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I left the fire station at nine in the morning. It had been a long night, and I was beat. I’d managed to snag about four solid hours of sleep between false alarms and a dumpster fire. I got an additional two before the next shift showed up, and I was able to clock out.
Feeling on edge, I stopped by one of the national chain coffee shops to grab a cup for myself and one for Alaina. It was past nine o’clock, and I figured she would be at work. She was in her office, at her desk, Duke lounging on the floor beside her. He perked up when I arrived and nearly made me drop my beverages.
Alaina laughed, sliding out of her seat. We kissed hello, right there in the office where anyone could see. It wasn’t a deep kiss, but a possessive one. I was finally comfortable telling the world we were dating in small but consistent ways. The kiss was a good start.
“Thanks,” she said, accepting the cup from my hands.
“Where are we on the case?” I asked, pulling up a chair to sit beside her.
“About that,” she began.
Just then, some guy came up to us who looked vaguely familiar. I fought through my sleep-deprived brain to identify him but failed. He seemed angry, and he didn’t care that we were right in the middle of something.
“Has Duchess been spayed?” he demanded.
I coughed, not expecting such a direct question. “Yes. She was spayed at the shelter.”
“The shelter?” The man blanched.
“Yes, the shelter where she was transferred after her previous department lost funding,” I elaborated. “Who are you?”
“I’m Duchess’s handler,” he identified himself. “Who are you?”
“You guys have met,” Alaina said patiently. “At the crime scene over on King.”
I thought back to the most recent Rossi-related fire and thought I remembered a conversation with some jerk. Then it came back to me. He’d been complaining about Duchess then too. And Alaina was right; she’d already told him that I was Duchess’s owner.
“Travis,” I said, standing up.
“Kevin,” he replied, proving that he had at least some manners. “And I’m sorry, but your dog isn’t trained at all.”
I looked down at Alaina, at a loss for words. It wasn’t true. Duchess was trained. She’d been trained before I rescued her, and Alaina had continued the training right here in Denver. The guy had a thorn in his side and was trying to pick a fight, but I didn’t have the energy.
“Piss off, Kevin,” Alaina snarled.
“You can’t just bring any family dog to work and expect the department to pay for it,” Kevin snapped.
“I said piss off,” Alaina repeated.
I sat back down, watching Kevin storm away. “What’s with that guy?”
“I don’t know,” Alaina sighed. “He’s constantly on me about Duchess. I just don’t think he likes her very much.”
“Where is she?” I asked.
“Probably in the kennel, if she isn’t with him.”
I looked around the room for any sign of my pretty little girl, but she wasn’t anywhere. I didn’t like the idea of her spending her time locked up. “Can’t she get a different partner?” I asked.
Alaina looked at me, clearly torn between wanting to do right by me and Duchess and wanting to follow department regulations. I couldn’t ask her to put her job on the line, but at the same time, I felt sorry for my dog.
“There has to be some way to log a formal complaint,” I suggested.
“I’ll do that,” Alaina promised. “After I tell you what I found.”
“What did you find?” I turned my attention back to her computer.
She clicked the Internet browser open and typed in the name Barbara Rossi. “This is Silvio’s late wife. I was talking to Rebecca yesterday, and she said that Rossi said something about getting even with some woman in his life. So I thought it must be an ex-wife or a girlfriend.”
“Makes sense,” I said.
“No information about how she passed, but look at this.” She clicked over to an obituary.
“Wouldn’t you have a case file?” I wondered, sipping my coffee.
“Not if the death was by natural causes,” Alaina said. “Look.”
I didn’t see what she was pointing at until she moved her finger. And there, in black and white, were the words: daughter Stacia Rossi. I set my cup down, trying to wrap my head around it. I could tell from the way Alaina was leaning toward me that she wanted me to connect the dots. The only person I knew named Stacia was my ex-girlfriend, someone I knew as Stacia Campbell.
“It can’t be her,” I said.
“How much do you really know about her?” Alaina pressed.
“Enough,” I said, not liking the implications.
“Really?” Alaina continued. She opened a database from a credit bureau and typed in Stacia’s name. I saw records going back seven years, but no further. “Stacia Campbell didn’t exist eight years ago. No car loans, no apartments, not even a Macy’s card.”
I swallowed hard. “A lot of people don’t have credit histories when they’re young.”
“She was at least twenty-one or twenty-two,” Alaina argued. “That’s old enough that something should have been in her name. What has she told you about her family?”
I sat back in my chair, slowly sinking into the realization that Alaina might be right. Stacia had been cagey about her family all along. Although she’d met my mom and dad, she would never take me to visit hers. I tried to remember if she’d said they were dead but couldn’t even recall that much. It was just a big blank slate when it came to Stacia’s past, and that could only mean one thing.
I stood up, furious with Stacia for keeping it from me. I didn’t bother to say goodbye to Alaina, just stormed out the side door. I could feel her eyes on my back and the words that she was about to speak hovering in the air behind me. But the sound didn’t reach me in time, and before I knew it, I was pulling away from the police station.
My foot stomped on the gas, my body acting with a mind of its own. I felt betrayed. This was far worse than finding her alive after so many years, worse than losing her in the first place. If she was related to someone who had caused so much trauma, I had a right to know.
Gentler thoughts tried their best to break through. If Rossi was Stacia’s father, no wonder she was in witness protection. She was probably afraid for her life and with good reason. But that generosity of spirit failed to penetrate the haze of anger that was swirling around me.
I drove like a maniac all the way to her apartment and took the stairs two at a time. Banging on the door, I demanded to speak with her. I didn’t care if Ryan or the neighbors heard me. The woman owed me answers, and I was determined to get them.
There was a rustle from within the apartment, and I had the distinct impression that I was being watched. Whether it was Stacia or her new boyfriend, someone had come to the door. I heard the slide of a metal latch against its track, and then the door opened.
Stacia stood there, dressed in sweatpants. She looked cuter than ever with her hair drawn up in a ponytail and her feet tucked into oversized slippers. I noted all the physical attributes like a doctor inspecting a patient. Cold. Clinical. Disinterested.
“Who the hell are you?” I demanded.
“What does that mean?” she countered.
“What is your name?” I clarified, punctuating each word with the grief I felt at her multiple betrayals.
She sighed and poked her head out into the hallway to look up one side and down the other. When she satisfied herself that I was alone, she stepped away from the door. “I think you’d better come in.”
