“Fine,” she said. “I’ll show you the guest bedroom.”
She found an extra blanket, a never-been-used toothbrush and travel-size tube of Crest.
“A toothbrush, too,” he said when she handed him the things. “I’m overwhelmed.”
“I didn’t want you to stink up the place.”
“You’re all heart.”
“Just so you know, I’m going to lock my bedroom door.”
He removed his shoulder holster and began unbuttoning his shirt. “Have at it, sweetheart. I hope you and Mr. Glock have a great night.”
“Arrogant,” she muttered. “Pigheaded, stubborn, know-it-”
She bit the words back as she realized they all described her. As she shut her bedroom door behind her, she heard him laugh.
CHAPTER 29
Friday, March 11, 2005
2:10 a.m.
Spencer opened his eyes, instantly awake. He went for his weapon, tucked under the mattress, curled his fingers around its grip and listened.
It came again. The sound that had awakened him.
Stacy, he realized. Crying.
The sound was thick, as if she was trying to muffle it. No doubt, she perceived tears as a sign of weakness. She would hate it that he had heard her. She would be embarrassed if he checked on her.
Spencer closed his eyes and tried to block the sound out. He couldn’t. Small, hopeless-sounding, her grief tore at him. Both were so foreign to the woman she wanted him to think she was.
He couldn’t simply wait for her crying to stop. That was foreign to the man he was.
He stood, stepped into his jeans and fastened them. Taking a deep breath, he went to her bedroom. He stood outside the door a moment, then tapped on it. “Stacy,” he called, “are you all right?”
“Go away,” she called, voice thick. “I’m fine.”
She wasn’t. Clearly. He hesitated, then tapped again. “I have a pretty good shoulder. Best in the Malone clan.”
She made a strangled sound, one that sounded part laugh, part sob. “I don’t need you.”
“I’m sure you don’t.”
“Then go back to sleep. Or better yet, go home.”
He grabbed the doorknob and twisted. The door eased open.
She hadn’t locked it, after all.
“I’m coming in. Please don’t shoot me.”
As he stepped into the dark bedroom, the light came on.
Stacy was sitting up in bed, blond hair a wild tangle, eyes red and puffy from crying. She gripped the Glock with both hands, the weapon aimed at his chest.
He stared at it a moment, feeling like a cat burglar caught in the act. Or a deer in the headlights of a truck. A big one, traveling too damn fast for comfort.
He raised his hands over his head, fighting a smile. Pissing her off would be a bad idea.
“The chest, Stacy? You couldn’t aim for a leg or something?”
She inched the barrel directly south. “Better?”
His nuts ran for cover. “That’s equipment I’d rather die for than do without, sweetheart. Do you mind?”
She grinned and lowered the Glock. “Are you hungry?”
“I’m always hungry. It’s genetic.”
“Good. Meet me in the kitchen in five?”
“Sounds good.” He started through the door, then stopped. “Why are you being nice to me?”
“You made me forget,” she answered simply.
He left her bedroom, mulling over what she had said. The turn of events. She had surprised him. The invitation. Her honest answer to his question.
Stacy Killian was one complicated, high-maintenance woman. The kind he made a practice of steering clear of.
So what the hell was he doing meeting her for a midnight pajama party?
She joined him in the kitchen. “What do you like to eat?”
“Everything. Except beets, liver and brussels sprouts.”
She laughed, crossed to the fridge. “Don’t have to worry about those, not with me.” She peered inside. “Enchilada bowl. Leftover Peking duck. Though I’d give it the sniff test first. Tuna. Eggs.”
He peered over her shoulder, made a face. “Pickings are slim, Killian.”
“I was a cop, remember. Cops always eat out.”
It was true. His refrigerator was emptier than hers.
“How about cereal?” she asked.
“That depends, what’ve you got?”
“Cheerios or Raisin Bran.”
“The O’s are good, definitely. Whole milk or skim?”
“Two percent.”
“That’ll do.”
She took the carton of milk from the fridge and closed the door. He saw her check the date on the carton before she set it on the counter. She took two bowls from one cabinet and two boxes of cereal from another.
They filled their bowls-she took the bran, no surprise there-and carried them to the small café table by the window.
They ate in silence. He wanted to give her time. A little space. A chance to become comfortable with him. And to decide if forgetting was enough, or if she needed someone to talk to.
She hadn’t asked him to the kitchen because she was hungry. Or because she was worried that he was.
She had needed company. Another’s support, even if that support only came in the form of a cereal buddy.
One of his sisters, Mary, third oldest of the Malone brood, was like that. Tough as nails, stubborn as a mule, too prideful for her own good. When she had gone through a divorce a couple of years ago, she had tried to keep it all in, handle everything-including her hurt-by herself.
She had finally confided in Spencer. Because he had first allowed her the space, and then the opportunity to do so. And maybe, too, because he had made so many mistakes in his own life, she figured he would be less judgmental of hers.
“Want to talk about it?” he asked finally as her spoon scraped the bottom of her bowl.
She didn’t ask about what; she knew. She stared into her bowl, as if preparing her answer.
“I didn’t want to do this,” she said after a moment, looking at him. “Not anymore.”
“Breakfast cereal with near strangers?”
A ghost of a smile touched her mouth. “Are you ever totally serious?”
“As infrequently as possible.”
“I’m thinking that would be a nice way to be.”
He thought of Lieutenant Moran. “Trust me, it has drawbacks.” He inched aside his bowl. “So, you left police work behind, moved to New Orleans to study Literature and start a new life?”
“Something like that,” she said with a trace of bitterness. “But it wasn’t the police work I wanted to leave behind. It was the ugliness of the job. The absolute disregard for life.” She let out a long, weary-sounding breath. “And here I am, smack dab in the middle of it again.”
“By your own doing.”
“Cassie’s murder was not my doing.”
“But putting yourself into the investigation was. Signing on with Noble was. Stepping through each door that opened was.”
She looked as if she wanted to argue. He reached across the table and caught her hand, curving his fingers around hers. “I’m not criticizing you. Far from it. You’re doing what comes natural. You were a cop for ten years. We both know that law enforcement isn’t a job, it’s a way of life. It’s not what you are, it’s who you are.”
He had discovered just how true those words were when he was falsely accused, suspended and facing a lifetime without police work.
“I don’t want to be that person, not anymore.”
“Then let it go, Stacy. Get out of it. Go back to Texas.”
She made a sound of frustration and stood. She carried her bowl to the sink, then turned to face him once more. “What about Cassie? I can’t just…leave.”
“What about her? You hardly knew her.”
“That’s not true!”