Frankie found herself standing outside B. B. King’s Blues Club just after ten P.M. Billy was on a quest, and he hadn’t invited her along. Actually, that wasn’t fair. He was about to do something illegal and wanted to shield her from culpability. But still, she felt like a kid left standing on the curb.
She watched him edge through the overheated crowd, the kind of cop who gambled it all in the pursuit of justice. He’d been lucky in his career, pushed it to the brink, had some close calls, but now he was a murder suspect, and she was the only one in his corner.
Moments ago, she’d caught a stricken expression on his face while he was reading a text. He’d tried to blow it off, but she knew the look. Last year, she overheard cop gossip about him falling for a woman who lived in Atlanta, the reason for his long leave of absence. The woman was also the likely reason for his return. Frankie hoped that wounded look didn’t mean he was carrying a torch.
Plenty of female officers had been disappointed when Billy Able left town. The same ladies would be glad to see him back, especially without a ring on his finger.
After her involvement with Brad, she was suspicious of love, going so far as to consider romance a near-death experience. Speaking for herself, one more bad relationship, and she was going to start keeping cats.
She searched the crowd. It had swallowed Billy whole. Whatever he was up to, she hoped she wouldn’t have to bail out Freeman and him later tonight.
Driving home, the full moon threw light between the limbs of the giant hardwoods that lined the streets. She remembered another full moon on an evening when she’d ridden beside Brad McDaniel for what she thought was their first date, starry-eyed fool that she was. He’d taken her to a little restaurant out Highway 64 near Bolivar where she had the best fried catfish and hush puppies she’d ever eaten. It was a funky, out-of-the-way place. She’d been too smitten at the time to realize it was also a safe harbor for a married man to take his girlfriend. Driving back, the moon had set fire to the frozen fields, sparking off the blanket of late frost.
She never imagined Brad would end up dead because of their relationship or that she would need tranquilizers to make it through the day. There was no way she could rationalize falling for a married man. It didn’t matter that he’d lied about being separated. She wasn’t supposed to make that kind of mistake.
She pushed away sad thoughts as she turned into her driveway, realizing she hadn’t eaten all day. A glass of chardonnay and some comfort food would take her mind off Brad while she waited to hear from Billy.
She went upstairs, undressed, and walked barefoot to the kitchen to crank the oven to 400. Earlier tonight at the bar, a server had passed by with a skillet of low-country shrimp and cheese grits. She remembered the Gulf shrimp in her freezer and some leftover grits soufflé in the fridge from the day before. She took out the grits, spooned them into a heavy iron skillet, and pushed it to the back of the hot oven.
Her thoughts turned to the way Garrett’s face had collapsed as he leafed through the photographs. Billy explained away Garrett’s reaction by saying he was having flashbacks of his brother’s death. From her seat at the bar, the man looked more panicked than sad. What had he seen? She mentally flipped through the photos while pushing the shrimp around in a pan of melted butter. What did he know that they’d missed?
She opened the oven door to check on the grits. Her mind was on the photos when she reached in with a pot holder for the heavy skillet. As she lifted it out, her wrist seared against the red-hot heating element.
“Damn it,” she yelled, dropped the skillet, and ran to the sink to turn on the cold-water tap. A dry sob broke from her throat. Somehow the blistering pain got mixed up with the jolt of Brad’s slap. She remembered the ugliness on his face as he screamed at her through his car window. Then he was chasing her. Then his car rolled.
She felt the steel bands tightening around her chest. She wanted a pill. Two pills. Three.
Slumped over the sink, her heart began racing. Goddamn you, Brad, Coral’s a widow. Your daughter has no father. And all I want is to feel numb. You bastard, you died because you couldn’t have your way.
Heart thudding, she turned off the tap and inspected the raw patch on her wrist. Her neighbor kept an aloe vera plant on the back porch, the best treatment for burns. She cut some gauze strips and crept downstairs to break off a leaf. The dripping goo cooled the sting of the burn, and she wrapped her wrist in a bandage.
In the back garden, a small fountain bubbled beside a concrete bench. Lights peeked from under the hydrangea bushes. She walked barefoot across the grass and sat on the bench to try and calm down. She’d been reading up on post-traumatic stress, but understanding the response wasn’t the same as controlling it. That had been the worst. She had no control.
She unwrapped the gauze. Even in the low light of the garden, she could tell the burn was going to leave a scar. So would Brad’s death if she let it. She could change that by talking to someone about the accident and these damned anxiety attacks, but first she had to come clean with Billy, at least about the anxiety. He already knew something was wrong. He had to trust her if there was any hope of their working together. She would talk to him and then find a therapist to work through what had happened to Brad.
Decision made, she went upstairs to check her mobile. Billy had texted with a request for an NCIC search on the name Walker Pryce. His quest had paid off. She scanned her e-mails and found the New Orleans PI report.
She printed the report and went to the kitchen to clean up the grits she’d spilled on the floor. With the work she had ahead of her, an apple with peanut butter would do fine for supper.
On her way back to her desk, she passed her handbag. She dug out the bottle of pills and poured the capsules into her palm. She’d thought the pills would be good for her. She’d thought the same about her relationship with Brad. She dumped the pills into the garbage and went to work.