolve those problems. What you did gives him only two choices. Jail or help. It’s more likely that, when sober and faced with those choices and consequences, he’ll choose help. As she appears to be codependent, so will she. I would think your actions fall well within the function and spirit of your job description. As well as within the parameters of friendship.”

He set the whiskey he hadn’t finished aside. “I was telling myself I should just go home with my mood and my aches and annoyances. I’m awfully glad I didn’t.”

He reached out, took her hands. “Let me take you to bed, Abigail.”

She kept her eyes on his. “All right.”

13

All right.

He wondered that he should find it so sweet, so disarming, she kept it just that simple.

All right.

He rose, drew her to her feet. “Maybe you could show me the way.”

“You mean to the bedroom.”

“Yeah. I know my way around what we’ll be doing there.”

The smile flickered in her eyes, around her mouth. “I’d be disappointed if that wasn’t true.”

He kept her hand as they walked back to the living room, up the stairs. “Considering what we’ll be doing, and I hope you don’t question my size and virility for the question, but how does Bert handle the process?”

“He’s very well trained, so theoretically he won’t interfere.”

Brooks glanced back at the dog. “Theoretically’s a tricky word. And by interfere, do you mean he won’t rip my throat out?”

“He shouldn’t.”

At the door to the bedroom, Brooks turned her around, narrowed his eyes as he studied her. “I’m trying to figure out if you’re being funny.”

“Humor can smooth over awkwardness, if there is any. I can’t tell. But if Bert thought you hurt me, or tried to, his first response would be to protect me—to stop you. He’s seen you touch me, and I’ve instructed him you’re a friend, and to stand down. He sees I’ve brought you up here without duress, that I touch you.”

She laid a hand on Brooks’s chest, then glanced at the dog, gave him an order.

“What language was that?” Brooks asked when the dog walked over to a generous dog bed, circled three times and laid down with a windy sigh.

“Farsi.”

“Seriously? You and Bert speak Farsi?”

“Not very well, but I’m working on it. I told him to rest. I don’t want to put him out of the room. He wouldn’t understand.”

“Okay. Is that a stuffed bear in his bed?”

“Dogs are pack animals.”

“Uh-huh, and a stuffed teddy bear is Bert’s pack?”

“It comforts him. I’d like to turn down the bed.”

“I’ll give you a hand.”

“No. I have my—”

“Own way. Fine.” He wandered over, studied the computer station set up very like the one on the first floor.

“It makes you wonder.” She folded the simple duvet onto the padded bench at the foot of the bed. “I’m in the business. I believe strongly in security, and feel a separate obligation to use and test products and systems.”

“I think that’s true. But that’s not all.” He turned around, watched with appreciation when she took a condom from the nightstand drawer and set it on the table by the bed. “And we don’t need to talk about it now. Is it okay if I put my weapon on the desk here?”

“Yes. Should I undress?”

“No. I have my own way.”

After he took off his gun, set it down, he crossed to her, trailed a hand down her hair, her cheek, her shoulder. “I like finding out for myself what’s under there.”

He kissed her, testing, teasing, his fingers still skimming, over her face, down her side, up her back. Light and easy as he could feel her holding back, holding in.

“You have good hands.”

“I haven’t put them to much use where you’re concerned yet.”

“But you will. I’d like to see,” she said as she began to unbutton his shirt. “You don’t wear a uniform like your deputies.”

“I got out of the habit. Didn’t much feel like picking it up again.”

“I like that you don’t. You wear your authority in a different way.” She parted his shirt, spread her hands over his chest. “You’re in very good shape.”

“Thanks.”

And lifted her eyes to his. “So am I.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“I’m very strong for my build, and have exceptional endurance.”

“You’re the sexiest thing, in the strangest ways.” He peeled her shirt up and away.

“I—”

“Ssh.” He laid his lips on hers as he boosted her onto the bed.

The dog didn’t make a sound, but Brooks could feel the guarded stare boring into his back as he lowered himself to Abigail.

Her skin was soft, warm and smooth, the muscles of her arms, her shoulders taut. And though her mouth met and answered his avidly, those eyes stayed as watchful as her dog’s.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured, nibbling his way to her throat and back.

“I like to see,” she repeated.

“Close your eyes for a minute, and just feel.”

He waited until she did, then closed his own. Then let himself sink, just a little deeper.

She felt. Nerve endings, pressure points, textures, all the more erotic with her eyes closed. A kind of trade-off for control.

She was safe, she reminded herself. She was capable. And she needed.

“Don’t think.” He skimmed his teeth over her jaw. “Just feel.”

She wasn’t sure she knew how not to think. But she kept her silence since he seemed to prefer it, tried to let her mind relax.

Different, everything was different here, with him. She wanted to analyze why, but it was so pleasant to only experience.

Just this once, she told herself.

