When the call was over, he headed for the men’s room instead of returning immediately to his desk. He was glad to find he was alone in here, needing a minute to deal with this swing of emotions. He went to the sink and splashed cold water on his face, then dried it, meeting his own eyes in the mirror.
One thing he knew about himself: he hated uncertainty. Keeping his head spinning had been one of Nicole’s specialties. Still was, apparently, unless she really was having second thoughts. This thing with Eve, though, he couldn’t blame her; he was the one who kept screwing up, making their relationship a roller coaster, and not in a fun way.
With a last, disgusted look at himself, he tossed the paper towel in the trash and headed for the door.
CHAPTER NINE
CUDDLED UP TO BEN, Eve sighed. “I hate prom season. Have I said that before?”
He chuckled. “Don’t think so. What brought that on?”
“Oh, the girls are already starting to fuss about it. Will some guy ask them. Will the right guy ask. And then there’s the dress, the shoes.”
“It’s as bad for guys, you know. Do you know how humiliating it is to have a girl turn you down?”
Shocked, she straightened and swiveled to face him, tucking one leg under her. They’d been lounging on her sofa, his feet stacked on her coffee table.
“Did that happen to you?”
He grimaced. “Yeah. Nicole was peeved at me, can’t remember why, but she made her point by going to prom with another guy. I hated him. Took another girl to pay her back and seethed the whole evening.”
Eve found herself laughing, even though she could guess how painful that had been for everyone concerned. Maybe especially Ben’s date and Nicole’s date, who must have figured out pretty quick that they were mere pawns.
“That was petty,” she said incautiously, before remembering her resolve not to criticize his ex. “Although, of course, that depends on what you did.”
“Nothing very bad.” He appeared momentarily pensive. “Didn’t return a call quick enough, didn’t blow off something I’d planned with a friend when she asked, spent too long talking to some other girl.”
“That sounds...difficult.”
He blinked a couple of times and focused on her. “Nic was pretty insecure. With reason. I think I told you she lived in foster homes. Three or four during the time I knew her. Thing was, her mom would start counseling, something like that, and the judge would let her have Nicole and her younger brother again. Couple months later, Mom would go off the rails again, they’re back in foster care.” He shook his head. “It sucked.”
“I’ve seen that happen more than I like,” Eve admitted. “Most of the judges I work with can see the dangers of treating kids like yo-yos. But there’s one, who shall remain nameless, who has a huge bias in favor of biological parents.” She paused. “You understand, they are all, to some degree, directed to give priority to keeping families together.”
He nodded.
“Most balance that expectation with enough realism to see how quickly kids can be damaged when they can’t count on anybody.”
“That was Nicole.” His mouth twisted. “She used to talk about how she never wanted to put her own children through anything like that. Marriage was permanent.”
“But it’s a hard goal to achieve for someone with her history,” Eve said gently.
Ben took her hand, his thumb sliding in circles on her palm as he studied her.
“We got sidetracked.” Apparently he’d said all he intended to about his ex-wife. “What had you thinking about prom?”
“Just that the teenagers are all fussing about it.”
“I remember you saying the girls can’t afford the dresses.” He frowned. “Prom night costs even more for the boys. They not only have to rent a tux, they have to pay for flowers and dinner. And, geez, these days the girls probably expect them to rent a limo.”
“I think a lot of the boys in foster care just don’t go. The girls, at least, can take advantage of the dress exchange.” His inquiring look had her explaining about the annual event, when girls donated the dresses they’d never wear again, or in some cases traded in last year’s for a different dress. “We’ve talked some stores into giving dresses and shoes, too, and some salons into doing girls’ hair gratis. Ditto with tuxedo shops, but, like you say, the dinner is another story.”
“The Kekoa boy planning to go?”
The question sounded casual, but his gaze was sharp enough to make Eve wary.
“He hasn’t said anything. He has bigger things on his mind.”
Ben nodded. She wondered if he knew he was giving her a hand massage: squeezing, gently tugging on her fingers, pressing on the pads. It worked nicely as foreplay, making it hard to concentrate on the conversation.
“You said something once. Implying you had ideas for filling in the gaps for foster kids.”
Surprised that he remembered, Eve nodded. “There’s this amazing nonprofit in King County called Treehouse. Their mission is to give foster kids a childhood and a future. That’s a quote.” Seeing his interest, she continued. “They have multiple programs. Probably the most important is coaching and support designed to improve success at school. But they operate a free store where foster kids can get new and like-new clothes, books, toys. You know. Oh, and Christmas gifts. They also help pay for expenses for sports, music, dance. Those extras are often beyond the means of foster parents who’d be otherwise willing.”
“Sounds expensive,” he commented.
She wrinkled her nose. “That’s the catch, of course. I’ve been studying what they do, talking to some of the people involved. They raised almost ten million dollars in the year I saw figures for.”
“Ambitious.”
