“I keep finding better things to do,” she said.
Minutes later, she poured each of them a cup of coffee, and they sat at the kitchen island.
Bryce sipped. “I’m all ears.”
She traced the brim of her cup. “When Thompson first made himself known to me, he alluded to something that threw me for a loop.” She blew out a breath. “Back in college, I’d broken up with Clarke because I was convinced that we wanted different things in life. Elijah and I were tutors at the math center together. And one thing led to another, and we slept together.” She looked up at him. “Then the house I shared with Joan caught fire.”
“And Elijah was convicted of arson.”
“Yes.”
“Did Clarke know about your relationship with Elijah?”
“I didn’t think so at the time, but now I will always wonder.” She tried her coffee. “When I was in the emergency room after the fire, the doctors ran a pregnancy test as a precaution. That’s when I found out I was pregnant with Nate. Clarke was with me. And he, of course, assumed the baby was his, as did I. It didn’t take much to convince me to get married and stay in Missoula.”
“When did you realize Elijah was the boy’s biological father?”
She swallowed and did not seem surprised he had guessed. “A few years ago. Clarke was never stupid but never off-the-charts smart like Nate. Mannerisms, the way Nate smiled, even how much milk he puts on his cereal was all Elijah. I had a DNA test done, but I never told Clarke or Nate.”
“Which brings us back to Paul Thompson. How could he know about your relationship with Elijah?”
“My very short relationship with Elijah wasn’t really common knowledge. But if Elijah got ahold of a picture of Nate, he would have known,” she said. “Elijah guesses the truth, tells a few Fireflies about me and Nate, and word spread among them.”
“Even if he’d said nothing, it wouldn’t be a stretch to make the connection, given the boy’s likeness to Elijah.”
“It’s getting more and more obvious, and I’m sure more people are making the same assumption,” she said. “I’m hoping if I talk to Thompson, he will back off his information about Nate.”
“At the rate Nate is growing, everyone will see it.”
“Nate will need to be told, but I was hoping for a few more years. And for all of Clarke’s faults, he loved Nate.”
“Is there any way I can talk you out of talking to Thompson?”
“I don’t see how I have a choice.”
“When are you to meet?”
“Saturday.”
“What are you going to talk about?”
“Not your case, of course, or its connection to the Fireflies. I’ll talk about Clarke and tell him what I know about Elijah.”
A muscle pulsed in his jaw. “Maybe you can use the interview to our advantage. You’re good at reading people and body language and coaxing facts that otherwise might have gone unsaid. Treat him as a suspect. Also be sure to tape the conversation.”
“I’d planned to do all that. But I wanted to be up front with you. This past of mine is refusing to stay in the past.”
A small smile. “They rarely do.”
She stared at his lined face, deeply tanned by the Montana sun. She moved around the island and cupped his face with her hands. He stared up at her, and, carefully, she leaned forward and kissed him on the lips.
A charged jolt shot through Bryce’s body as Ann kissed him. He rose and threaded his fingers into her hair and pulled her toward him. The kiss quickly deepened.
When he pulled back, she moistened her lips. “I want you.”
“Same.”
“I know you said something about moving slow, but . . .”
“Forget what I said,” he growled as he kissed her again.
She took him by the hand and led him to her bedroom, where the double mattress and box spring still sat on the floor. The sheets were rumpled, and clothes from yesterday draped a cane rocking chair.
“Not exactly a palace,” she said.
“It’ll do.”
He removed his weapon and set it on the floor by the bed and toed off his boots. A sense of urgency built in her as she shrugged off her blouse.
He was at her side, sliding his hand up over her flat belly to the curve of her breast. He squeezed her nipples gently, then pressed his fingertips to the hollow between her breasts. “Your heart is beating fast.”
“Been a while.”
He smiled and cupped her buttocks. “Just like riding a bike.”
Bryce lay next to Ann, their naked bodies coiled together. He had learned on an Afghanistan mountainside to savor the good moments life tossed his way, because they came few and far between. When they showed, he locked out the outside world and zeroed in on what was directly in his line of sight. Sounded more Zen than he would ever admit to out loud, but the way he figured it, if he paused in the best places, he would have the reserves to power through the worst of the gunfire, the explosions, the screams, the blood.
And now his body was boneless, and he realized he might have touched perfection for a few brief moments. He understood hard work and duty, but Jesus, he had forgotten what bliss felt like.
Bryce’s phone rang, and a curse growled in his throat. He felt Ann stir at his side, and he hugged her a little tighter. Just a few more seconds.
“It’s not my phone,” she said.
“Nope, fault’s all mine.”
She rose up on her elbow and kissed him on the lips. “It’s for the best. I have to pick the boys up at school soon.”
Bryce let the call go to voicemail, knowing he would not have a productive conversation with Gideon Bailey while lying naked in bed with Ann. “It’s your brother.”
“He never calls to chat.” She checked her phone. “He didn’t call me, so it can’t be the boys.”
Bryce kissed her. “The outside world is calling.”
“Yes.”
And just like that, the best of all moments ended.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Missoula, Montana
Tuesday, August 24
4:00 p.m.
Bryce pulled up in front of the small one-story house now surrounded by several cop cars, a forensic van, and yellow crime scene tape. Out of the vehicle, he tucked his jacket back so that the badge around his neck was visible and approached the young uniformed officer. He introduced himself, received the all clear to proceed, and then slid on gloves and booties before entering the house.
The smell was the first thing he noticed. It was the strong, sickly sweet smell of death that, despite the frigid temperature of the house, was thick enough to make a man’s eyes water.
He paused in the entryway to study the main room, which was decorated in mauve and white and reminded him of the eighties. There were plenty of pictures on the walls of generations of families, and he quickly saw the same middle-aged woman appearing in all of them. He did not understand why he was here, but like Ann had said, Gideon did not ask for an assist just for the hell of it.
He found Gideon in the back bedroom, standing to the side as a forensic tech snapped pictures of a woman lying on her bed. Judging by the patchy discoloration on her face and arms, the slippage of her skin, and the bloating in her belly, she had been dead more than twenty-four hours.