“I don’t think that’s what the detective has in mind.”
“That’s what I mean,” she whispered. “You’ve got to get her out of me, Cameron. She’s driving me nuts.”
“She?”
“Don’t use that sarcastically amused tone with me. You know exactly who I mean. Tiffany.”
“Oh, so your over-active libido is Tiffany’s fault?”
“She’s invaded me. I can feel it. And it’s worse than with Wendy.”
And in many ways, it was the same. Wendy Gregory’s spirit had invaded her dreams and her body. Wendy’s emotions had become Max’s emotions, taking Max over until she no longer knew who was responsible for what feeling, reaction, emotion, or response.
It was happening all over again with Tiffany. But stronger, more powerful, and overwhelming when she threw Witt into the mix.
“Don’t you think these feelings have more to do with DeWitt Quentin Long? Admit it, Max. You’re attracted to him.”
“It’s Tiffany, I tell you.” She could have told Cameron about that bizarre sojourn into Tiffany’s mind while she sat across the table from Witt in the Round Up. But there were some things a wife ought to keep to herself. Even if she was a widow. And it didn’t matter that he’d probably read her mind anyway.
“Max, you okay in there?” Witt. Right outside the bathroom door. He’d probably heard voices and thought she was talking to herself.
Just what the hell would Detective Witt say if she told him she’d been talking to her dead husband?
“I’m fine,” she called. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
“You want some help scrubbing your back?”
“My back’s fine, thank you.”
“Been told I give a good back scrub.”
The image stole her breath. Her flesh prickled. She flopped down on the closed toilet lid, her knees weak as all get out. Yes, yes, yes.
“I’m not interested in your sex life, Detective.”
“That’s not about sex. It’s about attitude.” But the deep tone of his voice said it was about both.
“Go away.” She jumped up to turn the water on. Cold. Freezing. She thought she heard him laugh. Or maybe that was Cameron.
Tearing her clothes off, she dropped them on the floor, then climbed into the shower. Eyes closed, water cascading over her body, her teeth chattered.
“You never blamed Wendy, did you?”
She hated Cameron’s out-of-the-blue questions. She never had an appropriate answer ready. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Traynor. You’re terrified of him.”
“I hate him. There’s a big difference.”
“Anything we fear, we hate. Anything we hate, we want to eradicate.”
“My, aren’t we waxing philosophical,” she quipped, but her bones quaked.
“Wendy’s father was a monster. Therefore, according to you, nothing she did was her fault.”
Her insides twisted. “Everything was Bud Traynor’s fault.”
“Such sympathy for Wendy,” he scoffed. “Where’s the sympathy for Tiffany?”
“Tiffany didn’t have a Bud Traynor in her life.”
“Everybody has a Traynor lurking somewhere.”
Deep in her belly, the thought terrified her.
“Everyone has reasons for what they do, Max,” Cameron whispered, “even for promiscuousness like Tiffany’s.”
He was just short of bringing her own sexual activities into it, she knew, bringing up that particular connection between herself and Tiffany. Max turned the water up to almost scalding. It wasn’t enough to warm her.
“Why didn’t you tell Witt about Tiffany’s husband, Jake?”
She flipped water out of her eyes, relieved for the respite from his insight and pissed as hell that he went for another of her vulnerabilities. “You’re jumping around like a cat with fleas, Cameron. We were talking about Traynor. The two things don’t even relate.”
“Yes, they do. You fell for the prime suspect in Wendy’s murder case, and you’re doing the same thing all over again here.”
“Give me a break, will ya? I talked to the man once.”
“And after one ‘conversation,’ in which he simply apologized for running into you, you’ve decided he didn’t have anything to do with Tiffany’s death.”
She hated it when he twisted her own words around. “It has nothing to do with sex. I’m using my intuition. You’re the one who told me to use my gift.”
He ignored her jab. “The man screwed her on the dance floor. Don’t you think that at least bears investigation?”
“It wasn’t quite on the dance floor. They went to the restroom.”
“You’re purposely missing my point. He was there the night she died. Even if he didn’t do it, he knows a helluva lot more than the police do. You should have told Witt.”
“I can’t implicate the man until I’m sure of my facts.”
“You tried to implicate Bud Traynor in Wendy’s death.”
She turned and punched the tap off. “It isn’t the same thing.”
“It’s always the same thing with you, Max. You let your feelings blind you.”