9

Thanks for coming to my rescue, Detective.”

Mike poked at the dirt with the reinforced toe of his boot.

“You came just in the nick of time.” She shivered. “How did you know I was in trouble?”

He shrugged. “I’ve been tailing you for several days now whenever I was off-duty.”

“You’ve been what?”

The corners of his mouth tilted up. “You heard me. I had a feeling you were going to do something . . .”

She narrowed her eyes. “Stupid?”

He grinned.

She blinked, flushing.

A policeman came out of the trees and reholstered his gun.

“No sign of him, Sarge.”

She sniffed. “Or her.”

Mike ignored her. “Witnesses?”

“The park opened at ten so not many people about yet,” the officer informed him.

“You’re getting their names and addresses so we can interview them.”

It wasn’t meant as a question.

The officer swallowed. “Yes, sir. According to procedure.”

Mike nodded. “Good work. Continue to secure the perimeter. I’m going to scout the scene for any leads. And,” he glanced over to her. “I’d like one of you to escort Mrs. Monaghan back to her residence.”

“I don’t need a—” She stopped after he donned his “I’m spoiling for a fight” look, the bane of every rookie forced to work with him in the department.

Having more than its intended effect, the officer took a step back. “Sure, Sarge. I’ll send one of the men.” He took off again across the road.

“Are you going to dig that bullet out of the fence post and check to see if it matches the bullet that killed Frank?”

Standing in the middle of the road with his hands on his hips, he towered over her. “I plan to if you will get back to what you’re supposed to be doing and let me do my job. Which I happen to do well.”

He retrieved his cell phone and snapped several photos of the crime scene from all angles. Pulling out a Swiss army knife from his jacket, he strode to where the shots hit the ground. He scrutinized the tree line, easing down to where she’d crouched when he rescued her. Marking an invisible line from behind with his eye, he crossed over the drainage ditch to the electric fence post.

“Figuring the angle and trajectory of the bullet, Captain?” she asked at his elbow.

He whipped around, knife extended. “Not a good idea to come up like that unannounced on a guy with a knife in his hand. And you know full well, I’m a Sergeant. Flattery will get you nowhere.”

She gave him a wide-eyed, who-me? stare, not as intimidated as the rookie. He donned his poker face to show her how unimpressed he was, but the scent of lavender she wore floated by his nostrils. He shifted his feet at her close proximity, his pulse galloping.

Bending down, he examined the wood for splintering, running his forefinger along the grain. “Gotcha.” He took a quick photo of the post with his cell phone.

He pulled out a plastic bag and, after digging the bullet out, removed the tiny pellet. He labeled it and stuck it in his pocket.

She cleared her throat. He glanced her way. “Frank left notes to be given to us after his death. I’m not sure how useful they are to your investigation, but you’re welcome to look over them, if you’d like.”

Her face contracted, a frown marring the skin between her brows. He resisted the urge to smooth the frown away. Maybe something in his face betrayed him for she stepped back.

Mike chewed the inside of his cheek. “I’ve got interviews to conduct, but afterward, I’d like to come by and see them.”

“Sure. I’ll be home all day.”

He’d believe that when he saw it. Why did the elegant Alison Monaghan make him so . . . ? He wasn’t sure what she made him feel. Maybe that was the trouble. Since Fallujah, he’d been real careful about feeling anything.

She’s a suspect, he reminded himself for the thousandth time.

He needed some air. He needed space away from her so he could think. Or maybe he was doing too much thinking these days when it came to a certain Alison Monaghan. What was wrong with him?

God, help me . . .

As soon as her “babysitter” arrived to escort her home, Mike muttered an excuse before rushing away—as if the insurgents from hell were hot on his heels—into the tangled undergrowth that led to Weathersby House.

Alison shook her head, trying to dispel the image of that dazzling grin of Mike Barefoot’s from her mind.

Megawattage. It was fairly blinding in its intensity.

She bet he had quite the way with the ladies. Been down that road. Her dad had an old saying he used to quote, “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.” One Dot or Frank was enough for anybody in one lifetime.

No way. No how. Never again.

Willing her heart to return to a more even beat, she thanked God that as a widow, those days were behind her.

She returned home only minutes before the children arrived. She’d just parked the car—the garage door still open—when Robert’s truck pulled into the driveway. Justin grinned from ear to ear. Stephen helped him unload the bulky golf bag from the truck bed.

“Hurray!” Alison called, clapping.

Robert stuck his head out the window. “Got to get going. But mission accomplished.”

Stephen hopped into the passenger seat and waved. Claire helped Justin pull the bag into the garage.

