“I’ve got a couple people coming over. While we wait for them, why don’t you call Jessica and see if you and Poppy can spend the night there?”
She didn’t want to. In her own plain little bedroom, she dreamed in color. In Jessica’s guest room, she would dream in vivid, eye-popping Technicolor. Her dreams were scary enough in drab tones.
But she couldn’t imagine lying down in her bed tonight, closing her eyes and going to sleep. Every sound would be magnified, terrifying. Tomorrow, after she saw for herself in the light of day that everything was all right—no open windows, no more footprints, no signs of an intruder—and after she wedged dowels into every window to prevent anyone from raising them, she would feel differently.
She stood to retrieve her cell from the living room. At the same time, Sam moved from the kitchen into the dining room, and they both had to stop to avoid a collision. He gazed down at her, and she couldn’t look away. That comfort she’d longed for a few moments ago warmed the air around her. Even though his hands were at his sides, even though there were several very proper inches of space between them, she felt safe and protected and reassured just standing in front of him.
It surprised her a look could hold such power, though on reflection it shouldn’t have. One look from her father had been powerful, too, and he hadn’t needed to come near for her to sense the danger. In fact, the sensations were very similar, except that where one was very good, the other was very bad.
The corner of Sam’s mouth turned up in the beginning of a smile, and he lifted one hand, bringing it so near that she thought she felt its heat against her face. But before he actually touched her, Poppy exploded in a blur of furry limbs, barreling between them on her way to the front door. They were lucky she hadn’t knocked them into opposite sides of the room.
“I’m guessing that’s your guys,” she said, managing little more than a whisper. “I’ll call Gramma.”
Of course, Gramma was upset. Of course, she wanted Mila and Poppy brought over immediately under police escort. She even thought it a good idea that Sam spend the night and shadow Mila everywhere she went for however long it took to feel safe again.
“Yeah, Gramma, I don’t think that’s going to happen. I’m pretty sure things like real crimes and real victims take precedence over me.”
“Not to me, they don’t.”
“Thank you. I don’t know what time it’ll be when we get there.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll be waiting with cold milk and warm brownies. You stay right by Sam’s side. Got it?”
“Got it.” After a brief hesitation, she lowered her voice and said the hardest words she’d ever had to learn. “I love you, Gramma. See you soon.”
Sam had gone outside with the officers, Detective Little Bear and a woman Mila hadn’t met before. Sliding her phone into her pocket, she retrieved a canvas shopping tote from a kitchen drawer and went into the hall to gather pajamas, a change of clothes and toiletries. She packed food and treats for Poppy, shoved her work boots and baseball cap into a plastic grocery bag, then after a moment’s thought, added her notebook and ink pen. Times when she couldn’t sleep were usually excellent for prying emotions loose from her brain.
Another half hour passed before the officers finished looking around and asking questions about her gate, her fence, her neighbors. The conversation came to a curious stop when the woman—pretty, on the short side, carrying just enough extra pounds to fill out her uniform with luscious curves—asked, “Have you seen anyone or anything unusual lately?”
Mila looked to Sam, whose gaze went to Detective Little Bear, who cleared his throat. “Ms. Ramirez discovered last week’s murder victim. She was also present when the second victim was found.”
“Oh.” The woman flushed, then the enormity of it sank in. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“It’s okay,” Mila said. No one besides Gramma could possibly imagine how unusual the past eight days had been. It was safe to say they had changed her. They would mark the time when fear had found her again. When attraction had found her, too. When she’d opened her mind not to the things her parents had taken from her but to the things she could still have. Hope. Laughter. A future. Friends. Maybe even love.
After another moment, the two officers left. Sam hooked Poppy’s leash onto her collar while Mila gathered her bags, and they walked out together. He watched as she locked up, and she wondered how effective it really was. A tall fence with locked gates hadn’t kept her visitor out. What did it matter if he didn’t get in through the door when the window had been so easy for him?
