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Above the desk was a bulletin board with recipe cards tacked across it. Nothing looked out of the ordinary.
The kitchen door opened and she turned, uncertain what to say when Bart’s big silhouette filled the doorway.
“Is everything handled?”
“They’re cleaning up as we speak. Sounds like one of Wallace’s men found Tim’s car.”
“I didn’t know it was missing.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “My theory is he was carjacked on his way in today. For all the good a theory is at this point.”
“He was a reliable sort?”
Bart nodded. “Look it up, you’ll see his picture right next to the dictionary definition.”
“Understood.” Her heart ached for him. He was obviously hurt and angry. How much of those emotions were about Tim and how much about her labeling him as a husband, she couldn’t tell. She was pretty sure she didn’t want to know, but she needed him to play along with her story and yet he could hardly look at her.
“We should talk about, ah, stuff.”
“I’d like that.” She rolled her eyes to the ceiling and then tapped an ear.
He nodded. “Me too.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at her. “It’s good to see you.”
“Want to go for a walk, get away for a few minutes?”
“Not just yet. It’s still only Maria and Jenny on duty.”
“Did the sheriff’s department offer you any kind of security or extra patrol?”
“Wallace mentioned it.” He sidestepped around her, toward the dining counter. “Coffee?”
She watched his economical movements, recognizing his discomfort with this whole thing. “Don’t tell me you turned him down.”
“I’m not that stupid.”
He was shutting her out. Not that she blamed him. There was no way she could ask about Tim or explain why she lied about a wedding when they were out here where anyone could overhear them.
But waiting until some undetermined time felt counterintuitive. It wouldn’t be long before someone from the local DEA office heard about her departure from Baltimore or dropped in to interview Bart or his staff about Tim. Each minute that ticked by with this tension between them raised doubts she couldn’t afford.
“Do you—” Her throat went dry. “Is there—”
“What?” His indifference shifted immediately to concern. “What’s wrong?”
She swallowed as her stomach rumbled. “I didn’t get breakfast and suddenly I’m famished. Can I grab a pack of crackers or something?”
“You didn’t stop on the way?” He turned and pulled a big box of pre-packaged saltines down from a shelf.
“Wasn’t hungry during the drive.” She’d been too distracted sorting out how and what to say to him when they were face to face. The body in the dumpster trumped all of that.
“Help yourself,” he said. “I can make you a burger or warm up some of Tim’s breakfast casserole.”
Her mouth watered at the memory of Tim’s French toast casserole. She’d had it on the day she’d brought Bart home from the hospital after he’d been shot just before Christmas.
“Is it the French toast kind?”
A smile tipped the corners of Bart’s full lips. “It can be.”
“Please?” She told herself his smile and thoughtfulness made her happy because it perpetuated the appearance of being a normal couple. But she knew better.
