style="font-size:15px;"> “Yes. Detective Dunbar, isn’t it?”
There, that was formal enough. And she knew he’d gotten it, because there was a fractional hesitation before he spoke again.
“Am I...interrupting something?”
“I was catching up on a little work,” she said, before she realized he might have meant something else entirely. Which somehow also grated on her nerves.
Boy, it doesn’t take much for you today, does it, Miss Snarky McGrouch?
“I’m sorry. This will be quick. It seems that your aunt’s application was simply lost. It never got logged in, and my contact found it in a stack of other papers in a file cabinet in his boss’s office.”
“Lost? For four months?”
“Your tax dollars at work,” he said, his tone so wry she nearly smiled despite her mood. “Anyway, he logged it in personally and will walk it through himself. He said it looked cut-and-dried, and it shouldn’t be long.”
Sloan felt her outrage at the delay ebb away. Relief flooded her. She let out an audible sigh. “Thank you. Truly, I can’t thank you enough, Brett.”
And just like that she let down the wall she’d thrown back up when she’d answered the phone.
“You’re welcome, Sloan.”
And he’d caught it, she thought ruefully. And made a mental note not to underestimate this man. He was, after all, a detective; he wasn’t likely to miss much. But she had the feeling that would be the case no matter what career he was in.
It wasn’t until after they’d hung up that she realized that underestimating him wouldn’t be a problem, because he had no reason to ever call again. He’d done a favor, generously, because he was a good guy. And now it was over. No need to ever talk to her again.
Unless he wanted to for other reasons, personal ones. She felt herself flush and shook her head sharply. No. Just no. That way lay idiocy. He was a cop, and on the don’t-get-involved scale, that was barely a step below a serviceman.
Not, of course, that she had any reason to think he was even interested. Just because Aunt Connie was an inveterate matchmaker didn’t mean the other party she’d chosen would be cooperative.
But she certainly couldn’t fault her aunt’s taste.
* * *
There was no reason for him to be doing this. The situation with the Day permit had been resolved, if not completely explained. But it would go through now, and probably quickly. They’d be in a hurry to make up for the screwup.
So there was no reason for him to see or even talk to Sloan Burke again. Unless it was on some rainy day when his run took him past her aunt’s home. Which, if things went through, wouldn’t be her aunt’s house much longer.
It didn’t matter. He was going to be running a different route anyway, as soon as he laid one out. It was a nonissue.
He looked back at the website on his screen. If they’d had any idea who they were dealing with, that application probably would have been done in a day, he thought.
Accountability Counts.
Catchy. To the point. Effective.
Cutter stirred at his feet, but only to change position and go back to sleep. Brett had thrown the ball—the glow-in-the-dark one, since it was dark by the time he got home this time of year—for a good hour and had at last surrendered to arm twinges and hunger. The dog had appeared barely winded and probably could have gone on for another hour, but he’d amenably followed him back inside. It had taken several towels to dry them both off enough to go past the mudroom, and he’d looked glumly at the small pile, thinking he’d never done this much laundry in his life.
Dinner for both had been a hurried, eaten-standing affair, leftover Chinese takeout for him, the usual for Cutter, from the supply Teague and Laney had laughingly stuffed in his trunk at the wedding. Those two wouldn’t be long behind Hayley and Quinn. He was happy for them. Teague was a good guy, and Laney was a sweetheart.
His thoughts had been distraction enough that he’d done what he’d sworn not to do. He’d pulled his laptop over and done a search on Sloan Burke. Her website had been the first listing, but before he’d even gotten that far, the photo in the upper-right corner of the results page had snagged him. It was the same photo Rafe had shown him, from the hearing on Capitol Hill. He had clicked on it, enlarged it. And felt his stomach knot again at how weary she looked. But in this larger version he could also see the set of her delicate jaw, the determination in her posture, every line of her declaring she wasn’t going to give up, ever.
And she hadn’t. The website on his screen now was proof of that. Accountability Counts was an active site, with a forum he couldn’t read because he wasn’t registered, but he could still see many threads with different posters. He wondered how many crackpots it attracted. Some, he guessed, just by its nature and the nature of the online world, too often a hiding place for predators and vicious cowards who would never have the nerve to confront anyone in real life.
But the list of successes on the front page was impressive. Red tape sliced through, reputations defended and restored, grieving friends and family given solace. In a way, he thought, she was running a very specialized sort of Foxworth operation.
For a moment he thought about what Rafe had said. Quinn would take you on here in an instant if you wanted...
Tempting, he thought. He’d always thought he would stay a cop forever. But Foxworth, free of the restraints he had to deal with, able to do the right thing even if it wasn’t a police matter, willing to help people like the Days with something this simple just as much as they were willing to help Laney save her kidnapped friend, was indeed very tempting.
In his musing, he did the next thing he’d sworn he wouldn’t do. He clicked on the About link and found himself reading the story of the beginnings of Accountability Counts. The story matched what Rafe had told him except that CPO Jason Burke, navy SEAL, came off as even more heroic.
As did Sloan. Just how long it had taken, how much controversy there had been and how far some people had gone to hide the true circumstances of the incident spoke of her courage in staying the course. Through it all Jason Burke’s widow had been steadfast, persistent and determined to find the truth.
And the photographs were like another punch in the gut.
A young man, tall, strong, geared up, armed and ready, with eyes that looked as if they were seeing far beyond whatever was currently in their view. He looked like the kind of man who would charge into hell to save a friend or, as he had, someone he owed. A man with vision, who saw the big picture but could focus on the here and now and get the job done.
But it was the wedding picture that really hit him. That same man gazing upon the woman beside him as if he’d found all the treasure of the world. And that woman, dressed in a simple flowing white dress, looking up at him as if she’d been waiting for this moment—and him—all her days.
And he knew with utter certainty that had he lived, Mr. and Mrs. Jason Burke would have been together for life.
And that, he thought, is the end of that.
