Inside, there’s a small living room, a kitchen to the right, and a hallway leading to a bathroom and two bedrooms, one for me and one for Amelia.
The place smells of burnt food.
In the kitchen, Amelia turns, smiling at me. She’s wearing a white apron smeared to mid-thigh with tomato sauce. A pot of pasta is close to boiling over on the stove, there are open cans on the counter, and the sink is piled high with dirty dishes. The small wooden table is set with clean ones, and she says, “Mom! I made us dinner!”
I drop my purse and bag in a near chair, and I just nod, taking off the scarf she made for me and then my black wool coat. I should hang them up in the closet, but I’m so very tired, and I toss them on the couch instead.
“Honey … you didn’t have to. We could have gotten takeout from Chang’s.”
There’s sizzling noises as the pasta pot fully boils over. Amelia squeals and goes back to the burner, turns it down, and she says, “Mom … we had takeout from Chang’s last week. Twice. I wanted to make dinner tonight. Besides …”
“What?”
She picks up a ladle, stirs tomato sauce in another pot. The sauce splatters on her apron and the floor.
“Besides, Mom, I’m not dumb. I know we need to save money.”
What to say to something like that?
I can’t.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, and walk down the hallway, slip into my bedroom. I switch on a light and take off my jacket, use a key to open a top drawer, and deposit my baton, radio, SIG Sauer, handcuffs, and pepper spray into the padded interior.
The last thing I put in is my service book that contains my Secret Service badge.
Imprinted in bold letters on the dark leather are these words:
DUTY AND HONOR.
I close the drawer.
The words are mocking me.
CHAPTER 29
THE SPAGHETTI IS chewy and could have been boiled for another two minutes, and the pasta sauce has tiny flakes of burnt material floating throughout—from where it stuck to the bottom of the pan—and there’s homemade garlic bread (toasted bread with melted butter and garlic powder shaken over it) that’s stone-cold, but as I eat, I give my daughter a big smile and say, “Honey, it’s delicious. Thanks so much. You did a great job and I appreciate it.”
She gives me an ear-to-ear smile that lightens my spirit and makes me feel the best I’ve felt since this rotten day began so many long hours ago. As we eat Amelia goes on about her school day, about two friends named Stacy and Amy who are now fighting over a boy, a math test that went well, and how upset our neighbor Todd Pence was when he had to leave early.
Amelia says, twirling a piece of spaghetti on her fork, “Do you think I’m still gonna need to have Todd come by?”
I think of the two kids I had dispatched earlier. “For just a while, hon, until we can move into a better place.”
Her sweet face brightens up. “Are we moving back in with Daddy? In our old home?”
My sweet, airy feeling is gone, brought back to earth by the ongoing disaster that’s my divorce from her father. “Amelia … please. We’ve talked about this, haven’t we? We both love you, very much. But … things aren’t right between the two of us. It has nothing to do with you. You will always be our special girl, our daughter. But … we … I’m not getting back together with your dad.”
Amelia lowers her head, doesn’t speak for a while, even while we’re washing the dishes. There’s an unexpected knock on the door.
Amelia turns, dishcloth in hand. “Mom?”
“Hold on,” I say, and I go back to the bedroom, retrieve my SIG Sauer, and head to the door, which has a thick security chain across the top.
I call out, “Who’s there?”
Another knock.
Well?
My hand lowers to the doorknob, pistol hidden behind my hip.
Marsha Gray watches people go in and out of the apartment building, still impressed at how quickly Grissom dispatched the two punks who had approached her.
Tough broad.
Need to remember that.
She yawns.
How long before she could leave?
Until the lights up there are all out.
Still … she wishes she had more info, more intelligence about what Grissom is doing. Marsha hates relying on a man for her livelihood, especially Parker Hoyt. He’s given her calls about Grissom’s movements, but she refuses to completely trust him.
Something has to be done, and soon, about getting better information.
I unlock the door and step to one side and—
A familiar, smiling, cautious face is looking at me.
“Hi, Sally, can I come in?”
Amelia runs from the kitchen. “Daddy!”
I close the door, undo the chain, and let him in. Ben Miller, my straying husband, walks in, his smile wider, his black hair trimmed well, wearing gray slacks and a black turtleneck. A brief flicker of my old love and affection slides through me, and I instantly kill it, remembering all the lies, the betrayals. He gives Amelia a big hug, and there’s a jolt of jealousy in seeing how joyfully she returns the hug to her father.
I slide my pistol in my rear waistband. “Ben … what a surprise.”
He kisses the top of Amelia’s head. “Love giving my little girl a surprise.”
“Why … how … why are you here, Ben?”
He closes the door behind him, as Amelia turns around and he puts his arm around her. Amelia’s smile is as sweet as anything I’ve seen in a while. Ben kisses her again and says, “I called here earlier. Amelia said Todd, the babysitter—”
“Dad, he’s not a babysitter!”
“Sorry, kiddo,” he says, squeezing her shoulder. “Amelia said Todd the neighbor had to leave and she wasn’t sure when you were coming home, so I offered to come over and keep her safe.”
This isn’t what we agreed to with the visitation schedule is what I want to say, but I buck up and go into the kitchen. “Great. Come along, Ben, you can help us finish the dishes.”
Marsha waits and waits and then the lights in the apartment unit start going out. Good. Across the street is a 24/7 Walgreens with a well-lit parking lot. She’ll slide in there and catch some catnaps during the night, and be ready in case Grissom leaves.
She remembers again how quickly that Secret Service agent moved. She hates to admit it, but when Grissom was facing those two creeps, Marsha was really tempted to go out and help her.
It was the urge to do something good.
Marsha turns on the ignition.
Better watch out and make sure it didn’t happen again.
CHAPTER 30
AFTER THE DISHES are wiped dry and put away, I’m yawning because of the long day, but I won’t go to bed yet. Ben and I keep a cordial and polite conversation for the benefit of our girl, and there’s chocolate ice cream for dessert. We then go out into the small living room, and I not-so-gently aim Ben to a battered reclining chair, while Amelia and I sit on the couch.
Amelia puts on a television show about not-so-real housewives somewhere, all made up, Botoxed, and dieted to within an ounce of their lives, and it seems most of their time is spent yelling at each other and eating at expensive restaurants.