Home Before Midnight

by Virginia Kantra

  Steve appreciated the picture they made, the blond, plump-cheeked toddler in the arms of the dark, thin-faced young woman. They had the same eyes, dark brown, wary, and nearly identical smiles.

  Yearning raked his heart.

  He’d wanted more kids.

  An only child himself, he had dreamed of a brother or sister for Gabrielle.

  We’re too busy, Teresa had protested. Your job, mine, the house, the baby . . .

  He hadn’t pushed. They had plenty of time.

  “You ever want kids?” he asked.

  Bailey blinked, removing Rose’s fingers from her mouth to answer. “I guess. But there were other things I wanted more. Or wanted first. I always figured there’d be time, you know?”

  Plenty of time, they told themselves.

  And then Teresa was diagnosed with cancer, and there was no time at all.

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah.” She smiled ruefully as she met his gaze. “Only now I’m twenty-six-years old, and I haven’t been on a date in six months, and I’m beginning to wonder if my mother is right about my biological clock.”

  He glanced—he couldn’t help it—at her pale, flat belly above the black drawstring of her pants. She was worried about her biological clock?

  “So you should start dating.”

  That was smooth. Almost as smooth as his suggestion last night that they make a fresh start.

  “It’s not that easy.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “There are no men in New York?”

  “Plenty of men. Even straight, single men. And lots and lots of women. And everyone is concerned with where you live and how you get to work and whether you accessorize well with their job or their friends or their image. Do you put out? Do you fit in? Do you measure up? Because if you don’t, they cut their losses and move on.”

  “You’re describing boys. Not men.”

  “Oh, right, like you don’t feel the same way.”

  Her accusation was true enough to sting. “I sure as hell never considered you an accessory.”

  “Except maybe to murder.”

  Their eyes locked.

  “That’s not the same thing,” Steve said evenly, “and you know it.”

  Bailey’s gaze dropped. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  She turned toward the trampoline. “I’m putting Rose down for her nap,” she called. “Be good.”

  “Okay,” her nephew promised.

  Bailey looked at Gabrielle. “And no—”

  “—flips!” Gabrielle finished for her.

  Bailey headed for the house, the baby on her hip.

  Steve watched her go. He was doing his job, damn it. He didn’t owe her anything. She hadn’t asked for anything—not an apology, not an explanation.

  It pissed him off.

  He caught up with her at the back door and held it open. “Cops learn to compartmentalize,” he said. “Depersonalize. It’s part of the job.”

  “And you don’t mix sex with the job. I got it. I’m fine with it.” Bailey maneuvered the baby’s fat little legs into the high chair and strapped her in. “The fact is, you don’t fit into my life any better than I fit into yours.”

  She wasn’t saying anything he hadn’t thought himself.

  They weren’t simply on opposite sides of a case. They were at completely different stages in life. The twelve-year gap in their ages might as well be twenty. He had no business lusting after a bright, ambitious girl like Bailey. His best years were behind him.

  She had the rest of her life in front of her.

  Assuming he could get her out of this mess.

  He watched her pour juice into a sippy cup. “I met my wife Teresa on the job.”

  Now why the hell had he said that?

  Bailey snapped on the cup lid. “What did you do, arrest her for jaywalking?”

  He leaned against the counter, enjoying her nervous energy as she moved around the kitchen. “Her family owned—owns—an import/export business specializing in furniture and antiques. Gang broke into their Georgetown showroom one night. It was my case.”

  Bailey handed her niece her juice. “But she wasn’t a suspect.”

  “Not once I ruled out insurance fraud as a motive for the break-in,” he said blandly.

  Bailey’s chin tilted. “You make a habit of getting involved with women you’ve cleared from criminal charges?”

  He fought a smile. “You’re the first.”

  “Second. And I’m not cleared yet.”

  He sobered. “You will be. Walt Clegg believes Ellis committed suicide.”

  “I don’t think he did.”

  His attention sharpened. “So you said.”

  She faced him, crossing her arms under her breasts. “Are we going to talk about it?”

  It was a line drawn in the sand. On the one side was the honesty he owed her. On the other was his integrity as a cop. He had never blurred the boundary between public service and his private life. He never crossed that line.

  “Now?”

  “You said ‘later,’ ” she reminded him.

  He liked her. He was worried about her. But this information sharing thing could only go one way. “I do have a few questions. After you put the kid down for her nap.”