She softened under him, just a little. Just enough. He glided his lips along the subtle swell of her breast over the simple line of her bra, slid his tongue under the cotton, heard her breath catch. So he lingered there, stirring her while his hands roamed.

She’d opened one of the windows partway so the night breeze fluttered through, carrying the scent of the woods, the steady music of the creek.

Moonshine shimmered in hazy beams.

He flipped open the button of her pants, eased them down a few inches and felt the ridge of a tiny scar high on the blade of her hip.

He took his time, wanted time, to discover her, the angles and curves and dips, the simple clean scent of her skin, the way the muscles of her belly quivered when his lips brushed there.

Her response was just as simple, the give, the touch, the fluid rise of her legs and hips as he continued to undress her.

And then.

She erupted under him, jackknifing up, a whip of those long, firm legs, a twist of that compact body, and she was over him. Her mouth clamped down on his, ripped his dreamy languor to shreds and scorched the shreds to ashes. Her breath came on a tear as she scraped her teeth over his shoulder, slithered down, lithe and lethal as a snake, to nip at his chest while her hands tugged at his belt.

He levered up to drag her mouth back to his, to feed on the heat that radiated from her. Urgent now, urgent and hungry.

She arched back, limber as a bowstring, and pressed his face to her breast.

“I need.” He heard her moan it as she straddled him and rocked until he dug his fingers into her hips to keep from imploding. “I need.”

She was a madness of drive and movement. Caught in the storm of her, he let himself be blown, be battered, as they ravaged each other.

Too much, but not enough, she thought frantically as all those needs clawed and bit. She had to take, had to have, before this terrible pleasure broke her to pieces. His body, so strong, so tough, incited so many wants, his mouth and hands so many sensations. He could take her to that moment of relief and release.

Desperate, she grabbed the condom, ripped it open.

“Let me,” she whispered, stunned that her hands weren’t quite steady as she covered him.

She rose over him. In the soft bedroom light he could see the intensity of her eyes, the glow of her skin. Then she took him in. For one breathless moment, everything stopped. Sight, sound, movement. Those fierce eyes stayed locked on his as their bodies joined.

He thought, Eye of the storm, then she swept him away.

She rode him as if her life hung in the balance, with urgent, focused speed. He raced with her, beat for crazed beat, with his heart drumming those frenzied strokes.

When she broke on a half-sob, half-cry, those fascinating eyes closed, that dazzling body bowed, as her arms lifted to wrap around her head in a picture of utter, wanton pleasure.

Those eyes sprang open again when he yanked her down, rolled her under him. Her mouth yielded, soft and swollen when he captured it, when he swallowed her quick, surprised cry as he thrust into her.

Now he rode, driving her up again, pleasing himself ruthlessly as she quaked, as she clung. He felt the orgasm rip through her, felt her nails bite into his back. And let his own release rend him to tatters.

It took him a moment—or two—to realize he’d collapsed on her, his breath whooping out like a marathon runner’s after a dive across the finish line.

He rolled off, sprawled out on his back, hoping if he ended up having a heart attack she had it in her to do the CPR.

He managed one raw and reverent “Wow.”

Glancing over, he saw Bert had remained in his bed but stood and stared.

“I don’t know if your dog’s curious or just plain jealous, but you might want to let him know you’re okay.”

She gave Bert the command for rest. While he settled down, he kept his eyes on the bed.

“Are you okay?” Brooks asked when she said nothing more.

“Yes. It’s been several months since I had sex. I realized I rushed you.”

“From my point of view, I think we timed it just right. Jesus, you’ve got some body there, Abigail. About as perfect as they come.”

“I like yours very much. It’s very well proportioned, with excellent muscle tone.”

That just tickled the hell right out of him, so he shifted over to give her a kiss. His grin faded as he looked in those eyes. A man who’d grown up with a mother and two sisters knew when female tears were just below the surface.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. The sex was excellent. Thank you.”

“Jesus Christ, Abigail.”

“I’m thirsty,” she said quickly. “Do you want some water?”

He laid a hand on her arm as she began to roll out of bed. “Abigail.”

“I need a moment, and some water.”

She walked out without putting a stitch on. That surprised him, as he’d pegged her as the shy type in that area. Then again, the woman was a puzzle through and through.

“You know the secrets,” he said to Bert. “Too bad you can’t talk.”

Though she had water stored on the second floor, she walked down to the kitchen. She did need that moment.

She understood that sex and the immediate aftermath comprised a very vulnerable time, for body and mind. She’d prided herself on being able to fully participate, and recover her control and faculties quickly. Immediately, really.

Why was she shaken and … she wasn’t entirely sure what she was experiencing. It might have been because she knew him on a more personal level than the others she’d chosen as bedmates. But all she could be certain of was the experience had been unlike anything she’d known.