“Do you rent?”
Sam’s question caught her off guard, drawing her into a frown as she followed him to the pickup in the street. “Yes. Why?”
“Maybe your landlord will pony up for some better window locks.”
“Hmm. I was thinking about picking up some wood dowels at the hardware store.”
He laughed, but there was little humor to it. “Wedge them in tight enough, and that should work.”
He didn’t add the obvious, but Mila heard it just the same: Until the guy breaks the glass. She would like to think one of her neighbors would hear the noise and investigate, but no one in her small area was particularly neighborly. She assumed most of them worked during the day, and the heat kept most people who were home inside, with air-conditioning and other distractions.
Sam undid the truck’s locks with the key fob, then opened the rear door so Poppy could jump inside. By the time he closed the door, the dog was sitting in the front seat, tongue hanging out.
“She’s not as well behaved in a car as she is on a walk,” Mila said apologetically.
Sam’s disbelieving look was almost enough to make her laugh, though she wasn’t feeling much humor, either. At least he didn’t point out that Poppy and well behaved didn’t belong in the same sentence.
After a moment spent staring between her and the dog, now grinning and drooling at him from the other side of the window glass, he did laugh. It was weak and born more of stress needing an outlet than anything else, but it sounded good, and it eased the tension in her muscles and made her grateful. Before she tried to sleep tonight, she would make a note of it in her book.
She did have laughter in her life. Not hers, but she would claim it until the time she could find her own.
* * *
Sam parked in front of Jessica’s building and shut off the engine. He expected Mila to say he didn’t need to see them to Gramma’s door, but she didn’t. He appreciated rationality when it fell in so neatly with his own plans. “Does Poppy need a walk before we go in?”
“Probably.” She reached inside one of her bags and pulled out a thin plastic produce bag, stuffing it into her pocket.
“Cedar Creek doesn’t have a pooper scoop law.”
Her expression was clear revulsion. “You shouldn’t need a law. That’s just common decency.” Sliding to the ground, she gestured to the east. “There’s a parking lot on the side street, with a couple of trees that she likes to sniff.”
Her demeanor was calm, quiet, controlled. Sam hadn’t quite reached that point yet. He hated people who preyed on other people, whether weaker or more vulnerable or simply available. No one should ever have to be a victim of any kind, especially in her own home.
And he hated that the prowler had chosen Mila. Hadn’t she been through enough the past week? Did the universe of bad luck have to dump it on her all at once?
It made him feel antsy. Frustrated. He was the chief of police, damn it. If he couldn’t even keep the people he cared for safe, what good was he?
The wind began blowing as they walked, shuffling trash along the curbs, picking up fine dust and debris and scattering it midair. There was no cooling in this breeze, though. It stirred the heavy, hot air, then left it hanging where it was, too stubborn to move on.
“It would be nice
if that wind was carrying some rain,” Mila remarked as Poppy turned automatically at the intersection. Then she made a face. “Such a clichéd subject.”
“Not for a farmer’s son or a woman who makes beautiful gardens for a living.” He grinned ruefully. “Oklahoma lives and dies by the weather. And oil prices. And the Sooners.”
“Sooners?” She arched one eyebrow as Poppy pulled her toward a small Bartlett pear tree that looked as parched as he felt.
“Not a fan of the University of Oklahoma?”
“Not a fan of sports in general.”
“Didn’t you play soccer when you were a kid? Toss a baseball around with the other kids in the neighborhood? No, wait, you look more like a dance or gymnastics sort of kid.” No matter what she did, she had an air of grace that came from years of body awareness and control.
For a long time she gazed off into the distance, her features unreadable. Remembering dance recitals with her parents sitting in the front row videoing her? Thinking of all the gymnastics classes they’d taken her to, all the meets, all the encouragement? Or maybe it had been swim classes, her mom sitting patiently through hour after hour of practice and competitions.
Until she turned eleven, when life as she knew it had ended.
