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“Nothing.”
Aw, c’mon. I wasn’t a detective for nothing. “Tell me.”
“It’s the coffee shops bombing file.” She makes a face.
I take a breath. Yeah, if John had collected my early career top hits then he would have surely included the coffee shop bombings. Plural. Three bombings, all within 48 hours of each other in the Minneapolis area. Twenty lives in total. Then they simply stopped. And are still unsolved, Melinda Jorgenson and her son’s murderer still at large.
No wonder I can’t sleep.
I reach for the file, but Eve pulls it away. “No. It’s no good sifting through it again. We went over every stitch of evidence. I spent hours and hours and hours…”
“I know,” I say. “I remember. You were obsessive, too.”
She sighs. “It was my first big case. My first real opportunity to show my dad…” And now she swallows, looks away and I want to get my hands around John Booker’s dead throat and squeeze. Because it wasn’t long after this that Eve’s father was killed by a drive-by shooter linked to one of his cases. And with him, her kid brother, Ash.
Bittersweet memories for all of us because it was her grief and desire for justice that drove her into my arms the first time.
She closes the file. Presses a hand on it.
Like always, I have to fix it. “I’ve always told you that was the moment I fell for you. I’ll never forget walking onto the scene and seeing you standing there. I’d heard about this whiz crime scene investigator, and there you were—”
“And I’d been warned by everyone—including my dad—to stay far away from the infamous lady-killer Rembrandt Stone.”
“There were no ladies slain on my watch.” But I’ve made her smile.
“Oh, you thought you were all that, though, Rem. You came striding into the crime scene, the cracker-jack detective, carrying a cup of coffee, as if you were there to watch us work, then you spilled it all over me, and I dropped my camera.”
“You knocked the coffee out of my hands. I wasn’t fast enough to grab the camera.”
“You were standing right behind me. Invading my personal space.”
“Checking you out, actually.”
“I knew it.” She’s really grinning now.
“You were so beautiful, I couldn’t think straight. I nearly said it right then, just blurted it out. At least I got your attention, though.”
“Yeah, which you conveniently used to wheedle me into a first date.”
“Charm you. And you turned me down. Even though I know you were in love with me, too.”
She’s full-out laughing now, and the sound pours light into my darkness.
“Lie to yourself all you want, Rembrandt Stone. But I’ll never forget the look on your face when you busted my camera. Half angry, half embarrassed. You were trying to figure out what to do, and I kept thinking, here I was, smitten with you because you were this hot shot, New York Times bestselling author, and suddenly all I saw was this flustered guy. It made me…I don’t know, maybe I fell in love with you that moment.”
“You didn’t act like it. You were so angry—”
“My camera was broken. Besides, I could hardly let on that I liked you. I had a reputation for not dating anyone I worked with. In fact, if you hadn’t spilled coffee on me, I probably wouldn’t have spoken to you again, at least not outside the job.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re hard to get to know—really know. But you showed me a glimpse of yourself, and followed it up with an apology coffee, all humble and sweet and what could I do? I hate playing games, and you cut right to the chase. I suddenly discovered the guy behind his reputation.”
“So, you’re saying you’re glad I ruined your camera.”
“It was a Canon EOS-3, worth about five thousand dollars, so, uh no—”
“I’m kidding. But it did give me a reason to talk to you again. I’m not sure I would have had the guts, otherwise.”
