rest of the day was uneventful. Kristen polished up a couple of stories, turned them in to the editor, then, when things were at a lull, thought more about the tape, marred photo, and the night of Jake Marcott’s death. Surely the newspaper had articles about what had happened that night, the murder and subsequent investigation. She only had to look. At four o’clock, she began searching all the old computer records, but the information went back only twelve years. Eventually, she made her way downstairs and into the basement. In a windowless room with the fluorescent lights humming overhead, she sat on a stool at a small desk and stared into the viewer until she found the first story on Jake’s murder, printed the day after the dance.
Her skin crawled as she read the account, a clinical, facts-only report of the killing at a private school. So much was left out: the human emotion, the pain, the heartache.
Setting her jaw, she worked forward, searching the following editions, looking for information about the investigation. Unfortunately the information was limited:
Jake had been a student at Western Catholic.
Services were held at St. Ignatius.
He was survived by his parents, James and Caroline, one grandmother, Maxine Baylor, and three siblings, Bella, Naomi, and Luke.
Students, chaperones, and faculty attending the dance had been questioned, as had family and friends and acquaintances of Jake Marcott.
The murder weapon, a crossbow, had been discovered in the maze at St. Elizabeth’s and was found to have belonged to a bow hunter who had reported it missing sometime in December. The bow hunter had a strong alibi and was dismissed as a suspect.
There was information about Jake, including the fact that he played football and baseball and had been in an accident during the Christmas break in which another Western student, Ian Powers, had died.
The police were asking the public’s help in solving the crime.
The lead investigator for the “Cupid Killer,” Detective Mac Alsace, was looking into “new leads every day,” but the case had eventually gone cold and references to Jake Marcott’s death had disappeared.
Kristen printed out a few of the articles, turned off the viewer, put the microfiche away, and rubbed the kinks from her neck. She was stiff from sitting in one position and hadn’t learned much more than she already knew.
That night, she dealt with Lissa, who said in no uncertain terms that she’d never spend another night at Ross’s condo.
Real good father-daughter relationship, Kristen thought, keeping mum on her feelings.
To her surprise and Lissa’s disgust, Ross came over that evening, bringing with him five white boxes of take-out Chinese. Lissa, who had rolled her eyes upon his arrival, hadn’t been able to resist the tantalizing aromas of cashew chicken, sesame beef, and peanut sauce. They ate on the floor in the den, watching some inane music awards show on television, and Ross didn’t even remark when Lissa, after receiving a call on her cell, took her plate and phone to her room.
When she didn’t immediately return and Ross looked ready to go get her, Kristen pointed a chopstick at his chest. “Don’t,” she warned.
“But we were having dinner. Can’t she give up her calls for half an hour?”
“For God’s sake, Ross, how hypocritical can you get? How many times did your dinner get cold while you talked on the phone with some subcontractor?”
“That’s different. It was business. Important.”
“This is important to her.”
“Then we need to set some rules.” She raised an eyebrow, daring him to continue, and Ross didn’t disappoint. “No phone calls at dinner. Not for any of us.”
Kristen frowned as she chewed on a piece of tangy shrimp. “Wait a minute. So you think that we”—she rotated the chopstick in a circular motion to include Ross, herself, and the empty cushion recently vacated by their daughter—“we’ll be doing this often?”
“I’m just saying whenever we have a family dinner, some rules should be observed.”
“A little late for that, isn’t it?”
“It’s never too late.” He was serious and she caught his meaning, felt the atmosphere in the room shift a bit.
“Wait a minute. We’re talking about dinner together as a family, right? Nothing more.”
“What more do you want?”
She felt her damned cheeks flame. “Don’t do this, Ross, okay? Don’t start that talking-in-circles thing you do. Let’s just play it straight. If you’re talking about you and me getting back together, if you think that we shouldn’t go through with the divorce, then you’re wrong.”
“You haven’t filed yet.”
“I know.” She stared at the fire, while on the television in the background some girl of about seventeen, dressed in next to nothing, was belting out a song as if her life depended upon it. “It’s a big step.” She sighed and shook her head. “I want you to know that when I took my wedding vows, I…I meant them.”
“So did I.”
Kristen felt overwhelmed. She should never have started wading into this river. The current was too damned dangerous and was bound to pull her under.
Her cell phone rang and she immediately started to get up.
Quick as lightning, Ross’s hand clasped over her wrist. She nearly dropped her plate. “Let it ring,” he insisted, gray eyes holding hers.
“But—” His hands were warm, fingertips pressed into the flesh inside her arm. How many times had he rubbed his hands up her arms as he’d kissed her? How many times had they tumbled so easily into bed? Her pulse beat unsteadily.
“New rule, remember?”
“I didn’t agree to any rule. You know how I hate them.” Would he please release her? The feel of his skin against hers was way too distracting.
The phone blasted again.
“It could be important. My mom—”
“Feeble excuse, Kris. Your mom is healthy as a horse.”
“How would you know?” She tried to pull her arm away, but he held on tight.
“She called me a couple of weeks ago. Is interested in the condos on the river. Is hoping I’ll give her a deal.”
“Oh, God…”
“You know Paula.”
Kristen inwardly groaned. Ever since selling the bakery, Paula Daniels had fancied herself an investor. Ross was right, she was always trying to finagle a good deal.
The phone rang again and Kris gave up, flopping back against the couch. “Okay,” she said in surrender and Ross loosened his grip. “You win. Again.” She ignored the warm spot where his fingers had touched her pulse, refused
