Miranda sucked in a breath.
“Delaney Newell is a woman with a history of unstable mental health and rash, violent behavior. This entire string of events fits her pattern.”
No. He was wrong.
“So that’s it? You’re just going to write her off based on past behavior and circumstantial evidence because you can’t fathom that someone can actually change.”
“Most people don’t.”
Ethan certainly hadn’t. He’d shown his cynicism that first day outside the diner, and she’d foolishly believed that Wishful would work its magic on him. That he’d learn the world wasn’t what he imagined it to be. Apparently the fountain couldn’t grant all wishes.
“Delaney didn’t do this. I know she didn’t. You looking at her is going to be noticed. It’s going to wreck any progress she’s made in town, and not only is it spurious, but all the grief she’s about to get will be partly your fault. Not only are you wrong, not only is this...focus of yours going to hurt her, but you’re making me a part of that.”
Miranda shook her head. She didn’t want to be party to any of this. “I thought you were a better cop than to go around making accusations on evidence this flimsy.”
He’d been a man of unflappable calm the whole time she’d known him, and she’d wondered if anything could rattle him. But as her barb struck, his gray eyes turned hard as flint and a muscle began to jump in his jaw.
“Damn it, Miranda, stop being a Pollyanna about this. If it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and walks like a duck, it’s a damned duck. Believing anything else out of some misguided sense of optimism about people is dangerous and stupid.”
Oh, hell no.
“Get out.” The words were barely audible, though she wanted to scream.
Ethan blew out a breath, obviously searching for some calm. “Miranda, I know you’re upset—”
“Upset? Upset. Oh, of course, because I’m the naive optimist whose judgment can’t be trusted.” The temper that had been simmering for weeks kicked up to a full on boil, until all the frustration and upset and anger she’d been shoving down simply erupted.
“That’s not—”
“No. Just stop. I’ve been in a relationship where my beliefs were belittled. I won’t do it again. I won’t share my life, my home with someone who makes me feel like less.”
Some of the hardness in his eyes faded, replaced with shock. “Miranda—”
She held up a hand. “I’m not doing this anymore. I shouldn’t have done it in the first place, but I let myself believe that you’d be different. That we could balance each other. But the truth is, your narrow-minded insistence on seeing the worst in people makes you stupid. You’re wrong.” Because her hands wanted to shake, she curled them to fists. “Get whatever gear you have to have and go. You can get the rest later. I want you out.”
He rose slowly, his hands clenching and unclenching, as he stared her down. “I don’t want to leave things like this.”
“I don’t care. Out.”
Without another word, he went up the stairs. Miranda stayed where she was. Waiting. She was going to lose it, utterly and completely. But she’d be damned if she’d do it while he was still here.
When he came down a few minutes later, he held a duffel bag in one hand. In the foyer he stopped and turned to her. “I don’t like you being here alone.”
“That’s not your concern anymore.”
He sucked in a slow breath through his nose. “Lock up after I go.”
In answer, she marched to the door and yanked it open, gesturing for him to take his ass through it.
With one last look at her, he went. As soon as his boots hit the front porch, she slammed the door and shot the deadbolt.
She stood there, hands braced against the wood, listening as he got into his truck and cranked the engine. It idled in the driveway for a long minute before he backed out and drove away. No spinning tires for him. For some reason that made her even angrier. She felt like hurling things. Preferably at his head.
Needing to move, to act, she scooped up her keys and purse. He’d said she could get into the clinic. She’d work off some of this mad cleaning up. But she had a feeling it would take a lot more than a broom and dustpan to set her life back to rights.
Ethan was generally a man of calm and control. He’d had too much training, spent too much time in dangerous situations where anything else risked deadly outcomes. But he didn’t feel in control right now.
How dare she strike out at the core of him in a fit of temper, just because she didn’t like what he was telling her? He was a good cop. His record proved it. He had means, motive, opportunity, and probable cause. But Miranda was so damned certain that Delaney would never betray her, she couldn’t look at the truth sitting right in front of her face. He wasn’t even sure she’d believe a direct photograph of the woman with a smoking gun in her hand. She’d probably argue the thing was Photoshopped. But because he sure as shit didn’t want to risk making a false arrest, he spent the rest of the afternoon going over every shred of evidence, every list, every crime scene, every interview, looking for anything that pointed to someone else.
Miranda wasn’t entirely wrong. There were, in fact, nine other people who’d been at all three locations at the time in question. Two of them were Cam and Norah, who obviously had nothing to gain from harassing her. As to the rest, she’d been over those lists before and said she didn’t have any kind of history or bad blood with any of them. But people didn’t always know when someone else had a beef with them. Needing some perspective, he called Clay and asked him to meet for a late dinner at the diner.
For once, Dinner Belles wasn’t packed to the gills. Good. Maybe the entire contents of their conversation wouldn’t be all over town by tomorrow morning. He’d just as soon his business be private for a little while longer. And maybe Miranda would calm down and realize she’d overreacted and this whole thing would count as their first fight instead of their last. But Ethan couldn’t help but see that quick flash of hurt that had flickered over her face before her temper went supernova. In retrospect, losing his own temper with her hadn’t been the best way to handle things. But Christ, he hadn’t slept in nearly forty-eight hours, and she wasn’t being rational about her own safety. If anything happened to her…
“You look like shit,” Clay announced as he slid into the corner booth.
“Feel like it, too.” Ethan’s gaze tracked over the diner, noting the two other tables of customers. Deciding to ensure they had a little more privacy, he slid out and headed to the vintage jukebox. He popped in some quarters and made his selections, figuring the lineup ought to give them enough time to get through the particulars.
Clay just arched a brow as he sat back down.
“I’d just as soon not everybody in town be privy to what we’re talking about.”
“Fair enough. What are we talking about? Your case? Miranda?”
“Both.”
“You any closer to figuring out who’s behind the vandalism?”
“Thought I was. Still think I am, but Miranda’s convinced I’m dead wrong, so I want some outside opinions to see if there’s something I’m missing.”