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Maybe that was because they shared a connection. She was a widow, and he was a widower. They’d both experienced the kind of heartache that stole your breath and bled from your bones. It was a connection she knew nothing about, but he felt like she was drawn to him nonetheless. Maybe her soul could feel it.
Of course, he could be reading it all wrong, but he didn’t think he was. There was a connection—he just wasn’t sure if it was enough.
“She’s not ready. It’s been five years since Chiara passed away, but it’s only been two since her husband died,” Mitch said.
He felt Jackson’s eyes on him. “Don’t you think that’s her decision to make?”
“Yes, but it’s my heart that will break if I fall in love with her, and she’s not ready,” he said, keeping his eyes straight ahead. “And even if she thinks she is...” He shook his head, unease creeping up his throat.
Jackson sighed softly and was quiet for a moment. “Or perhaps you’re just scared and using this as an excuse.”
Mitch’s jaw locked and he looked to Jackson. Only Jackson could say something like that to him—only Jackson knew him well enough to know exactly what was going on. They weren’t related, but they were as close as brothers. Mitch pushed down his misplaced irritation—Jackson meant well and unfortunately what he said was true.
And sometimes the truth hurt.
“Can we please focus on the case?” Mitch asked.
“Sure,” Jackson said smoothly, slipping straight back into policeman mode. “I compiled a list of people we need to speak to and coordinated with the nursing manager to be at the hospital when they’ll be working. We’ll need to be there for two shifts, but we can speak to everyone in one day.”
“Sounds good. I also want to speak to the colleagues of the pathologist. I’m sure there’s a medical link,” he said as his phone rang. Maria’s name flashed on the screen in his car.
“Maria, I’m in the car with Jackson,” he said, wanting her to be aware she was on speaker even though everything she said to him would be purely business.
“Good. I’ve identified one more victim: twenty-eight-year-old from St. Louis. Rebecca Mannam, worked as a chef at a restaurant downtown.”
Mitch refrained from sighing, or cursing. Rebecca didn’t fit with his medical connection.
“Thank you, that’s fantastic. Great work, Maria. I know you haven’t had a day off since the bodies were found—we appreciate it,” Mitch said.
“For you, Mitch, anything,” she said. “You too, Jackson.”
Jackson laughed. “That sounded like an add-on, Maria. I’m offended.”
She scoffed. “You are not. I mean it, but I mean it more for Mitch—he’s the boss.”
They both laughed. “Fair enough,” Jackson said before the call ended.
“It would’ve helped our theory if she’d been a chef at the same hospital,” Jackson said with a sigh that bordered on a groan.
“It sure would’ve,” Mitch said, wondering if they were on a wild goose chase. “Let’s talk to a few people though. We need to cover every angle while we’re here.”
Mitch knew he could request the support of the St. Louis police, but he wanted to do the questioning himself. He wanted to make sure it was done thoroughly, and he had a pretty good built-in lie detector.
The hours passed quickly as they discussed the case and Jackson added to the list of people they needed to speak to. By the time they arrived in St. Louis, Mitch thought they might need to be here a week—not a few days.
When they pulled into the hospital parking lot, Mitch stood, stretching his legs and arching his back. He grabbed his phone and car keys and they headed for the pediatric oncology ward, which was where Lana had been before she went missing.
They introduced themselves at the nurse’s station and waited patiently for Jennifer Roberts to meet them.
A middle-aged woman with red hair walked toward them, wearing a look that was definitely cautious.
“Hello, officers. I’m Jennifer. I was Lana’s supervisor before she... went missing,” she said, lowering her voice.
Mitch ignored the fact that she’d addressed him as an officer instead of as sheriff. He cared little for titles, but he cared deeply for doing a job well.
“Can we talk somewhere more private?” Mitch asked, looking down the hallway, hoping one of the doors opened to an office.
“Sure,” she said. “Please follow me.”
