“Bullshit,” Bailey said.
His mouth compressed.
“I’m not grieving,” she continued. “And I’m not in denial. I’m telling you Paul Ellis thought too highly of himself to end his own life.”
Steve’s professional mask flickered. He looked . . . not convinced. But at least he looked interested. He didn’t dismiss her as Sherman had dismissed her.
“Under most circumstances, I’d have to agree with you,” he said. “But Ellis was facing a specific, real threat. If he went to prison—”
“He wasn’t thinking about prison. He was talking about New York. He wanted to go back there.”
With me.
The thought splintered through her, another warning crack in the ice.
He wanted to go back with me.
Steve frowned. “Is that what’s worrying you? You can’t blame yourself for—”
“I’m not blaming myself!” she shouted.
Oops. Too loud. He wouldn’t take her seriously if she sounded hysterical.
Wayne Lewis stuck his head through the door, his earnest young face concerned. “Everything all right in here?”
“Fine,” Steve said without turning his head. “Close the door.”
It clicked quietly shut.
“You can’t blame yourself,” Steve repeated, still in that calm cop’s tone, “because Ellis never knew you weren’t returning to New York. Or that you planned to quit. Unless you told him.”
Bailey rubbed her bare arms. She felt cold again. “Are you trying to make me feel better? Or asking me if I talked to Paul after I left you last night?”
“Did you?”
She wasn’t offended. She wouldn’t let herself be.
She moistened her lips. “No. And that’s why your suicide theory doesn’t make any sense. Paul didn’t know I’d turned the murder weapon over to you. So why would he panic and kill himself?”
“He knew he was the principal target of the investigation.”
His neutral tone steadied her. Maybe that’s why he used it. Easier not to think about how she had jumped his bones in his mother’s kitchen when he spoke in that formal, dispassionate voice.
“Which is why he set me up.” She took a deep breath. How much more humiliating could this be? “I think he wanted Regan to see us together. You said it yourself last night.”
A wealthy wife. A willing, adoring assistant. All he has to do is convince the police you were pressing for more and he told you no. Then, when the weapon is found in your possession . . .
For a second she thought she had him, before his shoulders relaxed and he settled one hip against the table. “You’ve been spending too much time coming up with crazy theories for your boss’s books.”
She gaped at him. And then she got mad. Crazy theories? She knew how to do research. How to organize facts. How to fit disparate bits and pieces together to make a coherent sentence or a cohesive case.
“At least I don’t ignore facts,” she said.
“You want facts?” Was it her imagination, or did he raise his voice slightly? “The fact is, Ellis killed his wife. And if he killed himself, it makes things easier for everybody. Including you.”
“Paul wasn’t into making things easier for other people.”
Steve shrugged. “So he could have had reasons you don’t know anything about. Grief makes a man do funny things.” His voice was grim. His eyes were bleak. “So does guilt.”
She felt a flutter of sympathy, a tug of curiosity. But she couldn’t let herself be distracted. “Did he confess?”
“What?”
She was onto something. She was sure of it. Her heart banged against her ribs. “In his note. Did Paul confess to killing Helen in his suicide note?”
Steve met her gaze squarely. “I can’t discuss that with you.”
Disappointment stole her breath.
Can’t discuss . . . ?
She opened her mouth to argue and caught the quick flicker of his eyes to the door.
Can’t
discuss.
Oh.
Understanding and relief bloomed in her chest. She hugged her arms tightly to hold them in.
“Well, that’s just the most unfair, ridiculous thing I ever heard,” she complained.
“Tell me about it,” Steve said. “Later.”
Her heart skipped. She raised her chin, playing along for whoever might be listening. “Tell you about it? I’m not even speaking to you now.”
BAILEY escaped into the hot, bright sunshine. After the cigarette- and coffee-tinged chill of the police station, the scent of sweat and pine cleaner and industrial carpet, even the air of the municipal parking lot was a relief. The ice encasing her was gone, leaving her an emotional puddle.
But she wouldn’t wallow. At least, not much.
She walked to the street corner. She wanted closure. She needed answers. As soon as she understood what had happened, she could begin to put it behind her.
Sinking onto a bench under one of the mayor’s new street lights, Bailey fumbled for her cell phone.
“Need a lift?” Steve drawled.
And there he was, his big black truck idling at the curb beneath the stoplight.
Her heart sped up, treacherously glad to see him. “I thought you’d gone.”
“I parked out back. There’s a reporter from
The News and Observer
camped in the lobby.”
She nodded. She, too, had been warned against discussing Paul’s death with reporters. “At least the news van is gone.”
“TV crews are at the house.”
Wonderful.
Steve climbed from his cab and held the door open for her.
Gabrielle waved from the shadowed interior of the truck. And Bailey’s heart, which had been thumping pleasantly, sank to her flip-flops. Had Steve made his daughter wait for her all this time?
