Chapter 4
Josie crossed her legs, fighting the urge to grind a palm into her eyes. She sat on her bed, a myriad of ledgers spread out before her. After dinner, she’d left Shane to head into the guest shower, saying she had work to do before changing into comfortable sweats, her hair in a ponytail.
But the numbers in the accounts before her weren’t adding up. There were problems in several of the accounts she’d taken over a few months ago. Either she’d made a mistake, or the accountant she’d taken over for had screwed up. Not that it was a huge surprise, considering Billy had had to leave for a drug rehabilitation center.
She flipped back open the main manila file for Hall’s Funeral Home. The numbers swam before her eyes. She blinked several times, allowing them to right themselves.
Wait a minute.
Scrambling for the accounts payable ledger, she quickly scanned the items. Triumph had her nearly laughing out loud. Of course. Billy had counted the sales of several plots to one family as a lump sum, and not as monthly income. The sale was spread over several months, and the money wouldn’t be paid until the fifteenth of each month. But Billy had counted the money before getting paid.
Thank goodness. The problem was an easy fix. Josie took a deep, relaxing breath. Maybe all four troubled accounts had similar mistakes. Drugs had apparently really messed with Billy’s brain. Though to be safe, she should double-check all his files, even the ones that seemed all right, especially since competition at the firm was crazy at the moment. She glanced at the other files perched on the bed.
Maybe she should just go to bed and forget about work. It was only a little after eight, but exhaustion made her head feel heavy. She eyed her knitting basket in the corner. Knitting. Precise, logical, and yet somehow creative. Mrs. Lilly, one of her favorite foster mothers, had taught her when she was eleven. Before Mrs. Lilly got too sick to take care of lost kids. More recently, her old hobby had allowed Josie to make friends in a strange city and show a side of herself she often hid.
With a smile, Josie noted a striped hat perched on the dresser she’d recently knitted for her secretary. Sassy, bright, and bold, the woman would love the pattern. It was so different than Josie’s first disastrous attempts on her own. Now she could picture the final result in her mind while buying yarn at the specialty store on the other side of town. The owner knew her there… and while shopping, Josie became part of something. A community of people who created.
Times were tough. People knitted to make money, to keep their families warm. While women with adorable kids searched the cozy aisles, Josie could almost pretend she had a family, too. That she had a skill to pass down and share with somebody else.
A somebody with Shane’s eyes and her nose.
Even if she stayed alone for life, she could create. Something of her would remain… so long as the yarn held true.
Shane had loved her knitting. Something old-fashioned and feminine about the process. A part of her wanted to go back to the living room. To be near him. But they really didn’t have anything to talk about except the need for him to sign the divorce papers. What if he wouldn’t sign?
What if he would?
The phone rang, jarring her from thoughts of Shane. She grabbed the handset. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Dean, it’s Detective Malloy.” Rustling papers and ringing phones sounded across the line, surrounding the detective’s voice in noise.
“Hi, Detective.” A shadow crossed her doorway. She glared at Shane. He more than filled the entrance, his large bulk contrasting with the feminine tones of her room. Wet hair curled at his nape.
The detective cleared his throat. “We’ve had some developments in your husband’s case, Mrs. Dean.”
Unease straightened her posture. “Developments?”
“Yes. I know it’s almost eight at night, but I’d like for you and your husband to meet me at the station in thirty minutes.” The detective hung up.
Josie pulled the handset from her head, turning to stare at it. Developments? Malloy needed a book on proper phone etiquette. She hung up the phone and turned toward the doorway.
“Angel?” Shane leaned against the door frame in faded jeans and ripped T-shirt, the casual stance belied by the sharp gaze in his too-pale face. His head was probably killing him. His scent of heated cedar wafted her way, suffusing a maleness into her comfort zone.
“Detective Malloy would like to speak with us.” Her hands clutched the thick comforter with its pattern of homey tulips. She’d purchased the cover from a catalog, waiting impatiently until it arrived before choosing the whimsical table lamps that matched. She normally counted her pennies, but she’d splurged on creating her home.
The king-sized bed had been another indulgence.