since your husband died! All by yourself in that big house. You come see us anytime.” She turned a commanding gaze on the detective. “You will let us know when you catch the man who did such an awful thing, now won’t you?”
“It’ll be in the newspapers,” he promised.
“Assuming you do catch him,” she said acerbically, sounding like her sharp self for the first time tonight.
Geoff’s expression became wooden. “We’ll do our best, ma’am.”
“See that you do.” She gave Natalie’s hand a last squeeze. “Warm milk does help you sleep.”
“I’ll remember that.” Natalie was teary again as Geoff escorted her out. She must still be in shock. She wasn’t usually so emotional.
“We will catch him,” Geoff promised as they crossed the street. “Count on it.”
“I know you will.” Natalie paused on the sidewalk in front of her house and gazed at it, wondering if it would ever seem familiar and safe again. She felt again the sense of wrongness, and this time, it raised goose bumps on her skin. She rubbed her forearms.
“I only hope you arrest him soon. It’s going to give me the creeps to go home, wondering why they were in my house and whether he could get in again.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t go home.” Frowning, Geoff held open the car door for her. “Until we figure out for sure what they were after.”
She liked the way he worried about her. Even if his concern, too, was for Stuart’s sake.
“Yeah, but I don’t want to develop a phobia about my own house.” Natalie sighed and climbed into the passenger seat of the dark blue car. “We’ll see how it goes.”
He nodded, as kind in his way as the Porters had been. Voice gruff, he said, “Just remember, there’s a fine line between bravery and idiocy. Don’t push yourself to do something you’re uncomfortable with.”
“I won’t,” she promised.
John McLean emerged from the house carrying her overnight bag and purse. Both she and Geoff turned their heads to watch him cut across her lawn. She liked watching him move, with the discipline and grace of an athlete, his stride purposeful and long.
What would she have thought of him if she were a normal citizen who didn’t know the investigating officers? Natalie wondered idly. Would his physical bulk and the bulge of the gun he carried in a shoulder holster have intimidated her? She certainly couldn’t have known that he had a dry sense of humor or that his eyes often held a twinkle even as his mouth remained unsmiling. Or that this cop in a dark, well-cut suit would go home most days to cook dinner for his children, help them with homework, supervise baths and tuck them in.
Her mind roved further. If she’d never met Detective John McLean, if she weren’t a widow of barely a year, could she have been attracted to him?
Jolted, Natalie uttered a small, startled sound that Geoff, mercifully, seemed not to notice. Where in heck had that idea come from? For goodness’ sake, she’d known John for several years and never once thought of him in those terms! He was Stuart’s friend. Period.
No, not period. Of course he’d become her friend, too. Why else had she needed him so desperately today?
Of course she wasn’t attracted to him. She would have noticed before now.
No, Natalie knew perfectly well what she was doing. John was an excuse, that’s all. What she was avoiding thinking about was her house, and especially what—who—lay upstairs, or of the cleaning job she’d have afterward. Would she ever be able to go upstairs again without her heart pounding? Would she be able to stroll into the den—stepping just where the body now lay—and sit down to use the computer without a frightened consciousness of where blood had soaked into the carpet?
Natalie was grateful for the distraction John provided when he stopped by the open car door. At the same time she noticed that he carried a brown paper grocery bag in his free arm, she caught the whiff.
“My bread!”
“It seemed a shame to let it go to waste.” His rare smile relaxed his face. “I doubt we’re going to lift a fingerprint from your bread machine.”
“Thank you.” Those wretched tears threatened again. If one more person was nice to her, she was going to start sobbing. Natalie took the grocery bag and wrapped her arms around it, the delicious aroma and warmth almost as comforting as a hug. She blinked hard. “John, I almost forgot poor Sasha. She’s going to be scared by all the strangers trooping through.”
“Actually, I just shut her in your sewing room.” John cleared his throat. “She was, uh, somewhat annoyed. I doubt you want her in there, but we can’t have her in the den.”
“No, that’s fine.” The fabric could be washed again before she cut it out, the pattern pieces taped. “Her litter box is in the garage.” As if they wouldn’t find it.
“And her food in the kitchen. I saw it. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of the cat.”
As he’d taken care of her gutters and her Christmas lights and the rotten branch from the maple tree that had splintered a ten-foot stretch of the cedar board fence that enclosed her backyard.
“You’re always so nice to me.” She sounded watery.
The two men exchanged a look.
Seemingly galvanized, John slapped the roof of the car. “Geoff, you get started here. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
“Then get the hell out of here.” Geoff gave her a crooked smile. “Forget the warm milk. Raid the liquor cabinet.”
She laughed through her tears as he closed her door and John got in behind the wheel.
CHAPTER TWO
NATALIE FELT John’s searching gaze as he started the car.
“You okay?” he asked again, quietly.
“Of course I am!” She wiped wet cheeks. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Well, yes, of course I do. It shook me up, and I suppose I’m in shock, a little.”
“More than a little.” The car accelerated into traffic on Neah Drive. Speaking deliberately, John said, “The first time I saw a man who’d been murdered, I stayed cool long enough to get outside and around the corner of the warehouse where he’d been gunned down. Threw up everything I’d eaten in the past twenty-four hours. I went back in and did my job, but every so often I’d find myself looking at him and just being hit by it—that’s a guy like me, flesh and blood. That’s what my blood would look like spilling out.” He gave his head a shake. “Nothing brings your own mortality home like the sight of violent death.”
“I suppose that’s part of it,” she admitted. “I don’t like to think that my head…”
His hand closed briefly on her knee. “Most of us don’t walk into a crowbar.”
“No. I know.” She bit her lip. “But he was in my house. So maybe…”