  “I’ve answered a lot of questions today. I’ve had enough questions.” She bent to unstrap her niece from the high chair, exposing the long, lovely line of her back, the small, vulnerable bumps of her spine. Straightening, she turned with the child in her arms. Her chin raised. “I want answers.”

  Desire and regret churned inside him. “I can’t give you what you want.”

  “Yeah, you made that clear last night.”

  A muscle twitched behind his eyes. Vulnerable? She was killing him.

  “So I’m offering you a trade,” she said. “I’ll give you what you want if you give me what I want.”

  His throat went dry. She didn’t mean it. Not like it sounded. I’ll give you what you want . . .

  “I can help you,” she continued earnestly. “I know Paul. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. But in return, I want to know how he died.”

  She was offering to trade information. Steve wanted to laugh at himself, but relief and disappointment made him dumb.

  “Well.” She shifted the baby on her hip. “You think about it.”

  “I will,” he promised.

  It was a damn sight safer than thinking about what he’d do if she actually offered him sex again.

  FUCKING dog wouldn’t shut up.

  The barking started as soon as he emerged from the trees. He had cut through the woods at the back of the lot, leaving his car parked in the shade at the bottom of the Pritchard’s pasture a quarter mile away.

  Thank God the neighbors had a fence.

  The dog quieted some when he let himself in the back door. But then it started up again, deep, aggressive barks that might have scared off an ordinary intruder.

  Around these parts, a barking dog was as common as fried chicken on a Sunday. Still, it was a nuisance. If he were caught, there would be questions.

  He couldn’t afford to get caught.

  Too bad he couldn’t shoot the dog the way he’d gotten rid of Ellis. The thought almost made him smile.

  Kneeling on the floor of the upstairs bedroom, he lifted the lid of the last box. Sweet Jesus, what was that? He took it out, flipped it open, his heart pounding.

  Not what he was looking for. But potentially damning, all the same. He stuffed it in his shirt.

  Another burst of barking made him jerk. Damn that dog. Crossing to the window, he glanced out.

  And saw a car sitting in the driveway. A car that hadn’t been there fifteen minutes ago.

  He froze, panic icing his veins. Somebody was home. He wasn’t alone anymore.

  He forced himself to be calm. To think. He had to leave before he was found. Before—fuck!—before he found what he was looking for.

  A heavy lamp stood by the bed, brass, with a white sha
de. Taking the shade off, he hefted the base like a club. He had to protect himself. A man had a right. It wasn’t his fault.

  In the hallway, he could hear the muted voice of an ESPN announcer coming from the living room. He crept down the stairs, his breathing fast and shallow.

  BAILEY was fading fast, and she wasn’t any closer to getting what she wanted.

  She frowned at Steve, big and masculine and reassuring in a floral print chair—her sister spent more on sunroom furniture than Bailey earned in a month—and thought she never got what she wanted.

  Maybe it was time to do something about that.

  “You need to let the police do their job,” Steve said for what had to be the fourth time since she’d come downstairs.

  “I might if I knew what you all were actually doing.” Bailey didn’t even try to keep the exasperation from her voice. “That detective—Sherman?—wouldn’t tell me anything.”

  “He wouldn’t want to influence your testimony.”

  She snorted. “Right. Like he believed me anyway.”

  Outside, the kids sucked freezer pops under the shadow of the trampoline. Bryce had blue stains around his mouth. Gabrielle was smiling. Bailey sighed. So that was one good thing she had managed to do today.

  “What did you tell him?” Steve asked.

  She pulled herself together. “The same thing I told you. Paul would not have killed himself.”

  “Not about that,” Steve said. Neutral. Patient. “Did you tell him you were with me?”

  “Yes.” Doubt seized her. “Shouldn’t I have?”

  “Of course.”

  “Because I didn’t think about whether it would get you into trouble.” And she should have.

  “It’s all right. I told the chief myself. You have an alibi for the time of death.”

  She wasn’t thinking about her alibi. She was glad he was, glad and grateful, but his let-me-take-care-of-that-little-lady routine chafed.

  “And if I didn’t?”

  “You do. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  “You keep telling me that. But I don’t know that. You won’t talk to me.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  She wanted closure. She wanted absolution. She wanted . . . more than he was willing to give her, obviously.

  She squared her shoulders and met his eyes. “I want to know what Paul said in his note.”

  He stood there, not saying anything. A muscle ticked at the corner of his mouth.

  And she knew.

  Pressure built in her chest. “There was no note, was there?”

  “Ellis’s death is still under investigation. I can’t divulge—”

  “That’s why you won’t tell me. Because you know I know Paul would leave a note.”

