“At least I still have you, girl. I know you’ll never leave me.”
He aimed a single glance over his shoulder to see if D.D. had caught the show.
Leaning against the wall, Alex broke into mild applause and congratulated Jack on his performance. Which made both D.D. and Jack glare at him with uncomfortable similarity.
“Your mom’s gotta go,” Alex chided their son. “Now give her a hug and stop auditioning for Broadway.”
Eventually, with a dramatic sigh, the six-year-old had forced himself to his feet. He gave his mother a pat on the back.
“I will miss you,” he declared stoically. “Please text.”
“How much TV is he watching?” D.D. demanded of Alex.
Her husband shrugged. “So many superheroes, so little time.”
“I will be home as soon as I can,” D.D. told her son.
“Sure,” Jack sniffed.
D.D. found herself turning to the dog—honestly, the shoe-eating canine—for moral support. Kiko gave D.D. her back.
“Well then,” D.D. said, addressing her husband. “Will you at least take my calls?”
“Always,” Alex assured her. “I’ll even accept FaceTime.”
“At least someone still loves me.”
Alex put an arm around her shoulders. “The heartbreak of little boys,” he murmured in her ear.
“Parenthood ain’t for sissies,” she mumbled against his shoulder.
He kissed her softly. “You know he’ll get over it in another minute. Go get ’em, slugger. We’re both proud of you.”
“Three to four days,” she muttered. “Seven tops.”
“Federal taskforce?”
“Yep.”
“Gonna catch a bad guy? Maybe even bring some poor lost person home?”
“I hope so.”
“Then don’t worry about us. Your menfolk will be fine. Though I make no promises about too much TV or Frosted Flakes for breakfast.”
D.D. shrugged. “I like Frosted Flakes for breakfast.”
“Perfect, we’ll blame you.”
Which is how D.D. found herself back in her car, travel bag beside her, returning to BPD headquarters with one more awkward conversation to go. Love, such a complicated and powerful emotion. Able to topple the strongest among us, to waylay the unsuspecting, and to wriggle deep inside a woman heretofore laser-focused on her career.
It all made sense till Flora Dane sauntered into BPD headquarters with Keith Edgar at her side. One look at the tightness in her shoulders, the bounce in his step, the way they both glanced at each other while trying not to glance at each other, and D.D. was forced to remember the other half of love. The part that didn’t bloom and grow. The colder, starker truth that love could cost you everything.
And often did.
* * *
—
D.D. LED FLORA AND KEITH to the homicide division’s suite upstairs. Both had been there before, and while D.D. would like to say the bump up to sergeant meant she could now host meetings in her massive office, she could barely stand with a fellow detective in the closet-sized space. Instead, D.D. led Flora and Keith to the glass-doored conference room, which—like the rest of the building—resembled an insurance company more than an urban police force. For that matter, the homicide unit had blue carpet and cubicles that screamed staid corporate job. Some of the detectives had strewn crime scene tape and blood spatter photos all over their padded gray walls just to keep their sanity. Humor was an investigative necessity.
“Here’s what we know,” D.D. started without preamble. “Skeletal remains were discovered two and a half months ago in the mountains of Georgia.”
“Georgia,” Keith interrupted, giving Flora a meaningful glance. Both Flora and D.D. glared at him.
“Outside the town of Niche,” D.D. continued, “which is some quaint little community that exists to house and feed hikers doing the Appalachian Trail. Too small a town for that to be Jacob’s home base.” She eyed Flora pointedly.
“He’d stand out,” Flora filled in. “A long-haul trucker with a raging drug habit and a lack of personal hygiene. Not ideal small-town material.”
“Exactly. The body, however, was identified as Lilah Abenito—”
Keith abruptly pulled his laptop from his bag, fired it to life. Notes, of course. Now D.D. remembered. Keith spent all their encounters pecking away at his computer like some rabid chicken. The man practically lived hardwired. She often wondered what Flora, who had a strictly hands-on approach to problem solving, thought of having a techie boyfriend.
Keith got his laptop booted up. D.D. continued: “Lilah Abenito was declared missing fifteen years ago. She is one of the first victims connected with Jacob Ness. Given the find, FBI agent Kimberly Quincy is forming a federal taskforce to investigate Lilah Abenito’s murder, and look for further evidence of Jacob Ness’s past activities.”
“What do you know so far?” Flora asked. She hadn’t taken a seat, but was standing in the conference room, gripping the back of a chair.
“Not much. But now that this case has been declared a priority, given its connection to Jacob Ness, everything will be revisited, including the forensic anthropologist’s initial findings. While us taskforce members”—she looked at Flora and Keith—“will be heading to Mosley County. Our job is to re-examine the gravesite—and all trails, communities, and activities around it.”
“I’m guessing this tiny town isn’t off a major freeway,” Flora said.
“No. Up in the mountains and off the beaten path. Certainly not off the kind of roads a long-haul trucker such as Jacob Ness would be traveling for work.”
“An old grave makes it harder to find evidence,” Keith was musing out loud. “On the other hand, fifteen years ago Ness’s crime spree was still in its infancy. Means he probably wasn’t as refined about covering his tracks. He hadn’t perfected his technique.”
“This is a unique opportunity,” D.D. agreed. “SSA Kimberly Quincy has invited us all to join the taskforce. Which, I don’t have to tell you, is quite an honor for two civilians.”
“She needs me,” Flora said flatly. “No one knows Jacob like I do. No one else survived to tell the tale.”
“I didn’t do so shabby tearing about his computer in December,” Keith echoed. “Certainly I learned more in forty-eight hours than the FBI did in six years.”
They were both right, and D.D. knew it.