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“Just noticing that I have a similar weapon.”
“The witness who actually found the body rules you out as a suspect. She was in the backyard before you. You couldn’t have done it.”
“Before last week, I’d hoped I would never see another dead body as long as I lived,” she muttered. Gripping her loppers, she began checking the flower beds for blooms past their prime yet still taking energy from the plant. Some clients wanted the dead heads collected and thrown away. Mr. Carlyle had wanted them dropped to the mulch, where the seed pods would dry out and raking, wind and rain would scatter the seeds for new plants next year.
“How many bodies have you seen?” There was a touch of disbelief to his voice. Not counting bodies prepared for burial, he would rightly assume people outside law enforcement and the medical profession rarely saw dead people. But she wasn’t just a person, and most generalizations didn’t apply to her.
There was a lot to be said for never speaking impulsively. She rarely found herself in a situation where she had to come up with a response that seemed reasonable, answered harmless questions and didn’t lead to others.
She was moving on to another flower bed when he caught her arm. “Mila?”
She made her expression blank as she looked at him. She ignored the warm, gentle pressure of his hand on her, and the spicy fragrance of his cologne, and the fact that he stood close enough that she could hear his steady breathing. She ignored all that and focused on giving the kind of answer he needed to let the conversation go.
“I told you last night that my parents died when I was eleven.” Her voice sounded as flat as a fires-of-hell-temperature beer. “It was a car wreck. Gramma and I were in the car in front of them. We saw what happened and went back, and…” A heaving breath shook her shoulders. The worst/best night of her life stole all her emotions, her breath and sometimes a little bit of her sanity.
Sam’s hand gentled even more. “I’m sorry, Mila. I should have let it go. It hurts me that you had to go through that. Thank God you had your gramma.”
She let her gaze settle on his hand, right above her elbow, his big fingers holding her so lightly. Monday evening he’d touched her hand. Today it was her arm. If he kept moving in that direction, when would he reach her face? How many first touches could she get from him?
“I don’t cry about it,” she said, forcing a touch of belligerence into her voice. Gramma had told her that everyone dealt with loss differently. She didn’t have to weep or mourn—not because she truly didn’t feel that way, but because she was an individual, and if she confirmed that with defensiveness, people always assumed it had been a horribly traumatic experience that she had trouble coping with. That way she and Gramma could keep their secret.
“Nobody gets to tell you how you should feel, Mila. Some things are too big for tears.” His thumb moved slowly back and forth with just enough pressure that she could feel her muscles and nerves underneath it relax. Thanks to the shirt, though, she couldn’t feel his skin, the texture, the heat.
How bad would she look if she said, “Hold on a moment,” then stripped down to her tank top and put his hand right back where it was? Probably like she was a few shades too traumatized for him to pursue any interest in. She knew people thought she was odd. She didn’t want them thinking she was freaky, too.
Especially Sam.
* * *
Thursday after work found Sam in one of the few family-friendly places to get a drink in Cedar Creek: the Thunder Lanes Bowling Alley. He wasn’t the best bowler on the police department’s team, but more important, he was better than the Cedar County sheriff and the Cedar Creek fire chief.
The bowling alley was loud and smelled of people, feet and pizza, cheap frozen ones that the owner bought by the dozens and the staff stuck in microwaves. The nachos, also thoroughly processed, were better, the buffalo wings not half-bad, and the popcorn was the best in town, with loads of real butter.
He wondered if Mila liked popcorn. If he showed up one night with a big tub of it and suggested they have a movie night, would she turn him down or invite him in?
Ben sprawled on one side of Sam, Lois on the other, beers in hand. “Is there any reason we have to bowl in order to have an evening out with a drink?” Lois asked, her voice raspy from talking over the noise.