He was mentally kicking himself when she gave her head a little shake, coming back from the past. “I was more of an indoor girl. My mother raised a daughter, not a tomboy.”
Abruptly she tugged Poppy’s leash. “Come on, sweetie, you’re just playing. It’s bedtime, and you know it.”
After a few more sniffs, the dog peed, circled a few times and took care of that, too. Sam took the plastic bag from Mila, scooped it up and tied a knot. He tossed it in a garbage can at the corner disguised as a planter, thick vines of purple sweet potato trailing down to the sidewalk.
Inside Jessica’s building, he followed Mila and Poppy up the stairs to the fifth floor, enjoying the view of swaying hips and well-developed glutes for the first two floors, thinking for one floor that she and/or Poppy needed to get over it if they had an aversion to the elevator, then going back to enjoying the view. When they reached the top, Mila pressed Jessica’s buzzer, and just seconds later, a harsh voice shouted from behind them.
“Jessica, your granddaughter’s being brought home by the police! No surprise there, huh?”
Mila cringed at the shrillness of the voice, and so did Poppy. Sam turned to scowl at the peephole in the doorway. “What have I told you about minding your own business, Miz Wynona?”
“Don’t you talk to me like that, Sammy Douglas,” she shouted back. “I’ll tell your mama at church on Sunday.”
He turned back as Jessica opened the door and immediately enveloped Mila in a hug. As he shepherded them inside, he muttered, “Yeah, you don’t scare me, you nosy old witch.”
Jessica gave him an elbow in the ribs when he drew even with her. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I noticed you said it where she couldn’t hear.”
He grimaced. “She really will tell Mom, who will ask me why in the world I keep giving Wynona a reason to complain to her.”
“Oh, I think that’s all Wynona has, is reasons to complain. Welcome to Ramirez Guest Lodge.” The apartment was all lit up, not with the soft white bulbs he used in his own house but middle-of-the-blazing-day ten-million-watt-sun bulbs. It made the bright colors—orange sofa, turquoise chair, rug woven of primary colors—even brighter and made him appreciate the quiet calm of Mila’s house even more.
“Thank you for bringing my grandbabies safely to me.” Jessica hugged him before heading to the kitchen. “I’ve got milk and brownies. Will you stay and have some with us?”
He wasn’t crazy about milk, but he did love a good brownie, enough that he didn’t believe there could actually be a bad brownie. But it was late, and he was tired, and Mila looked beyond tired. “Thanks, but five o’clock comes awfully early, and I think your babies can probably use some gramma time.”
“Oh, you’re so sweet. I bet your mama’s proud to burstin’ of you, even if you do rile the old hag across the hall. You get an extra one for that.” Jessica slid two brownies from the plate on the counter into a plastic bag and zipped it as she crossed to him. “I bake every day of the week that ends in y, so if you ever need a sweets fix, drop in here or at the shop anytime.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He took the brownies, heavy and gooey, and watched Jessica make a big production of getting Poppy and herself out of the room. Mila slowly approached him, hands loosely clasped in front of him. She glanced up a time or two, catching his gaze, then continued her slow meander around furniture that would be too much for a room twice its size. Slow was the only way to get around it.
Finally she stood in front of him, not too close—enough room for an overstuffed armchair between them—and she let her hands drop to her sides before lifting her gaze to his face. “Thank you, Sam.” Her voice was barely a whisper. Because she still wasn’t recovered from the unwelcome surprise she’d gotten tonight or because she desired privacy within distance of not one but two loud women?
He didn’t care. He just matched her whisper. “You’re welcome.” That jogged a thought in him, and he pulled a handful of business cards from his wallet. Finding an ink pen next to a notepad on a table, he scrawled his cell number on the back of every one. Then, just for an excuse to touch her once more, he put the cards in her hand and folded her fingers over them, just like he’d done with his debit card the other night.
Only this time he didn’t let go. “About the only time I’m truly not available is when I’m on the stand in a courtroom testifying. Any other time, if you need something, even if it’s just a friendly voice, call me, will you?”
