He tried a search for deaths, medical profession. Doctors, nurses, aides, vets, ran down a couple, but again, none fit.
He thought about what he’d do, where he’d go in her place. His mind wandered north. Canada. Fake ID—fake passport. Cross the border, settle in, take a breather.
That’s just what he’d have done.
No need to risk air travel, no need to learn a new language. Rent a freaking cabin in the woods, keep a low profile.
But she wouldn’t be able to cut her losses, he knew. She’d need to finish what she started. Sooner or later, he’d get an alert that someone else who’d shared that nightmare with him had died.
So he shuffled papers, did the PT, ate his mother’s cooking.
And one day he woke up realizing he didn’t feel like a good cop anymore. He barely felt like a cop at all.
He could rotate his shoulder without agony, and could lift a ten-pound weight for a handful of reps, but he didn’t feel like much of a man, either.
He was, well, the zombie scarecrow with a vulture on his shoulder just waiting for somebody to die.
Time to pull it out, he decided, and take Tinette’s advice. He needed to walk in the sun, and remember what he’d been and why.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
For the second day while she enjoyed her morning coffee on her patio, CiCi watched the man on the narrow strip of sand below.
He’d jog a little, walk, jog, back and forth for about a half hour before he’d climb—slowly—onto the rocks to sit and watch the water.
Then, like a man who’d been fit and strong and was recovering from a long illness, he’d do it all again before walking back along the beach to the bike path toward the village.
After day one, she’d gotten his name from the rental agent who’d booked him into a bungalow. A three-week booking in October, heading into November, wasn’t without precedent for the island, but it was unusual.
Plus, before she had his name, she’d used her binoculars to get a good look at his face.
Good-looking, but thin and too pale, with a lot of scruff.
Personally, she liked a man with some scruff.
She’d recognized him—she kept up with current events—but she’d wanted to be sure.
So she knew who he was, what had happened, and wondered what went through his mind as he jogged, walked, sat.
Since she wanted to find out, on day three of the morning routine, she did her makeup, fluffed up the hair she’d recently dyed a deep plum, put on some leggings—she still had good legs—a long-sleeve tee, and a denim jacket.
And after filling two lidded cups with mocha lattes, CiCi walked down while he sat on the rocks.
He glanced over as she started to climb up to join him, earned points for immediately getting up to take her hand.
With his left, she noted, and not without a flicker of pain on his face.
“Good morning,” she said, offering him one of the cups.
“Thanks.”
“It’s a perfect morning to sit on the rocks and have a latte. I’m CiCi Lennon.”
“Reed Quartermaine. I’ve admired your work.”
“Then you’re a man of taste as well as looking tasty. Full disclosure? I recognized you. I know who you are and what happened to you. But we don’t have to talk about it.”
“I appreciate it.”
Gorgeous eyes, CiCi thought. A quiet green with the intensity behind them adding a little magic.
“So what brings you to our island, Reed?”
“Some R and R.”
“A good place for just that, especially in the quiet season.”
“I’ve been here a few times in the summer. With my family as a kid, with some pals when I got old enough to drive. But I haven’t been in, jeez, I guess about ten years.”
“It hasn’t changed very much.”
“No, and that’s nice.” Slowly, carefully, he angled around to look back. “I remember your house, and thinking how cool it would be to live there, all those windows—see the water all the time, be able to walk right down to this little beach.”
“It is cool. The only place for me, as it turns out. Where’s yours?”
“Still looking. Actually got shot looking in the wrong place.” He smiled, quick and easy. “That’ll teach me. There was another house here I remembered, and it’s still there. I walked over from the village to see if it was. Two story, with a widow’s walk. What you’d call rambling, like yours. I guess I like rambling. Not as much glass, but enough. Sealed cedar shakes that have weathered. Big double porches on the front. Decks on the back. It’s sort of straddling some woods and the water. A little sand beach—not as much as here—then the rocks.”
“That’s Barbara Ellen Dorchet’s place. Just this side of the village, and tucked back some. A riot of lupines in the yard in the summer. Was there a red pickup out front?”
“Yeah, and a Mercedes G-Wagen.”
“That’s her son’s. He’s here to help her do some sprucing up before she puts it on the market.”
“On the … Seriously?”
CiCi, a little bit psychic, smiled and sipped her latte. “Not such good timing for her, as there won’t be many looking for a place like that on the island late fall or winter when she’s ready to list it. But she lost her husband last year, and doesn’t have it in her to stay. She’s moving south. Her boy moved to Atlanta about twelve years ago for work. She’s got three grandchildren there, so there’s where she wants to be.”
“She’s going to sell the house.” He let out a half laugh. “I’ve been looking for the right house for years now, and I realized after I got here, saw your place, and the other, they’re why nothing I looked at rang the bell.”
“Looking in the wrong place.” She added, “You should make her an offer. I can find out her ballpark easy enough.”
“I wasn’t figuring on…” He trailed off, sipped some of the really excellent latte. “This is downright weird.”
“I’m a fan of the downright weird. Well, come on, Detective Delicious. I’m going to cook you breakfast.”
“You don’t have to—” He broke off to study her, the fabulous hair, the amazing eyes. “Do you invite strange men for breakfast often?”
“Only ones who interest me. Normally, you’d be doing the cooking, but since I didn’t spend the night rocking your world, I’ll make the cranberry pancakes.”
That got a laugh and a grin out of him, earned him more points. “I’d be stupid to turn down a beautiful woman and cranberry pancakes at the same time. I’m not stupid.”
“I could tell.”
“Let me help you down.”
He climbed down, favoring his right side, wincing just a little before he reached his left hand up for hers.
“Still hurting?”
“I get twinges, and I’m still working on range of motion and building back up. Doing physical therapy—exercises—and I’m ferrying back and forth twice a week for the real torture sessions.”
“You need to do some yoga. I’m a big believer, and of holistics. But we’ll start with pancakes. How do you feel about Bloody Marys?”
“Don’t spare the Tabasco.”
“Oh, my man.” She took his left hand, swung arms with him. “To borrow a phrase, ‘This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’”
The inside of the house turned out to be as fascinating as the exterior. The color, the light. Jesus, the views.
“It looks like you.”
“My, my, aren’t you clever.”
“No, I mean it.” He wandered, looking everywhere. “It’s bold and beautiful and creative. And…” He stopped beside the bust, stared in wonder at Emergence. “Wow. This is … Wow.”
“My granddaughter Simone’s work. It is wow.”
“You can feel the triumph, the joy of it. Is that the right word?”
“It’s an excellent word. She was in the mall that night, too. My Simone.”
“I know.” He couldn’t take his eyes off the statue, the face. “Simone Knox.”
“Have you met her?”
“Huh? What? Sorry. No. I just, I kept track. Even before I became a cop. I needed to keep track of the people, when I could, the people who were there.”
“She was there, too.” CiCi touched a gentle hand to the bust before she went into the kitchen to mix the drinks. “That’s the face of the friend Simone lost that night, as Simone imagines her. So yes, triumph.”
“She was the first nine-one-one caller, your granddaughter.”