style="font-size:15px;"> “Whoa.” She descended to the sidewalk, wanting to get away from the house. “I intend to talk with Clint about Sarah seeing me tomorrow. I think something has spooked her. The last time I talked with Leah she said Sarah had been asleep in her bedroom when Earl killed himself. Sarah seemed unaffected by his death. Leah didn’t think she really understood that her daddy was gone.” She glanced at the front door. “But now, I think there’s more going on. I think what Leah told Clint is true. Something’s definitely not right here. That was one of her favorite dolls. She loved playing with it.”
“You need to find out. A woman has disappeared and may be in trouble.”
The urgency in his voice heightened her own. “I’ll do my best, but Sam, I’ll do it my way. Sometimes there’s nothing I can do to speed the process, especially when a child’s involved.”
“I know.” He clenched his jaw, a faraway look entering his eyes.
“I tried my best with that last case in New Orleans. The two friends who witnessed the abduction were suppressing their memories.” If she said it enough, maybe she would believe it. She should have been able to do something to help the kidnapped child.
She pivoted to escape, a flood of emotions washing over her. Guilt that she couldn’t get the description of the man in time to help the FBI stop him. Anger that Sam had backed so far away from her right after the boy’s body was found. And still, after all the cases she’d helped with, horror that someone could do that to a child.
“Jocelyn, I’m sorry.” Sam caught up with her at her car. “That kidnapping isn’t something I want us to rehash.”
“You’re right, because I won’t let you make me feel any worse than I already do.” She swung around to open her car door, tears blurring her vision. She fumbled with the handle, wishing that time would remove the guilt, that she hadn’t become so emotionally involved in the case.
Sam captured her hand and turned her around toward him. “It wasn’t your fault. I never felt that way.” He searched her face. “Did you think that I did?”
“What else was I to think when you wouldn’t return my calls? I didn’t hear from you for weeks.” Then when she finally did, he wasn’t the same man.
He peered away. “I was having a hard time coping with the case and its final—result.”
And you thought I wasn’t?
“We can’t change the past. We need to focus on what happened to Leah.”
Although his words were formal, distancing, there was nothing like that in his expression, full of a vulnerability she’d never seen. Regret, mixed with the need to protect herself, tightened her throat. Suddenly, Sam looked directly at her, his eyes softening.
“Come to dinner with me. I know it’s a little early, but I don’t want to eat alone. Besides, we were always good together at bouncing ideas around on a case.”
Yes, the case. If she could help him solve Leah’s disappearance, Sam would leave. She wanted her friend Leah back and Sam gone from her life. Maybe dinner would hasten that process. “Fine.”
“I saw a restaurant not far from the pawnshop. I know how much you like Italian. Let’s go there.”
“It’s our best restaurant and pretty pricey.”
He smiled, more relaxed now. “Only the best for you.”
She actually blushed, the heat scoring her cheeks. Only Sam could do that to her. He still had power over her, and that scared her more than she cared to admit, even to herself. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Do we need reservations?”
“It’s five. I don’t think there’ll be a huge crowd at this time.”
“You never know. People could come from New Orleans. We’re not that far away,” he said with a chuckle.
Jocelyn opened her car door, gripping the top of it. “It depends on how fast you drive. Some can make it in forty-five minutes. Others at least an hour.”
“And which one are you?” A gleam danced in his eyes.
She slid into the driver’s seat, giving him a saucy grin, although somewhat forced because his look made her legs go weak. “I’m not telling. You’re part of law enforcement, and I don’t want a ticket. But let’s just say I don’t have a fast car for nothing.”
“I won’t tell.” His laughter spiced the air as he made his way to his sedan.
Jocelyn glanced at his retreating back, remembering the two of them together in the French Quarter, holding hands, then strolling on the Riverwalk that ran along the Mississippi River. She’d just started dating Sam, and their relationship was slowly moving from a business to a personal one. She wanted to know everything about him, but now looking back, she was the only one who talked about anything of substance. He was great at pulling information from her, but he never revealed much about his life before the FBI. She trusted him with her dreams and goals, and he betrayed it after that last case.
She started her car and took the lead back to Main Street, finding a parking space near the entrance. This dinner would be just a dinner. It was a means to an end, nothing more than a way to help Sam solve the case so he could leave.
Her resolve fortified, Jocelyn hurried toward the front where Sam waited for her. He opened the door and allowed her to go first into the restaurant. Scanning the dimly lit, intimate surroundings before her, she slowed her pace.
What would he say if I turned around and left? Why didn’t I realize this place wouldn’t be appropriate for a strictly professional relationship? Because I wasn’t thinking, that’s why. Sam does that to me.
Reluctantly, she continued to follow the maître d’ to a table set with a snow-white linen cloth, crystal stemware, gold flatware and fine china with a beige-and-ivory pattern. A glittering gold candle on a glass pedestal sat in the center, sending off alarm bells and a flurry of memories of past dinners in quaint, out-of-the-way restaurants in New Orleans.
“I can’t stay long. I need to call Clint,” she said as she took the ivory-padded chair the maître d’ pulled out.
Sam didn’t reply until after the waiter in a black tuxedo recited the specials and wrote down their order. “I want you to work with Sarah to find out if she witnessed anything. Something doesn’t feel right here. I had Evelyn Nelson, one of the agents I brought with me, look over the report on Earl’s death. She called me on the way here.”
“Did he commit suicide?”
“Forensics suggest it’s not likely from the angle of the shot, but possible. The sheriff is content to let it stand as a suicide. It was Earl’s gun, and his fingerprints were the only ones on it. Personally I don’t think the man wants to deal with something messy like a murder.”
“Sheriff Reed is a good old boy, nearing retirement and ready to spend his days fishing and collecting his pension.”
“Yeah, I kinda got that feeling.”
Sam’s smile melted some of her apprehension. “Did y’all find anything out