Why did it make her weepy? If she’d been alone, she would have curled up in bed and cried this inexplicable feeling away.

She wasn’t being rational, or smart. The sex had been very, very good. He’d enjoyed it, too. She liked his company, and maybe that was part of the worry. But she was so damned tired of the worry.

“Just something I do,” she murmured, and got two bottles of cold water from the refrigerator.

She gnawed on it all the way back upstairs, where Brooks sat propped up in her bed, watching her.

“I don’t know how to behave.” She blurted it out—there!—and handed him a bottle of water.

“Is there some standard you’re reaching for?”

“Normal.”

“Normal.” He nodded, twisted off the cap, took a couple deep gulps. “Okay, I can help with that. Get back in bed.”

“I’d like to have sex with you again, but—”

“Do you want me to show you normal?”

“Yes.”

“Then get back in bed.”

“All right.”

She laid down beside him, tried not to stiffen when he pulled her to him. But instead of initiating sex, he tucked her in so her head rested on his shoulder and her body curled toward his.

“This is pretty normal, according to my standards. Or would be if you’d relax.”

“It’s nice.” She read books, she watched movies. She knew this sort of arrangement took place. But she’d never tried it before. Never wanted to. “It’s comfortable, and your body’s warm.”

“After the heat we generated, I don’t think I’ll cool off until I’m dead a week.”

“That’s a joke, and a compliment.” She tipped her head up to look at him, smiled. “So, ha, ha, thank you.”

“There you go, being funny again.” Taking her hand, he laid it on his heart. “And when I’m too weak to laugh. You turned me inside out, Abigail. That’s another compliment,” he added, when she didn’t respond.

“I need to think of one for you.”

“Well, if you’ve got to think about it.”

“I didn’t mean—” She looked up again, stricken, then caught that gleam in his eyes. “You were teasing me.”

“See, this is the part, on my scale of normal, where we tell each other how amazing we were. You especially tell me.”

“Because a man’s ego is often correlated with his sexual prowess.”

“That’s one way of putting it. Things like you saw God or the earth moved are clichés for a reason.”

“The earth is in constant motion, so it’s not a good compliment. A better one would be the earth stopped moving, even though that would be impossible, and a disaster if it were possible.”

“I’ll still take it as a compliment.”

His hand stroked up and down her back, the way she sometimes stroked Bert. No wonder the dog loved it. Her heartbeat slowed to the rhythm, and everything inside her uncoiled.

Normal, she thought, was as lovely as she’d always imagined.

“Tell me one thing,” he said. “Just one thing about you. It doesn’t have to be important,” he added when she tensed. “It doesn’t have to be a secret. Just anything. It could be your favorite color.”

“I don’t have one, because there are too many. Unless you mean primary colors.”

“Okay, color’s too complicated. When you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up? I’ll go first. I wanted to be Wolverine.”

“You wanted to be a wolverine? That’s very strange.”

“Not a wolverine. Wolverine—X-Men.”

“Oh. I know who that is. The mutant superhero from the graphic novels and movies.”

“That’s the one.”

“But how could you be him when he already existed and his existence is fictional?”

“I was ten, Abigail.”

“Oh.”

“How about you?”

“I was supposed to be a doctor.”

“Supposed to be?” He waited a moment. “You didn’t want to be a doctor.”

“No.”

“Then you didn’t answer the question. What did you want to be?”

“I was supposed to be a doctor, and thought I’d have to be, so when I was ten, I didn’t think about being anything else. It’s not a good answer. Yours was better.”

“It’s not a competition. Anyway, you can be Storm. She’s hot.”

“Halle Berry’s character from the movies. She’s very beautiful. She controls the weather. But Wolverine doesn’t have sex with her. He has feelings for Jane, the doctor, and she in turn is torn between her feelings for Cyclops and Wolverine.”

“You know your X-Men relationship dynamics.”

“I saw the movie.”

“How many times?”

“Once, several years ago. It was interesting that Wolverine doesn’t remember his past, and his reluctant protective instincts for the girl Rogue added dimension. He’s a good character for a young boy to emulate. The writers seeded a difficult field for Rogue, as her mutation makes it impossible for her to safely touch another person, skin to skin. The scene with her boyfriend in the beginning was very sad.”

“You remember a lot of the details for seeing it once.”

“I have an eidetic memory. I sometimes read books or watch movies a second or third time, but not because I don’t remember them.”

He shifted to look down at her. “There, you told me something. So you keep everything stored up here.” He tapped her temple. “Why isn’t your head a lot bigger?”

She laughed, then stopped, uncertain. “That was a joke?”

“Yeah.” He brushed the hair away from her cheek, touched his lips there. “Have you ever made pancakes?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because you’d remember how to make them.”

“You’re hungry? You want pancakes?”

