She was no stranger to dark dreams—she had suffered night terrors well into adolescence—but this was different, the images so disturbingly vivid they often left her gasping and drenched with sweat. But the dreams had begun to take a physical toll too. She’d been lethargic of late and punchy, the by-product of being afraid to close her eyes for fear of being jolted awake in the wee hours.
It didn’t take a PhD to figure out what had conjured that first dream—or to understand why she was still having them. Wade may have strayed into prickly territory, but his observations had thrown a floodlight on things she’d been trying very hard not to see—primarily that she had purposely been ducking questions about Stephen’s Jane Doe. And now, more than a month later, she still hadn’t plucked up the courage to pick up the phone.
On impulse, or perhaps out of defiance, she reached for her cell. For better or worse, it was time to stop wondering. “I’d like to speak to Detective Connelly,” she said briskly when a Sergeant Wood answered on the second ring.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Detective Connelly is no longer with the department.”
For a moment, she thought she’d heard him wrong. “Did you say he’s no longer with the department?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What does that mean?”
There was a pause, as if he didn’t quite understand the question. “It means he’s not here, that he’s taken early retirement.”
“When?”
“First of the year, I believe. Is there someone else I can connect you to?”
“No—yes! I’d like to speak to whoever has taken over Detective Connelly’s cases.”
“And may I have your name?”
“Christine Ludlow. I was Stephen Ludlow’s wife, and I was hoping . . .”
“One moment, please.”
The line abruptly went silent. A moment later, there was a new voice in her ear. “This is Captain Billings, Mrs. Ludlow, with the Office of Public Affairs. How can I help you?”
“Are you Detective Connelly’s boss?”
“Not exactly, though I did outrank him, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Christy-Lynn fumbled for a response. The truth was she didn’t know what she was asking. She was still trying to wrap her head around the fact that Connelly was gone when she was almost certain he’d told her he was still two years from retirement.
“Mrs. Ludlow?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I was hoping to speak to whoever was handling Detective Connelly’s cases. I’ve been trying to get some information about my husband’s accident. Particularly about the woman who was in the car with him that night.”
“Your husband’s case was closed months ago, Mrs. Ludlow. There was no indication of foul play, and the tox levels all came back within legal limits. The ME’s finding was accidental death by drowning.”
“And the woman?”
There was a brief stretch of silence. “The woman?”
“Yes, Captain, the woman. I’m sure you remember her. Her pictures were in all the tabloids thanks to someone in your department.”
The captain cleared his throat, a halting, awkward sound. “Yes, of course. That was . . . unfortunate. But I’m afraid we’re not releasing any information with regard to the second victim. It’s a rather sensitive matter, after all, particularly in light of your husband’s high visibility, and the family has a right to privacy. Perhaps it would be best to simply . . . let it lie.”
Christy-Lynn’s blood began to simmer. “It’s a little late to be worrying about sensitivity, don’t you think? And where was all this concern for privacy when the press was camped out in my driveway, passing around photos that someone in your department leaked?”
“Mrs. Ludlow.” His voice was sharper now, more like a lawyer’s than a police captain’s. “There has been no confirmation that those photos were leaked by anyone in this department, though I do understand how difficult this must be for you. And despite what you might think, we take a family’s right to privacy very seriously. Which is why we won’t be releasing any information we may or may not have on a second victim.”
“And what about my rights as a wife? Do you not take those seriously?”
“Forgive me for sounding unfeeling. I don’t mean to be. But that really isn’t our concern. I hope you’ll understand. Goodbye.”
There wasn’t time to protest before the line went dead. Christy-Lynn stared at the blank phone screen with a mixture of confusion and annoyance. They were clearly eager to put the leak behind them, but where did that leave her?
Her hands shook as she scrolled through her contacts for Connelly’s cell number. If the good detective was no longer a member of the Clear Harbor police force, he might finally be willing to help.
Unfortunately, the number was no longer in service, which seemed odd. She could see a home phone being disconnected if he had moved, but most people kept their cell numbers, didn’t they? Her next call was to directory assistance, but the home number they gave her turned out to be disconnected as well. She remembered him saying something about a sailboat in the Keys, but trying to locate Connelly on one of the forty islands that comprised the Florida Keys would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.
She was still contemplating what to do next when Tamara appeared with a tall to-go cup in her hand.
“What’s that?”
“A triple-shot latte,” Tamara said with an unmistakable air of pity.
“Do I look that bad?”
“Nothing a little caffeine and concealer won’t fix. By the way, you have a visitor.”
Christy-Lynn smothered a sigh. At this rate, she was never going to get to the invoices. “Who is it?”
Tamara flashed a grin. “I’ll give you a hint—tall, dark, and scruffy.”
“Wade’s here?”
“Of course he’s here. He’s here all the time—as if you didn’t know.”
“Yes, but not to see me.”
Tamara rolled her eyes, as if she were dealing with a particularly dense child. “Yeah. Whatever. Anyway, consider yourself informed.”
Wade was in the café when she stepped out of the back room. He nodded as she approached. “Hello.”
“Hello.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “You okay? You look tired.”
“Yes, I’ve been told. What’s up?”
“I came to ask you to lunch.”
It took a moment to process the words, and she still wasn’t sure she had it right. “What?”
“I said I came to ask you to lunch.”
“Why?”
It was hardly a gracious reply, but she was too surprised to search for the Miss Manners response. They saw each other several times a week—or perhaps avoided each other was a more accurate way to describe the curt nods that passed for a greeting whenever they happened to make eye contact in the café. How had they gone from that to lunch?
“I’m proposing a truce. I’ve decided it’s silly that we keep bumping into each other and never know what to say.”
“I don’t keep bumping into you,” Christy-Lynn pointed out coolly. “You keep coming into my store.”
“Fair enough. Sometimes I need a change of scenery, and this works. So what do you say? Lunch?”
“I’m working. Or trying to. It’s not going very well.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Not unless you want to unpack and shelve three boxes of books.”
“Tempting, but I’ll take a rain check.”
“So it was more of a hypothetical offer then.”
He grinned, suddenly looking very boyish. “Something like that. Maybe we can do lunch another time?”
Christy-Lynn gave him a half-hearted shrug. He was obviously intent on clearing the air between them, though after so many years, she wasn’t sure why he cared. Maybe he was one of those guys who needed to be liked. She, on the other hand, was perfectly willing to keep him at arm’s length. “Yeah, maybe.”
She watched him leave, waiting until he had climbed into the Jeep and driven away before turning back to Tamara, who was quietly grinning from ear to ear as she pretended to wipe down the counter.
Christy-Lynn shook a finger at her across the counter. “I know what that smile’s about, and you can get that idea right out of your head. We don’t even like each other.”
“He’s hot though, isn’t he?”
“I’m not paying you to ogle the customers.”
“No,” Tamara said, smirking. “But it’s a nice perk.”
“Hey, what’s going on in here?” Aileen had appeared, a feather duster in hand. “You’re not supposed to be having fun without me.”