Delia blinked. Despite the chill, her cheeks burned. She’d never had thoughts like that, and starting to have them now would be a worse idea than even coming here was. So she pushed the images away, refusing to acknowledge the warmth that had spread from her face to her neck and downward.
“Hello, Lieutenant,” she managed and then dampened her suddenly dry lips. “I mean...uh... Ben.”
He crossed his arms and rubbed one foot against the other, probably to fend off frostbite. She was shivering just standing on his porch with a full armor of winter gear.
“Well, are you going to answer my question?”
She gripped the rickety handrail tighter with her gloved hand and shifted forward, the wood creaking beneath her boot, her step smearing the pristine dusting of snow.
She didn’t do things like this, either. She didn’t bend rules, let alone break them. For anyone. Yet these days she was breaking them like it was her job. Too bad the career that meant everything to her was what this sabbatical of her good sense could cost her. Forget hunting child predators, if this didn’t go well, the only thing she would be tracking down was a good spot in the unemployment line. As if sticking her neck out wasn’t foolish enough, she was doing it because of a feeling that Ben might be innocent. A vague notion that was in no way based on fact. Feelings and hunches didn’t belong in a solid criminal case. Or in her life.
“I just wanted...” Delia let her words fall away because she didn’t really know what she wanted or why she couldn’t follow her own advice to stay away.
“Well, you shouldn’t be here. Didn’t Polaski tell you that?”
He studied her, his gaze so narrow his eyes had to hurt. Little red lines snaked out from his irises, and purple half-moons had settled beneath his lower lashes, suggesting that the game he’d played last night had involved too many bent-arm throws. His liquor-store-Dumpster cologne confirmed her suspicion. This was so unlike the man she’d thought she knew. But then the responsible man who’d nursed just one beer at the Driftwood was the same one who’d neglected to mention that his father was convicted in his mother’s death. Could he also have failed to mention ties to a suburban Detroit drug ring?
“Oh, he told us. He was pretty clear.”
“Then why would you—” Ben stopped and sighed. “Well, I guess this is going to take a while. You might as well come in. Can’t afford to heat the outdoors.”
Heating bills would be the least of his worries if he faced charges in the state probe, and they both knew it, but neither bothered saying so.
Just as Ben pulled the door wide, a gust of wind dumped a few dozen snowflakes on the wood flooring in the entry. Delia grimaced at Ben’s automatic frown as she stepped into the place she never would have imagined him living. It appeared to have been decorated in Early Floral Explosion, from the dated wallpaper and the welcome mat to the wreaths and swags on the walls near the staircase.
Closing the door, Ben rubbed his hands together. He didn’t bother offering to take her coat. Clearly, she wasn’t staying. Delia pulled off her hat anyway, hating that she worried about the static in her hair. What did she care what he thought? She wasn’t here to impress him.
“Well? I don’t have all day.”
“Another appointment with a bottle?” She immediately regretted stating the obvious. Still, if she found the word hangover in the dictionary, she would find a selfie of Ben in his present state next to it.
His jaw ticked, but he shook his head. “It was a rough night.”
“I see that.”
Instead of answering, he tromped away through a formal living room that was every bit as much of a flower garden as the entry. She had no choice but to keep standing on the doormat as chunks of snow dropped off her boots. She was starting to sweat, so she unbuttoned her coat, but left it on. She couldn’t risk startling him and having him throw her out before she’d had her say.
He passed through a doorway into what was probably the kitchen and returned several seconds later, a drink in his hand.
She shook her head. “I don’t need anything. Thanks.”
“It’s not for you.”
He opened his other hand to reveal a pair of white pills, popping them in his mouth and chasing them down with his drink.
“Oh. Right.” Her gaze caught on the inch of clear liquid in the glass. Could it have been...? He jiggled his hand so the liquid swished.
“Water. Want to smell it?”
“No. Thanks.”
He grimaced. “Stop shouting, okay?”
Her lips lifted. “I wasn’t.”
Even so, he squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, he pinched the bridge of his nose as if pressing against a monster headache.
“I don’t know why I thought that would help last night. It’s not a regular thing for me.”
“I didn’t figure.”
He studied her as if trying to decide if he believed her. “I knew better.”
The poor guy did look miserable. Delia could relate to that next-day pain and regret. She’d allowed social lubricants to help her make poor decisions a few times. Ben had been drinking alone, though. And she knew what it was like to feel truly alone. Without anyone in her court. She wouldn’t wish that black hole of the spirit on anyone. But the temptation to reach out to Ben, offering comfort and a soft place to land, that was new and disconcerting. And wrong. Did she need a bigger sign that it was a mistake to come here?
She cleared her throat. “Cut yourself some slack,” she managed to say. “It was a bad night.”
“Why would you say that? You don’t cut anyone slack.”
“I guess not.”
At first she was surprised that he’d noticed that detail about her, but it was hardly a secret. She’d never been comfortable with the grays in life or in the law. Not when black and white were purer neutrals, without the untidy smears of mixing paint. As for breaks, she hadn’t met many people who deserved one. And she certainly had never been given any.
They weren’t here to discuss her, though, so she stepped out of her boots and padded away from the mat in her heavy socks to get a better look into the living room.
“So...nice place.” She turned back to him. “Funny, though, it doesn’t seem to match you.”
“As if you know me so well.”
She pressed her lips together. How could she answer that when the information she’d learned in the past twenty-four hours had suggested that she didn’t know him at all? Why hadn’t he told her about his parents? Of course, she had no right to expect him to confide in her when she’d shared nothing with him.
“It was my grandparents’ house. They raised me.” He glanced around the room as if trying to see it through her eyes. “Grandma liked flowers. A lot.”
