right, Nana. I think we’re done here.”
This conversation was just a rehash of a dozen others they’d had over the past few years, Nana worried about Callie’s ever-ticking clock. Such exchanges usually ended with Callie politely but firmly suggesting that Nana let her worry about her own love life. That she had more important things to think about, like putting bad guys in jail.
And that, she insisted, was about all the testosterone she was interested in dealing with these days.
“You go on, keep lying to yourself,” Nana would always say—a handful of words for which Callie had yet to find a suitable response.
NO MATTER WHAT CASE she might be working on, Callie tried her best to go home for lunch every day, and today was no exception.
Once the crime scene was squared away and the evidence had been tagged and bagged, she dropped Rusty off at the station house with instructions to make sure Tucker Davies called her just as soon as he got a hit on the Glock.
Then she drove the mile and a half home, where she knew Nana would be waiting for her with a sandwich and a glass of iced tea.
Their usual routine was to sit and watch Nana’s favorite soap. And as the melodrama played out on screen, Callie would invariably start thinking about how old and frail Nana was looking and worry that she might not be around long enough to see how the stories ended.
Today, however, as Callie pulled up to the curb, she was surprised to find a plumber’s truck parked in their driveway. Which didn’t make sense. They’d had the entire house repiped less than six months ago, and for the money they’d spent, there shouldn’t be any need for an emergency visit. Besides, Callie herself usually handled such arrangements, and if there was a problem Nana would have called her.
But when she went inside, she found Nana and the plumber sitting in the front parlor, sharing a pitcher of tea, as if this were nothing more than a social visit.
Although he looked vaguely familiar—about Callie’s age and marginally handsome, if you liked the type—she had no idea who this man might be.
Nana took care of that straightaway. “Cal, this is Judith’s grandnephew Henry. He just moved to town and I thought it might be nice for him to drop by for a little refreshment.”
The lightbulb suddenly went on and Callie remembered where she’d seen him before: in a photograph on Judith’s mantel. Judith had been Nana’s best friend since childhood.
Callie knew immediately what was going on here and forced a smile. “Hello, Henry, nice to meet you.”
Henry got to his feet and shook her hand as Callie shifted her gaze to her grandmother. “Nana, can I speak to you for a moment?”
“Why don’t you have a seat, dear? I’ll pour you some tea.”
“I think we need to talk alone.”
Nana reluctantly rose from her chair and followed Callie into the kitchen. Callie could see that the old woman was bracing for a scolding, and she was all too happy to give her one.
As they passed through the doorway, she felt heat rising in her chest and struggled to keep her voice low. “What in God’s name are you thinking?”
“He’s a nice boy, dear. What’s the harm in having him stop by for a glass of tea?”
“Is Judith in on this, too?”
Nana smiled. “Well, I guess she’d have to be, wouldn’t she?”
“How many times have I told you, I can handle my own love life. I don’t need you and Judith interfering.”
“With what? You haven’t had a date in six months.”
Callie glared at her. “I mean it, Nana.”
“Listen, hon, those pipes of yours must be just about frozen solid. Wouldn’t hurt to have a handsome young plumber check ‘em out. Who knows where it might lead?”
Callie felt her face grow red. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
“What—you think because I’m old I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have a little—”
“Stop,” Callie said, her voice louder and more shrill than she’d intended it to be. She did her best to calm herself. “Nana, I appreciate your concern, I really do, but please, stop trying to force the issue.”
“Dear, if I don’t force the issue, I’ll be dead before—”
The ring of Callie’s cell phone cut her off. Callie took it from her pocket and checked the screen: Tucker Davies.
Already?
That was fast.
She jabbed a button on the keypad and put the phone to her ear. “Tell me this is good news.”
“Better than good,” Tucker said. “Turns out the Glock has a custom serial number, just like the weapons we use, only this one’s assigned to the U.S. Marshals Service.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“I put in a call and found out that one of their deputies lost it last night when the prisoner he was transporting got the better of him. They were headed for Wyoming Correctional, coming up from Colorado Springs.”
Callie felt her heartbeat quicken. That prisoner was more than likely her perpetrator. How he’d wound up in Jim Farber’s truck was a mystery, but at least they knew who they were looking for.
“I need to talk to this deputy,” she said.
“Shouldn’t be a problem, since he’s already in the vicinity. He’s on his way to the station house as we speak.”
“Oh? What’s his name?”
“Cole,” Davies said. “Deputy Harlan Cole.”
Callie hesitated, certain she hadn’t heard him right. “Say that again?”
He enunciated carefully. “Harlan … Cole.”
His words were like a sledgehammer to Callie’s chest. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear her heart had suddenly stopped dead.
The name was not unfamiliar to her.
Far from it.
And the thought of Harlan Cole walking into her life after all these years made her want to turn and flee. If this was nature taking its course, then she wanted nothing to do with it.
Without warning a bucketful of memories flooded her mind. And while the pain that the name Harlan Cole invoked had long been relegated to a tiny corner of her brain, it now sprang forward as if freed from a cage, an untamed and ferocious beast, anxious to devour.
“Deputy Glass?”
Callie had to search for a moment, but finally found her voice. “Thanks, Tucker. I’m on my
