LITMIR.BIZ

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      “What?”

      “I said, does that mean you don’t want four tickets to the Band, Bingo, Bake Sale fund-raiser? It’s next Friday, remember? Seven o’clock, and the money goes to—”

      “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he raised a silencing hand, frowning deeply, studying her again as if she were a puzzle he ought to be able to solve.

      She looked him in the eye. It was the most she could do when her stomach had fallen away, leaving her hollow and lost. “I take my job seriously, too, Detective. And right now, my job means I need to raise money for those people sitting out there wondering why a Grand Springs detective is yelling at the Grand Springs treasurer.”

      “I did not yell,” he said immediately.

      “You yelled.”

      “I don’t yell.”

      “Would you like me to open the door and ask?”

      Jack clutched his temples. For a moment, he definitely looked on the verge of strangling her and even he seemed surprised by the intensity of his reaction. “I’m losing my mind,” she heard him mutter. “I have to get more sleep.”

      For the first time, Josie noticed the shadows beneath his eyes, the red tinge of his bloodshot eyes. Olivia had always spoken very highly of Jack Stryker, of his phenomenal work ethic, of his passion for his job. He was the cop who always got his man.

      Until the Olivia Stuart case. For a moment, the humor of the situation struck her. Two of Grand Springs’s most overworked public servants, going after each other like small children. And the sadness struck her again. Grand Springs’s two lost public servants, each wanting justice for Olivia and yelling petty insults at each other instead.

      “Two tickets,” she said more gently. “Sounds like you could use a night off.”

      He grunted, which was probably his version of agreement.

      “I’ll take four,” he said suddenly. “Stone and Jessie might as well drool over each other in public for a good cause. Are you going?”

      “Yes.”

      “With anyone?”

      Josie shook her head in frustration. “None of your business. Go home, Detective. It’s almost six o’clock and I still have a lot of work to do. Try not to arrest any of the good citizens in my office on your way out.”

      “This isn’t over.”

      “Oh, famous last words. Cops have absolutely no imagination.”

      Jack arched a brow. Far from retreating, he said somberly, “Yes, we do.” He leaned over her desk.

      “I’ll see you at the fund-raiser, Josie. And I’ll see you going home every night and I’ll see you jogging every morning. I want Olivia Stuart’s killer. Think about that, Josie. Think about that real hard.”

      He stepped out of her office. She struggled to inhale long after the door had shut behind him.

      I’m not the killer, dammit. A Reynolds isn’t the killer.

      * * *

      At nine o’clock, she turned away the last person. She hated doing that, hated seeing the stress in each person’s eyes as she stood in the waiting room and softly promised to meet with them first thing in the morning. Four people were left. They’d waited six hours and now had to return tomorrow.

      Goaded by guilt, she spent another two hours trying to catch up with paperwork. By eleven, her stomach was growling too much to concentrate. She cleaned up her desk, updated her list of things to do for the morning and prepared to leave. Halfway out the door she remembered she’d forgotten to speak to FEMA for Gabe Chouder.

      “Damn,” she muttered. “Get it on the list.”

      Heading back out, she remembered she’d forgotten the report on strip mining for Hal Stuart. She went back to add that to the list. The third time, she recalled her promise to speak with Helen Hunter about the bingo prizes. The fourth time, she made it through the door, stomach growling, eyes tired.

      Her low-slung heels echoed in the vaulted hallways of City Hall. All the offices were dark, only the yellow ceiling lights guided her way. It was a strange, lonely feeling to be in a big marble building all alone at night. She nodded goodbye to the security guard stationed by the front doors and let herself out.

      The night was cold and clear. Her car was around back. These days she wondered how safe it was to walk to her car alone, but still had no choice. At least, she encountered no surprises tonight.

      She drove home on deserted roads and pulled up to a dark one-story rancher. She had no roommates, no pets, no people to help her, which meant she got to drag the garbage can to the curb even though she didn’t feel like doing it. Monday was garbage night, so out it went.

      Back inside, she snapped on the kitchen light and set her briefcase and jacket on the kitchen table. She was spending too much time at work, and her small house showed it. Plants drooped from lack of water. The simple, sparse furniture had gathered a thick layer of dust. Abruptly, the whole place depressed her. She had a house, but not a home. A home shouldn’t smell as alien and stale as her place did now.

      She stared at the brown kitchen cabinets and contemplated heating up a can of soup. Food might make her feel better. When a person burned the candle at both ends, food and nutrition became even more important, she reminded herself. But the act of taking out a saucepan and opening a can sounded like too much work. Did a man like Stryker come home to an empty house, as well? Did he contemplate heating up soup and realize he was too tired, or did a man as handsome as him have a new woman every night, happy to fill the void?

      She could still remember the tight feeling in her belly when Grand Springs’s most eligible bachelor had pinned her with his gaze. And she recalled the secret, nearly primal thrill of making “Straight Arrow Stryker” yell.

      Oh God, what was she thinking? She gave up on cooking, dropped her clothes on the floor, and climbed into bed.

      Her dreams brought her comfort. She was ten years old again. She knew because her blond hair was in the kind of beautiful French braid only her mother could do. She sat at the simple kitchen table. Her mom was making cookies and the kitchen smelled of nutmeg and vanilla.

      The back door opened as her father walked in, wearing a suit he’d donned first thing in the morning and now accessorized it with his hearty smile. Her mom looked up, her eyes immediately going soft. Rose’s gaze always went tender when she saw Stan.

      “I got me a job, Rose. Selling cars. I’m going straight, just like I promised.”

      “Oh, Stan. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

      He wrapped her pretty mama in a big bear hug. In his suit, he looked big and handsome, all red hair and snapping blue eyes. In her spring dress, her mother was his perfect complement, all blond hair and delicately defined features.

      Her mother sat Stan at the table. He got his own plate with four oatmeal cookies, sneaking one to Josie when Rose turned for the milk. She palmed it effortlessly, the way he’d taught her, and he winked at her until she giggled.

      Josie was the luckiest girl in the world and she knew it. She was Stan’s little girl, and Stan was the only father on the block who knew how to make dreams come true. And when Rose smiled at Stan the way Rose was smiling at Stan now, there wasn’t anything Stan couldn’t do.

      Josie inhaled the scents of nutmeg and vanilla. She let the oatmeal cookie melt on her tongue.

      “I want to stay here always, Daddy,” she whispered in her sleep.

      “Of course you can,” he promised her in her dream. “Of course you can.”

      Her alarm clock went off at six. She awoke disoriented and groggy. She sat up with a scowl, impatiently pushing a cloud of tangled hair out of her face.

      “Liar,” she

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