“In the morning.” He glided his hands up her body, in, grazing her nipples with his thumbs.

“You want to stay here, sleep here, tonight?”

“How else am I going to get those pancakes you’re making me?”

“I don’t sleep with people. I’ve never slept with a man overnight.”

His hands hesitated for a fraction of a second, then continued their glide. “Then you don’t know if you snore.”

“I don’t snore!”

“I’ll let you know.”

There were so many reasons why she couldn’t—shouldn’t—allow it. But he was kissing her again, touching her again, stirring her again.

She’d tell him no. After.

She woke just before dawn, lay very still. She could hear him breathing—slow, steady. A different, softer sound than Bert. Bert did snore. A little.

She’d fallen asleep, actually fallen to sleep, after they’d had sex a second time. She hadn’t told him to go, and she’d intended to. She hadn’t made her last check of the house and the monitors. She hadn’t put her weapon on the nightstand beside her.

She’d just gotten into that comfortable, normal position, and somehow slipped into sleep while he talked to her.

Not only rude, she decided, but frightening. How could she have let her guard down so completely with him? With anyone?

What did she do now? She had a routine, and one that didn’t include an overnight guest.

She had to let Bert out, feed him, check the monitors, her business e-mail and texts.

What did she do now?

She supposed she’d make pancakes.

When she eased out of bed, the dog’s breathing changed. She saw his eyes open in the half-light, and his tail give its customary morning thump.

She whispered the command for outside in German as she retrieved her robe and Bert stretched. Together, they padded quietly out of the room and downstairs.

When the door closed, Brooks opened his eyes, smiled. He should’ve figured her for an early riser. Himself, he wouldn’t have minded another hour, but considering the big picture, he could push himself out of bed.

And maybe he could talk her back into it once she’d let the dog out to do his morning thing. He rolled out, headed for the bathroom. On cue, the minute he emptied his bladder, he thought about coffee. Then he rubbed his tongue over his teeth.

He didn’t feel right about poking around to see if she had a spare toothbrush, but he couldn’t see the harm in digging out a squirt of toothpaste.

He opened the drawer of the little vanity, saw the neatly rolled tube of Crest, and her Sig.

Who the hell kept a semiauto in the drawer with the dental floss and toothpaste? A fully loaded one, he noted, when he checked.

She’d told him one thing the night before, he reminded himself. He’d just have to persuade her to tell him more.

He scrubbed Crest over his teeth with his finger, then went back in for his pants. When he got downstairs he smelled fresh coffee, heard the mutter of the morning news.

She stood at the counter, stirring what he hoped was pancake batter in a dark blue bowl.

“Morning.”

“Good morning. I made coffee.”

“I smelled it in my sleep. You don’t snore.”

“I told you I—” She broke off when his lips met hers.

“Just verifying,” he said, as he picked up one of the mugs she’d set out. “I borrowed a squirt of toothpaste.” He poured his coffee, and hers, watched her gaze lift to his. “Do you want to tell me why you have a Sig in your toothpaste drawer?”

“No. I have a license.”

“I know, I checked. You have several licenses. Got sugar? Oh, yeah, right here.” He dipped the spoon she’d put beside the mug in the sugar bowl, added two generous servings. “I could keep checking, this and that and the other. I’m good at digging. But I won’t. I won’t do any more checking unless I tell you so first.”

“You won’t check as long as I have sex with you.”

His eyes burned green with hints of molten gold as he lowered the mug. “Don’t insult both of us. I won’t check because I won’t go behind your back, because we’re—whatever we are at this point. I’d like to sleep with you again, but that’s not a condition. I want to keep seeing you because we enjoy each other, in and out of bed. Is that accurate?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t like to lie. Not that I haven’t and won’t in the line. But outside the job, I don’t lie. I won’t lie to you, Abigail, and checking on you without you knowing seems like kin to a lie.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“That’s up to you. All I can do is tell you. This is damn good coffee, and not just because I didn’t have to make it myself. Pancakes?”

“Yes.”

“Now you look even prettier than you did ten seconds ago. Am I going to find another gun when I get out dishes and such to set the table?”

“Yes.”

“You’re the most interesting woman of my acquaintance.” He opened the cupboard where he’d seen her take out plates for pizza.

“I thought you’d just stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Once we had sex, I thought you’d stop wanting to be here, stop wondering.”

He opened the drawer for flatware, noted the Glock. “You might have forgotten, but the earth stopped moving.” He set out the flatware as she ladled batter onto her griddle. “It’s not just sex, Abigail. It’d be easier if it were. But there’s … something. I don’t know what the hell it is yet, but there’s something. So, we ride it out, see what happens.”

“I don’t know how to do that. I told you.”

He picked up his coffee again, stepped over to kiss her on the cheek. “It looks to me like you’re doing it just fine. Where’s the syrup?”