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“To say the least. What breed is she?”
“Mostly yellow Lab. Maybe something wiry. She lives in a perpetual bad-hair day.” At the top of the steps, she stopped. Poppy’s barks demanded attention, but Mila didn’t yet know why the police chief was here, and she didn’t want to invite him into her house. No one but Gramma had been inside in the three years she’d lived there, and there were things in there she preferred no one else saw.
Awkwardly, she faced him again. He’d stopped one step below her, putting them on eye level and much closer than she’d expected. He still had that undeniable air of authority about him…and he was still handsome. His eyes were as blue as she’d remembered, his mouth as full of promise, and without crease marks from his hat, his hair looked soft and smooth, though shorter than she usually liked.
Hmm. She hadn’t realized she had a preference in men’s hairstyles.
He smelled faintly of sweat and sunshine and cologne, reminding her that she smelled like a rotting garbage heap under the fires of hell and didn’t look much better. Her clothes were soaked and stinky, and her face was dirty and baked dry. It felt as if too much expression might actually crack her skin. This wasn’t a bad time to wish, for the ten thousandth time, for invisibility.
Poppy’s barks and bangs at the door were frantic, though not an indication of doggy emergency. She acted much the same when Mila came back from the bathroom or returned from getting the mail on the porch. She and Gramma were the only creatures in the whole world who were always happy to see Mila.
But Chief Douglas wasn’t here because he was happy to see her. He’d come about the body, or about information they’d found on her—or hadn’t found on her. It wasn’t a social call. Just police business, and she’d spent her life not getting involved in police business.
Scuffing her feet uncomfortably, she fixed her gaze on the flowers visible over the chief’s shoulder and politely—blankly might be a better description—asked, “Was there something you needed?”
Peripherally she caught a glimpse of his expression: friendly, sincere. No suspicion or doubt or accusations. “I wanted to see how you’re doing. Any problems last night or today?”
She blinked. Seriously? The chief of police was taking time from his day to see how she was coping with finding a body? Of course Gramma would check, and the crew going into the backyards with her had been their way of checking, but what kind of police officer did that? What kind of chief?
“I—I’m okay.” She confirmed the words with a shrug that felt jerky rather than assuring. With some sort of obligation pressing her, she went on. “I still see…you can’t unsee… But it’s—it’s all right.”
Did that sound as bad to him as it did to her? Embarrassment flushed her face, heat creeping down her throat. A man was dead, and no matter that she hadn’t known him, it wasn’t all right. She’d never known any of those women when she was a kid, and their deaths would never be all right.
But she felt responsible for their deaths. With Evan Carlyle, she’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Chief Douglas seemed to understand what she meant. When she sneaked a look, there was no censure in his eyes. “No problems sleeping? No nightmares?”
“A few.” She avoided his face and took another step back. She wasn’t lying, though it felt like a lie. She’d had two nightmares, waking soaked with sweat, Gramma at her side and Poppy resting her head on her thigh. But the nightmares hadn’t been about Carlyle. Seeing him had triggered them, but the faces in her dreams were women whose names she’d never known and the parents she wished she’d never known. If she’d been a regular person, finding Carlyle’s body would have been nothing more than a blip on her radar.
Poppy banged the door hard, and Mila gestured that way. “The baby really needs to go out. Do you mind…?”
She meant Can you say what you want and go? He interpreted it as Can you give me a moment, then we’ll talk? With an expansive gesture, he pointed toward the door. “Go ahead. I’ll wait here.”