“But there are a whole lot more kids to serve in King County than we have up here.” Eve heard her enthusiasm, and didn’t try to squelch it. This was a dream of hers, and she really thought it was an achievable one. “We could launch it on a smaller scale.”
“You said if you ever started a family, you couldn’t keep doing your job. Is this what you were thinking about?”
“Hmm? Oh, I could probably go half-time with DSHS.”
His eyebrows rose. “Or does that mean full-time instead of time-and-a-half.”
She made a face at him. “Something like that.”
He laughed and lifted his arm. “Come here.”
She shifted again so she could snuggle against him. He nuzzled her hair. He must have decided they’d talked long enough. He never actually spent the night, which gave them a limited window in which to make love before he needed to go home.
So it came as a surprise when he remarked thoughtfully, “You said ‘we.’”
Distracted by his nearness, it took her a minute to parse what he was asking.
“A couple of friends and I’ve talked about it. One is another caseworker, the other a foster parent. I think I could find a core of volunteers pretty quickly, too. Starting with family. Bailey sounded interested, as much as her studies allow.” Bailey had been accepted into the graduate program in psychology at the University of Washington, starting this fall. She and Seth planned to stay in Stimson unless the commute proved too difficult.
More slowly, not sure whether introducing the subject of either of her parents was a good idea, Eve said, “Mom, too. She’s been teaching a quilting class at a teen shelter. It’s really made a difference for some kids. It gives an outlet for creativity, teaches patience along with basic sewing skills and provides a relaxed group session where girls feel comfortable opening up.”
“Girls only, huh?” He sounded amused.
“At the moment. Quilting is traditionally a woman’s art, you know.”
“So she has these street kids taking part in quilting bees, huh?”
“Yep. First they take sewing lessons, cut out and piece their quilts, but then they hand-quilt them.”
He didn’t move or say anything for a minute. Eve waited him out.
“There’s more to your mother than meets the eye,” he said finally.
She scooted back a little again, wanting to see his face. “That’s true of most people, don’t you think?”
“Maybe.” Creases lined his forehead. “She comes off as so...sweet.” His glance at Eve appeared wary. “Clueless. Ah, no insult intended.”
Eve still wasn’t sure talking about her mother was a good idea, but she didn’t take offense, because she knew what he meant.
“Mom is sometimes a little oblivious,” she admitted. “But I think some of her supersweet, homemaker persona is facade, too. You’ve seen her quilts, so you know she’s an artist.”
“Only the one on your bed. But, yeah, it’s nothing like what I think when I hear the word quilt. It’s...” he frowned. “I don’t know. All about movement and color.”
“Right,” she said, pleased. “There’s balance and flow and a clash of colors exactly where they’re needed.”
“Okay.”
“My point is, if you hadn’t seen one of her quilts, would you ever have guessed she was capable of that kind of vision?”
“No. I’m always surprised she isn’t wearing a sweatshirt with puppies and flowers on the front.”
Eve laughed. “Exactly. Someone just meeting her would never guess she had what it took to put pressure on police agencies to find her missing daughter, either, or support and advise other parents in the same position. Mom is a lot tougher than meets the eye.”
His mouth quirked. “Relentless is the word I’d use. But instead of placards or endless phone calls, she wages war with cookies.”
“And photos.” Her own smile was probably awry. “Don’t forget the pictures.”
“No. They drove Seth nuts.”
“I know. She might have read that it was the thing to do, but I also suspect it might be instinct. Make the cops see your child. Grip their hearts, and they’ll do more.”
He made a sound in his throat. “Just don’t say that publicly. We couldn’t do our jobs if every investigation became gut-wrenching.”
“No, I hadn’t thought about it, but I can see you have to protect yourself to some extent, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” he said roughly. “We do. There might be times you’ll think I’m a cold bastard, Eve, but sometimes I have to be.”
“I do see that.” She lifted her hand to his face, loving the texture of his evening beard beneath her fingertips, the softness of his lips when he turned his head enough to kiss her palm. “I’ve never seen you as cold.”
The furthest thing from cold, she thought. Ben was still an enigma to her. He’d begun to open up—talking about his ex-wife tonight, for example. In fact, this past week had been really good. After dining out Tuesday evening, she’d offered to cook for him tonight. Tomorrow afternoon, he’d be picking Rachel up for the weekend, and had already asked Eve to go with them to see a play aimed at children put on by a community theater.
But there was still a part of him he guarded. She knew nothing about his parents or why he’d become a cop. She didn’t understand what caused the shadows in his eyes.
What she had finally accepted was the need for patience. In his own time, he’d tell her. She could be endlessly patient with her kids. But maybe, she reflected now, it was something like what he’d described. She, too, had to maintain some distance. She could believe in her kids, care deeply, but never let herself truly love them. If she did, the job would be too painful to do.
With Ben, it was different. She was falling in love with him, if not all the way there. The natural awareness of her vulnerability was increased by the imbalance between them. He knew so much about her history, her wounds, her bitterness and even pettiness. She still had trouble sometimes understanding what drew him to her, but she’d begun to believe he was falling in love with her, too.
