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She hugged her middle, making the thick gray sweatshirt wrap tighter around her slim frame. “You were a police officer, right? I’m sure you’ve dealt with traumatizing situations.”
He threw back the rest of his drink and stood. “You go to bed, wake up, and get on with your day. Then you do it all over again.”
“And what about them?” She shivered and stared into the distance—stared into the far off place where bodies had been laid to rest.
A sharp jab of pain beat against his temples. This was a conversation he didn’t want to be stuck in. “The police will try and identify the victims then notify their families.”
She bobbed her head, as if in silent agreement with the process. “Hopefully knowing they’ve been found will help the families. Even if only a little.”
He tightened his grip on the empty glass and fought the urge to throw it against the side of the cabin. He knew exactly what had happened to his wife and child and that knowledge didn’t do a damn thing to help ease the pain. If nothing else, it made the agony burn so much brighter.
“I feel like I’m a part of this now,” she said. “I want to help. Is that stupid?”
Sighing, he made his way to the door. Eager to end their little chat and down another glass—or two—of whiskey before falling into bed. “Not at all. It’s normal.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Not really. Cruz and Lincoln will tell you they’ve got it under control. That they can handle it.”
She widened her eyes. “But they do, right? They’ll find whoever did this?”
He wanted to laugh, to scream, to cry out that sometimes killers walked away. That sometimes it didn’t matter how much people wanted to help, the bad guy slipped through the cracks and slinked into the shadows—waiting to strike again.
But the fear radiating from Mia made him bite his tongue. She’d seen an ugly part of reality that no one should ever see. He didn’t have the heart to expose anymore unwanted truths. “I hope so.” He reached for the door handle.
“What if they don’t?”
The same question ate away at him. He turned toward her, hating the way the soft glow of dusk made her skin shimmer. “Then I will.”
* * *
Mia sucked in a deep breath,filling her lungs with the sweetly scented air. Hints of vanilla and cinnamon mingled with her second cup of coffee—the first gulped down on her way into work this morning. Caffeine might zip through her veins, but it did nothing to keep her brain alert.
Something she needed when getting breakfast ready for a dozen guests at Crossroads Mountain Retreat.
The door from the dining room swung open and smashed against the wall. “Something’s burning.” Chet barked the statement and hurried to the stove, yanking open the oven door.
Frowning, she crossed over the black and white tiled floor and peered over his shoulder. The cinnamon buns rose perfectly, a golden-brown sheen showcasing their doneness. “Looks good to me.”
Chet grabbed an oven mitt from the marble counter and pulled out the tray, tossing it on top of the stainless-steel oven. The tray teetered on the gray burners. “A minute more and they’d be ruined. You need to pay better attention.”
The familiar bite of his criticism made her wince. Normally, she’d roll her eyes and move to her next task, but this morning her nerves were too tight—her emotions too raw. “I have enough on my mind this morning without you snapping at me.” She shoved him out of the way and swiped a glazed-covered pastry brush over the buns.
He stayed close, her wimpy push barely moving him from his place. Irritation rolled off him in waves, mixing with the heat from the oven. “I don’t snap.”
“Please,” she said, taking care to apply an even coating of the sticky goodness. “That’s all you ever do. It’s like no one ever taught you how to speak to people.” She shot him a glare over her shoulder before refocusing on her task. Watching the icing melt into the warm, sweet bread eased a bit of the tension pulling her muscles.
The kitchen door swung open, and Zoe Peyton waltzed in. The yoga instructor led daily classes at the retreat, as well as running her own studio in town, and had quickly become a friend to Mia. Her frequent pop-ins were a welcome distraction from Chet’s sour disposition. A disposition that never seemed to rattle the tall, willowy woman, who just fixed a patient smile on her face and busied herself wherever needed.
“Morning,” Zoe said, the usual chipperness gone from her voice.
Chet swiveled her way, eyes wide and expecting. “Cruz have any more information?”
Mia halted the motion of the pastry brush. Chances were low Zoe’s boyfriend would give her information on an ongoing investigation, but she held her breath on the off chance she was wrong.
Frowning, Zoe made a beeline to the sink and washed her hands. “You know he doesn’t talk to me about this stuff.”
A low grumble vibrated from Chet’s chest. “Come on, Zoe. Is thereanythingyou can tell me? Something you overheard or accidentally read in a file Cruz left on the table?”