  “Not every suicide writes a note.”

  She was tired of his “Me Cop, You Civilian” attitude. Maybe she didn’t have his experience, but she read. She researched.

  “The absence of a note is still a marker for homicide. Suicides who don’t leave notes tend to be elderly, emotionally isolated, or have lost the ability to communicate.” His eyes narrowed, so at least she had his attention. She talked faster, afraid at any moment he would retreat again behind his blue wall. “Paul was a writer. He would have left a note.”

  “Maybe we just haven’t found it yet.”

  Her breath stopped at his tacit admission. He was telling her—indirectly—there was no note.

  “It’s not just the note,” she said. “Paul never expressed any intention to commit suicide. He didn’t make any preparations. He didn’t even say good-bye.”

  “That’s a good argument,” Steve said slowly. She relaxed in her seat, flushed and vindicated. “But it’s just an argument. The crime scene evidence supports suicide.”

  She sat up again. “What about the medical examiner’s report?”

  “This isn’t like Helen’s death. There are no suspicious wounds. No lacerations. I talked with Sherman. Ellis was killed at close range by a .22-caliber bullet.”

  “But he didn’t own a gun. Not that I ever knew about. I told Detective Sherman that.”

  Steve’s eyes narrowed. “You told Sherman.”

  “Yes.”

  He paced the bright, narrow room. “He could have acquired one. It’s not hard to buy a gun in North Carolina.”

  “On the day of his wife’s funeral? You searched the house Thursday night.”

  His mouth quirked. “Thought of that, did you?”

  Was that respect in his voice?

  She flushed. “I’m not stupid. Well, except about men. I was dumb about Paul.”

  “Then why do you care if he shot himself? It doesn’t help you any if his death is ruled a homicide. On the contrary. So what are you after? What are you trying to prove?”

  She stared at him, stunned by his sudden attack. “I haven’t thought about it.”

  “Maybe you’d better. Before Regan Poole tells everybody in town you killed your boss because he wouldn’t marry you.”

  She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. “Is that what she’s saying?”

  He watched her with flat, black eyes. “Close enough.”

  Blood buzzed in Bailey’s head. “That bitch.” She stood jerkily and then sank down again when the floor tilted under her. “If anybody shot him, it would be her. I couldn’t. I didn’t. I . . .”

  “Loved him?”

  “No! But I knew him. I worked with him.” Her voice shook. Her hands shook, too. She clasped them together in her lap. “And it’s wrong if somebody killed him. How I feel about him doesn’t matter. I want . . .”

  A void opened in her chest. She teetered on the edge, staring into the chasm that had swallowed all her assumptions, all her plans and dreams.

  What did she want?

  “Justice,” Steve suggested quietly.

  She remembered his words that day at the bottom of her parents’ driveway. You do justice to the victims by putting their killer in jail.

  That was it. That was almost it.

  “The truth.” She seized on the word with relief, held it like something hard and precious she’d found in the mud. “I guess I just want the truth.”

  Steve stood over her, his hands in his pockets, his face unreadable. “Then we want the same thing.”

  She looked up, surprised.

  And he kissed her.

  Soft, like love words whispered in the dark. Warm, like a salute. So good. Confusion and pleasure crashed inside her. His tongue touched her bottom lip, a promise of intimacy, a hint of heat, and withdrew.

  He straightened, his breathing rapid and his dark eyes turbulent. Her hands fisted in her lap.

  “Dad, can we play video games in Bryce’s room?”

  Shaken, Bailey turned her head and saw Gabrielle and Bryce standing at the back door.

  “For a little while.” Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t wake the baby if you go upstairs.”

  “Okay.”

  Her nephew galloped through the room.

  Gabrielle dawdled, her gaze darting from Bailey to her father.

  Bailey’s face burned.

  “Did you want something?” Steve asked dryly.

  His daughter grinned at him. “Maybe.”

  Gabrielle’s convinced herself—or maybe my mother convinced her—that if I had a wife, we could all move back to D.C.

  “Then go upstairs,” Steve said, and her grin widened.

  “Hey, Bailey,” she called as she danced past. “Thanks for the freeze pops.”

  Bailey scraped together her composure. “You’re welcome.”

  The girl thundered upstairs, shouting at Bryce to wait.

  But the world she brought in with her lingered in her wake, crowding the narrow, sunlit space, pressing on Bailey like the heat of the afternoon.

  Did she and Steve really want the same things?

  Aside from the accident of attending the same schools, of knowing the names of the same teachers and streets,
what did they have in common?