She needed to believe that.
“You can stay for a while, can’t you?” she said with sudden urgency.
“You kidding?” The grit was there in his voice. “I definitely don’t feel cold right now.”
Cold? It took her an instant to remember the last thing he’d said, about how he could be a cold bastard. There was nothing cold about his eyes right now, as blue as the heart of a fire.
“I can tell,” she whispered, rising to her knees, letting him pull her forward until she swung one leg over him to straddle his thighs. It was one of her favorite positions.
They never made it to the bedroom. Although she’d added a box of condoms to the drawer in her bedside table, Ben had apparently replenished the supply in his wallet. She’d started on the pill again, but hadn’t said anything. She’d never made love with a man without insisting he also use a condom. Because it was safer, she’d always told herself, but suspected the reason had to do with keeping some distance, however small.
The bad thing about making love on the sofa was that Ben didn’t stay as long afterward. She had to climb off him, and then he had to go dispose of the condom, which made it logical for him to pick up clothes and start putting them on as he returned. And since she didn’t like to sit there naked when he was dressed, she would do the same, and before she knew it, she’d be kissing him goodbye at the door.
This was a weeknight, she consoled herself, and she ought to try to get some sleep. She had another court appearance tomorrow afternoon, and a lot to try to squeeze into the morning.
But after she’d finished cleaning up the kitchen and had gone to bed with a book, she wished she had him with her instead.
* * *
THE WEEK HAD been really good, the only downside that he and Eve were lucky to be able to exchange a couple of chaste kisses over the weekend.
A little ruefully, Ben remembered telling himself a very short while ago that he’d include Eve in activities with Rachel only occasionally. That plan would have had him not seeing her at all this weekend, which he’d found unacceptable. So, lunch and the play, he’d decided, only they all had so much fun, she stayed for dinner, then together they watched a DVD she’d offered to loan to Rach, an old TV movie, Sarah, Plain and Tall, about a mail-order marriage. His daughter loved it. Afterward, while Rachel brushed her teeth, Ben walked Eve to her car.
That kiss couldn’t be called chaste. It left him aroused enough to keep him from sleep for several hours.
When he dropped off Rachel, she just had to babble about Eve along with everything they’d done this weekend. He almost wished Nicole would get bitchy, but instead she seemed sad. That bothered him more than he should let it. All evening, he found himself wondering what was going on with her.
Tuesday, he cooked for Eve. Worth it, to ensure a bed was nearby.
That wasn’t all he looked forward to, though. Eve never bored him. They could spend an hour dissecting a movie, or he could tell her about something bothering him on the job or a troubling investigation and she’d listen, offer advice if he asked for it, challenge him if he needed that, or go straight to sympathy. He did the same for her.
He was waiting for her to open up about her childhood, although he was aware if she did, he’d be expected to reciprocate. Increasingly, he thought he could do that. The serious talk he’d meant to have with himself about the future somehow never happened.
Wednesday was the first of April. April Fools’ Day. On the way into work, Ben braced himself for the usual childish pranks. None had yet materialized when his phone rang midmorning.
Dead body, presumed to be the homeowner, apparent homicide.
“On my way,” he said, starting for the door before the address registered.
He swore under his breath. Clement Rowe’s house. For Eve’s sake, he ho
ped Joel Kekoa had one hell of an alibi.
Two uniformed officers waited in front of the house. Ben knew the older guy, Barry Gunter, but not the younger, who had to be a rookie. His face was pea green, and when Ben got close he smelled puke.
He acknowledged Barry and nodded at the second man. “And you are?”
“Landon Engell.”
Ben switched his attention back to Barry. “What do we have?”
“Postal worker asked us to check on the old guy. His mail from Monday on is still sitting in his box, and his newspapers are piling up.” He nodded to the plastic box attached to the post that held the mailbox.
Ben held up his finger and walked over to look into the box. No Sunday paper, he saw at a glance—with all the advertisements inside, it would have been obvious, but three regular dailies were crammed in. Which meant Rowe had died sometime after he’d taken in the Sunday paper, but before his usual time to come out to pick up the Monday one, which had a morning delivery.
He returned to the two officers and nodded at Barry to continue.
They had rung the doorbell and knocked, with no response, then circled the side of the house to look in the garage window. The one vehicle registered to Clement Rowe was there, so they’d continued to the partially burned back deck and peered in the sliding door. They had seen a set of feet sticking out from behind the kitchen island.
“I was going to break in,” he said, “but the slider was unlocked.”
“Did you put on gloves before you touched the door?”
“I did.”
“Okay.”
“Looks like he was battered to death. A lot of splattered blood, dry now. It’s an ugly scene.”
Yes, they’d done a quick search; the house was otherwise empty.
“All right,” he said. “Thanks. I’ve already called for the coroner and the crime scene folks. I’m going to do a walk-through myself right now.” He asked them to stay for now, if possible, and make sure neither curious neighbors nor reporters approached the house.
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