“Hey, kid. What have you been up to?”
“Dad took me to see his office. It was cool. He has games on his computer. I played hearts while you were in fingerprinting. Dad let me get printed, too. And the red-haired lady keeps M&Ms in her desk.”
Bailey had hated being printed. Even though Sherman told her she was not being detained, even though she told herself the process would help eliminate her as a suspect, it made her feel like a criminal. Smirched. Dirty, inside and out.
Obviously, Gabrielle didn’t feel the same way.
“Kid’s made more friends in the department than I have.” Steve didn’t sound upset about it. More amused. He jerked his head toward the truck. “Get in. We’ll give you a ride home.”
“Actually . . .” She hesitated. “I have to go to my sister’s. I’m baby-sitting this afternoon.”
Fascinating to watch the little lines of temper jump between his brows, the swift compression of his mouth. Intriguing to imagine what he would be like in the sack, all that passion, all that control.
Bailey flushed hotly. Not that she was imagining any such thing.
“Don’t you ever take time off?” he demanded.
“This is time off. Leann and my mother are going shopping. I can either go with them and try on beaded sweaters and listen to questions about what I’m going to do now that I’ve wasted two years of my life on a dead man, or I can watch the kids.” She gave up fiddling with the strap of her purse to flash him a grin. “I’ll take my chances with the kids.”
“Why doesn’t your brother-in-law watch his kids?”
“It’s his golf day. Anyway, I volunteered. I haven’t seen much of them since Rose was born, and I-Heart-New York T-shirts only go so far in building a relationship. I told them I was coming. I don’t want to let them down.”
She knew now that Steve’s lack of expression usually meant he was feeling something. “What?”
He shook his head. “Never mind. Hop in.”
He didn’t want to talk to her, fine. They had to talk sometime. But they couldn’t discuss Paul’s death in front of Gabrielle or Leann or Leann’s kids any more than they could in front of Steve’s fellow detectives. And he had made it pretty obvious they weren’t going to talk about anything else.
“I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”
He shook his head. “Not an issue. We’re not doing anything special this afternoon.”
Gabrielle rolled her eyes. “Or, like, ever.”
Bailey choked back a laugh.
“She misses her friends,” Steve explained.
“It’ll be better when school starts,” Bailey offered.
“That’s what Dad always says.” Gabrielle eyed her speculatively from the passenger seat. “How old are your sister’s kids?”
Bailey looked at Steve, expecting him to say something helpful like, “Oops. Got to go.” His eyes were half closed, and he was . . . Was he smiling?
“Um, well, Rose is a toddler.”
“Oh.” Gabrielle looked polite.
“Bryce is only seven. But he’s got lots of video games.” She twisted her purse strap. Okay, this was a bad idea.
Shut up, shut up.
“And a trampoline in the backyard.”
Gabrielle perked up. “A trampoline?”
“It’s not safe,” Steve said.
“Da-ad.”
Bailey shrugged. “It seemed okay to me the last time I was on it.”
“You jumped on it?” Gabrielle grinned. “I’d like to see that.”
“So would I,” Steve murmured.
At least, that’s what she thought he said.
Thoroughly embarrassed, she said, “I just thought—if you’re not doing anything—Gabrielle might like to come along and check it out. Just for a little while,” she added hastily. “Since you’re dropping me off anyway. What do you think?”
“I think it sounds cool,” Gabrielle announced. “Can we, Dad?”
He met Bailey’s gaze, and her breath backed up in her lungs. He’d say no. Of course he’d say no. He didn’t mix sex with the job, and she was sure he was every bit as good at compartmentalizing his personal life.
“Why not?” he drawled.
FIFTEEN
S
TANDING in her sister’s
Southern Living
sunroom, Bailey watched her mother flutter around Steve and thought this was one of the worst ideas of her life.
Not
the
worst.
Not as bad as giving up her job at Paragon Press to work for Paul or giving up her little apartment to move in with her parents. But definitely up there with, say, trying out for the basketball team or letting Alicia in marketing convince her to include “likes to try new things” in her on-line dating personality profile.
Taking a deep breath, Bailey said, “And of course you remember my sister, Leann.”
Nobody forgot Leann.
Blond, right? Cheerleading squad?
And too young for him. Which meant he must consider Bailey in the same league as Gabrielle.
“Why, Steve Burke. It’s been ages.” Leann pressed her cheek to his, enveloping him in charm and a cloud of
Beautiful
by Estee Lauder. “It’s nice to see Bailey’s taste in men is finally improving.”
“Nice to see you, too,” Steve said blandly, which wasn’t quite the same, but her sister didn’t notice.
He stepped back, so that his hip nudged Bailey’s, and drew his daughter in front of him. Bailey’s heart bumped. To someone who didn’t know any better, they must look like a unit.
“And this is Gabrielle,” he said.