Her gaze locked with his, she nodded. She looked nervous, flushed, awkward, regretful, hopeful... Every emotion he’d seen cross her face was crossing it now, along with some he hadn’t seen. Her fingers were motionless within his grip, like she wanted the touch but didn’t, couldn’t give in to it but couldn’t pull away from it, either.
Then her thumb moved. Not a lot. She didn’t clench it tighter to her palm. She didn’t try to pull it from his hold. She just slid it, bit by bit, until its pad was pressed in that webbed spot between his own thumb and forefinger.
As touches went, it was minor, petty, nothing, but damn, it felt like so much more. So much potential. So much intimacy. So much trust.
So damn much more.
Jessica’s crooning to Poppy was getting louder, finally forcing him to speak. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
Their gazes held a moment longer before he reluctantly pulled away and turned to the door. “Good night, ladies.” He didn’t look back over his shoulder as he walked out, or when he said goodbye to Miz Wynona, or when he headed down the stairs.
By the time he reached his truck, his breath was coming in unsteady gulps, not because of exertion. Because he felt...different. There was no other way to say it. The Sam Douglas he was at this very moment wasn’t the same one who’d walked into Jessica’s apartment tonight. Mila’s trust had touched him in a very fundamental way.
Yeah, in the head, he could hear Ben saying.
He wasn’t sure exactly what had changed, or if things would return to normal, or if he even wanted them to. Normal was comfortable. It was familiar. It was risk-free. Normal stayed the same, year after year, success after disappointment, heartbreak after relationship.
He’d always been a very normal sort of guy.
He wasn’t cut out to be a not-normal guy.
But with Mila in his life, he wasn’t sure normal was an option anymore.
Chapter 7
The woman’s eyes went dark with concern and worry and something else: doubt. She looked around again before refocusing on me. “Honey, are you okay?” she asked cautiously. “Did you have a fight with your dad? Does he know where you are?”
I’m not angry, I’m not trying to get back at him, I’m not lying, I’m trying to save your life! I screamed the words but knew they had voice only in my head. I glanced toward him but didn’t see him. That didn’t mean he was gone. He always moved someplace where we couldn’t see him, not until we walked through whichever door he had chosen and it was too late. This time I could feel him watching me. My skin tingled and burned as if he could use sheer hatred to make me burst into flames. My stomach was so twisted, so filled with helplessness and rage, that I felt as if I was on fire.
“Please,” I whispered. “Please believe me. I don’t want him to hurt you. I don’t want him to kill you. Just run away. Find a security guard or a police officer or someone so you can get out of here. Just go now!”
Slowly she hung the dress back on the rack and turned to face me. I was almost as tall as she was, and I saw the instant it occurred to her that I was big enough to hurt her if I tried. She pretended to be casual about it as she took a step back, but I could see she thought I was crazy, probably dangerous to myself if not to others. Part of her wanted to take my advice and run. Part of her—the part that loved her niece so dearly, the part that made her my father’s favorite victim—couldn’t just walk away and leave an unstable girl by herself in the middle of the store.
“Come on, honey,” she said. She swallowed hard, like she wished she’d never seen me, and took my hand. “Let’s go find your father. Whatever’s wrong, it’ll be all right. I’m sure he’s worried sick about you. Come on.”
Tears filling my eyes, I wrapped my fingers so tightly around hers, thinking maybe I could stop her, maybe she wasn’t up to dragging my seventy-five pounds across the floor. Her hand was so warm and soft. I dreamed of hands like that. Hands that didn’t cause pain. That preferred stroking over slapping. That didn’t leave marks and nightmares with every touch.
Then I looked up and saw him, and the ice of his hatred washed over me, numbing me. Defeating me. The little bit of courage I’d found was gone. He’d always said no one would believe me if I told stories about him, and he’d been right. But I’d been stupid enough to try.
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