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“Aurora Police.”
“This is Detective Hayes.” It didn’t sound like her.
“Yes, Detective, I recognize your cell-phone number.”
Lucy should know who she was talking to. She didn’t.
“Can you please put me through to Captain Smith?”
“Yes, ma’am. Are you all right, ma’am?”
“I’m fine, just—”
The ringing on the line as the dispatcher connected her interrupted Lucy’s sentence.
The phone crackled and she jumped. “Smith.”
“Lionel? This is Lucy.”
“What’s wrong? Where are you?”
Oh, God, she didn’t know. Yes, she knew. No. No, she didn’t.
“Ping my cell, Lionel. I’m in the woods. I have a bone. And my head hurts…?.”
She got the pertinent stuff out. Then, hanging up, she sat there in the dark, clutching the bone. Prepared to wait.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
R amsey drove home from Boston with one thought on his mind. Calling Lucy Hayes. He’d had a long day. An up and down day. A good day in some ways. And still, he thought about Lucy.
He was changing. He wasn’t happy about that. But he wasn’t fighting it, either. He knew better than to fight the inevitable. Best just to prepare to survive it.
This “thing” with Lucy would be short-lived. She’d made it clear she wanted nothing more than a professional relationship. That’s all he wanted or had time for. That was all he’d trust himself to entertain. They lived several states apart. As soon as they solved the cases they shared an interest in, they’d wander off in other directions and lose touch.
But maybe, in the interim, they would share a bed. At least once.
Somewhere over the past days, he’d begun to count on it.
So he thought about her as he reached Comfort Cove, drove straight home, grabbed a juice bottle out of the refrigerator, stripped down and climbed into bed, taking his laptop and cell with him.
Only when he was settled back against the mound of pillows, with his laptop booted up, did he pick up his cell and push the speed-dial button he’d assigned to her. Just for now. While they were working together.
Less than a week and they’d be together. The wedding was only a week away. Could be, this time the following week, she’d be right there in his house. Assuming she stayed with him.
He’d stayed with her…?.
He wasn’t offering her his spare bedroom.
She wasn’t answering her phone.
At midnight?
Or at 12:15 a.m. or 12:30 a.m.
She could be on a date. The thought wasn’t pleasant, but it wasn’t horrible, either. This “thing” between them would be less complicated if she was dating someone.
He called again at one.
