Page 42 of In the Dead of Night

Looking restless, she tapped her fingers against the table. “So what do we do in the interim?”

He glanced at his wet clothes. “I think the first order of the day is some dry clothes.”

“I’m sorry.” Her glaze flicked over him. “You’ve been sitting here all this time in damp clothes.”

He waved off the statement, but her concern warmed him in a way it shouldn’t have. Not at all comfortable with that, he motioned toward the notes and papers they’d brought with them from the house. “Maybe we could go through what you’ve found so far and see if we can come up with a connection or some angle we haven’t seen yet.”

She was already reaching for the folder containing the pages she’d printed at the library when he started for the shower.

Ten minutes later he found Sara sitting at his dining room table, every scrap of information on the deaths of their parents spread out before her. On the stove, a saucepan steamed, and he realized she’d heated soup.

“I hope you like chicken noodle.”

“Grew up on it.” But Nick wasn’t thinking about soup. He couldn’t take his eyes off Sara—the way she looked, sitting at his table, her attention fastened to the papers in front of her. Even pale, a bruise the size of a walnut forming on her forehead, she was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever laid eyes on. She was determined and smart and brave and he suddenly had the urge to go to her and take her mouth in a kiss. He knew better than to entertain inappropriate thoughts at a time when he needed to keep his distance. But she didn’t exactly invoke his best judgment.

“I’ll make an ice pack for that bruise,” he said.

“It doesn’t hurt.” She gave him only half of her attention as she paged through a mountain of papers.

“If you don’t get that swelling down, you’ll feel it in the morning.” He carried bowls to the table and set one in front of her. “Sorry for canned food. The scourge of a bachelor.”

She glanced up from the paper she was reading. An emotion he didn’t understand scrolled across her features, then her expression turned somber. “Sonia told me about your late wife, Nick. I’ve been so caught up in this, I didn’t broach the subject. But I wanted you to know I’m sorry.”

The statement shouldn’t have taken him by surprise, but even after a year he invariably had a difficult time knowing how to respond. He didn’t like condolences. Didn’t like remembering those dark months following Nancy’s death.

She must have noticed his reaction because she set the paper down and set her hand over his. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m such a klutz.”

“You’re not.”

“You okay?”

“Sure.”

Judging from the way she was looking at him, he figured it was a safe bet they both knew he wasn’t. Not that he wanted to talk about it. He didn’t. Not now. Not ever. That was how he’d dealt with the loss. The pain. In the year since the accident, Nick hadn’t discussed Nancy’s death with anyone. He hadn’t told a soul she’d been eight weeks pregnant. Or that for months afterward he’d struggled with nightmares and flashbacks and cold sweats in the middle of the night.

Shoving the dark memories aside, Nick began to pace. An uncomfortable restlessness stirred inside him, as if he didn’t quite fit into his own skin.

“You’re going to wear a path in the tile.”

He turned to look at her, knowing immediately his expression was too intense, too serious. Too…sad.

“That was a joke.” She gave him a tentative smile.

He hoped his smile looked real. “Not my strong point.”

An uncomfortable silence ensued. Sara glanced down at the papers in front of her. After a moment, Nick took the chair next to her. He wasn’t close, but near enough to get a whiff of her perfume. The scent went to his head like a powerful narcotic, making him a little dizzy.

“Okay,” he began. “Let’s take a look at everything you’ve got and see if we can make sense of it.”

Sara glanced down at her notes. “We have the reel-to-reel.”

“The newspaper stories, one of which puts my father and your mother together at a café.”

“With an unidentified manuscript,” Sara added. “That has yet to be found.”

“The notes that were stolen from you.”

“An anonymous caller.”