Alison leaned against the open door frame and waved in return. “Thanks, guys.” Claire and Justin waved good-bye.

“I’m going to hit some balls.” Justin headed for the side entrance to the backyard.

Hunger pangs reminded Alison of the time. “Lunch is soon. Want to help, Claire?”

As soon as the garage closed and they were in the kitchen, a pall settled over Claire.

“Let’s do grilled cheese.” Choosing a favorite comfort food of Claire’s, Alison hoped to distract her daughter from her depression.

Claire shrugged but dragged out the skillet.

As she sprayed the pan with cooking oil, Claire retrieved the bread from the pantry and Muenster cheese slices from the cold box in the fridge.

“I told Detective Barefoot about Dad’s notes. He’s coming over this afternoon. It could be important.”

Claire, normally hard to shut up, said nothing.

Alison decided to keep the events of her morning adventure to herself. Out the window, she watched Justin putting to an imaginary hole ten feet away. “Why don’t you like Sandy Fleming, Claire?”

Claire stiffened. “She’s not—oh, I don’t know. I don’t want to sound mean, but she’s just not—our kind of people.”

Frowning, Alison eyed Claire. “What do you mean? She and her whole family seem nice to me.”

“Oh, they are.” Claire pursed her lips. “But they’re . . .” She struggled for the right word. “You know, unsophisticated.” She bent her head to butter the bread. One shoulder rose and dropped. She focused on layering the cheese slices. “Sandy doesn’t dress well. Her clothes come from discount stores. She doesn’t wear much makeup, and she’s sort of plain. None of my crowd would ever hang out with people like her.”

Alison’s mouth opened and closed. The spatula clattered against the cast-iron skillet. Shame followed indignation. Had she modeled this to her daughter?

Change Claire’s heart, God. And mend mine as well.

“You mean you think you and your friends are better than her because you have more money?”

Red splotches dotted Claire’s cheeks. “When you put it that way, it sounds so ugly. We just have nothing in common with her.”

Alison pivoted to the skillet in time to flip the sandwiches and avoid burning them. “News flash.” She threw a glance over her shoulder at her daughter. “We’re not rich. Or at least we’re much poorer than we were.”

Claire huffed around the kitchen, dragging out the plates and cutlery. “You call me a drama queen. I think you’re exaggerating. Tons.”

Alison turned off the range and put a tentative hand on Claire’s arm. Claire shrugged it off. “Claire. Look at me.”

Claire, her lips bulging, obeyed, but under duress.

“We’re going to have to sell the house. And when the club membership expires, we will not be renewing.”

At that, Claire’s eyes filled with tears.

“I’d cancel it now, except they won’t give me a refund. The days of maid service are over. Life will be different and difficult. Until we pay off the debt, we’re going to have to drastically change our lifestyle. There’ll be little shopping in our future, I fear.”

“But that’s not fair!”

Alison wished she could turn back the clock to impart somewhere along the way that things and money weren’t everything. But she and Frank had done a pretty good job of raising Claire to believe otherwise. One more example of her failed mothering skills. Time for all of them to grow up.

“I’m sorry, honey. Time for a reality check.” She made a mental note to contact a realtor on Monday. Maybe Robert.

Through the window, she observed Justin take a practice swing into the net Frank had set up to perfect his own drives. Life was going to be hard, but in its hardships, they—with God’s help—might become better people. Adversity built character depending on how you responded to it, but those kinds of lessons, while essential, were never fun.

Claire turned silent again, and this time Alison left Claire to her own thoughts. She scooped up the paperwork she’d been poring over from the breakfast nook table and set out the sandwiches as Claire poured the drinks.

In the background, Justin manically drove one shot into the net after the other. Thud after thud. Followed by a curse. Something that didn’t sound like Justin.

She and Claire, glancing at each other, watched tears roll down Justin’s twisted face. He slammed shot after shot as fast as he could, and upon reaching the end of his strength, he slammed the club into the ground.

Alison started for the French doors, but Claire grabbed her arm.

“Don’t.” Claire shook her head. “Let him get it out of his system. He can’t keep pretending to be strong all the time. Don’t embarrass him.”

She bit back her own tears at Claire’s compassion for her brother. Maybe she hadn’t been a perfect parent, but God would hear her prayers for her children. He wasn’t done with any of them yet.

With Alison’s arm around Claire, they returned to the kitchen to give him some privacy, but there was a shout.

“Mom!” Justin yelled. “Mom!”

Her heart in her throat, she ran across the family room. This time, Claire was right behind her. They met Justin at the door.

“Look what was stuffed in the bottom of Dad’s golf bag.” He waved a small black object in front of their faces.

It was Frank’s missing smartphone.