Winslow tore her lips from mine, our breaths mingling. Her eyes widened as she stepped out of my arms.
My chest heaved as I worked to regain my breath, and before the haze of desire had cleared, she was gone. She walked away without a backward glance.
I stood in the threshold, arms crossed over my chest, and watched her climb into her SUV and tear down the gravel road, disappearing into the grove of trees that surrounded my property.
“Shit.” I rubbed her kiss from my lips, then went inside for that second beer.
Anything to get her intoxicating taste off my tongue.
The second bottle didn’t work. Neither did the third.
Chapter Five
Winslow
Why had I kissed him? Over the past three days, that question had bounded through my mind like a sugared-up kid on a trampoline.
I’d lived in Quincy for eight days and I’d kissed Griffin at two of our four encounters. Questioning my decision to move—questioning my sanity—had become a regular part of my daily routine. And nightly, since sleeping had been difficult. This morning while brushing my teeth, I’d considered for a split second going home to Bozeman.
Except there was no home.
And quitting wasn’t in my nature.
Time. What I needed was time. I’d survive the second week like I’d survived the first. If I could make it through the next eight days without kissing Griffin Eden, maybe I’d be able to get that man out of my head.
Work demanded my full attention. My focus was on building any kind of positive rapport with the officers. So far, things at the station were . . . strained. Eventually the staff would warm up to me, right?
“Good morning.” I walked into the break room and conversation stopped.
The three officers standing around the coffeepot scattered, each nodding as they passed me on their way to the bullpen.
I swallowed a groan and refilled my mug before retreating to my office, closing the door behind me. Then I sagged against its face. “I’m not quitting.”
The attitude in the station had grown colder. Even Janice had given me a few sideways looks when I’d started asking questions about Lily Green, Indigo Ridge and the abundance of suicides in the last decade.
Apparently it was a no-touch topic. Everyone looked at me like this was a no-touch subject. Maybe Griffin was right. Maybe I needed to let it go and accept it at face value. I didn’t want to drudge up painful memories and make it worse for families and friends.
But it just felt . . . off.
The best cop I knew had once told me to always follow my instincts.
Files were scattered over the surface of my desk again, despite the hour I’d spent organizing last night. I still hadn’t made it through the past three months’ worth of cases, but I’d asked Janice to pull another three anyway, expanding my window to six months.
Janice had delivered this morning. On top of them were the files of each suicide in Quincy.
Seven deaths.
I’d read through each report three times already, hoping that it would squash this uneasy feeling. It hadn’t. What was I missing? Something, right?
I shoved off the door and walked to my chair, setting my coffee aside. Then I picked up the phone and dialed the number I’d been meaning to call for a week.
“Cole Goodman,” he answered.
I smiled at his warm voice. “Hey.”
“Who is this?”
“Funny,” I deadpanned. “You better not have forgotten about me already.”
He chuckled. “Never. Is this your new work number?”
“Yep. I think my personal phone was swallowed up by the unpacked boxes at home. I haven’t seen it for days.”
“Sounds about right,” he teased.
Cole had spent many hours listening to me complain that I’d lost my personal phone. In my defense, I had yet to misplace my station cell or a radio.
Organization wasn’t necessarily a weakness. I could be organized. But I didn’t mind a little chaos either. When my focus was on one lane, everything else became a little blurry. Unpacking and finding my phone just didn’t seem as important as wrapping my head around Lily Green’s death.
“I was just thinking about you,” he said. “How’d the first week go?”
“It was, um . . . interesting.”
“Uh-oh. What’s going on?”
I sighed and the truth came rushing out. “No one likes me here. I keep getting looks like I’m too young for this job and only got it because of Pops.”
“You knew this wouldn’t be easy.”
“I know,” I muttered. “I just . . . hoped.”
“Hang in there. It’s only been a week. You’re a great cop. Give them time to see that.”
All things I’d told myself, but somehow hearing them from Cole gave me a boost of confidence.
Cole had been my mentor in Bozeman. When I’d been promoted to detective, he’d been there to help me every step along the way. Whenever I had a difficult case, Cole was my go-to person to talk it through.
In our years working together, he’d become more than a colleague. He was also a cherished friend. His wife, Poppy, owned my favorite restaurant in Bozeman. Their kids were the sweetest souls on earth. When I’d lost my own family, his had been there to see me through the darkest days.
“I miss you guys. I’m homesick for the Goodmans.”
“We miss you too. Poppy was talking about taking a weekend trip to visit.”
“I’d love it.” For them, I’d actually unpack my house.
“Tell me about the station.”
“Actually, if you have a few minutes, can I run something by you?”
“Always.”
I spent the next fifteen minutes telling him about Lily Green and the other suicides. I’d told him how Lily’s mother had collapsed into my arms when I’d gone to her home and told her the horrific news. Her scream had been so full of agony that I’d never forget that noise.
Heartbreak was an ugly, black sound.
I’d stayed with Melina Green for hours that night. I’d held her hand as she’d called her ex-husband and told him about Lily. Then I’d waited with her as he’d driven the two hours from Missoula. When he’d arrived, his eyes red rimmed and his soul broken over his daughter’s death, I’d given him my condolences, then left them to grieve.
Yesterday, I’d stopped by Melina’s house to check on her. She’d answered the door wearing a bathrobe and tear-stained cheeks. And once again, she’d fallen into my arms, and I’d held her as she’d cried.
But Melina was a strong woman. She’d collected herself and begun to talk about Lily. For an hour, she’d told me about the bright, beautiful light her daughter had been.
Lily had been twenty-one and living with her mom to save money. When I’d asked Melina if she’d found a suicide note in Lily’s room, she’d confessed that she hadn’t had the emotional strength to check. But her ex had gone into Lily’s bedroom while he’d been in Quincy and hadn’t found anything.
“I’m trying to be sensitive and not push too hard with the mother,” I told Cole. “But my impression was that she and Lily were very close. She’s shocked. Truly shocked that Lily would kill herself.”