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What had happened to the writer of children’s books and the mother of Charlie, where a bad day would amount to an inconvenience, not a catastrophe? Spilled juice, not spilled blood.
Her mind went ’round and ’round like the carousel during Charlie’s last ride. Her thoughts were blurred, fleeting, and difficult to catch, just as it had been hard to capture a picture of him on the painted pony as he’d glided past her, moving out of sight and beyond her reach.
Calder returned, dressed in his jeans and white shirt, but barefoot. “My boots are going to take a while.”
“Will they be ruined?”
He shrugged. “I have a boot guy that will soften them up.” He picked up their whiskeys and passed hers to her. “Drink up.” They each took a swallow. He said, “The dryer interrupted what you were about to say.”
“Oh, I was trying to thank you, not for the whiskey, but for getting me safely away from that place.”
His expression softened. “Elle—”
Before he could continue, she raised a hand to stop him. “What were they talking to you about upstairs?”
“Hmm?”
“At the safe house. Compton and Perkins met with you separately. What was that about?”
His gaze darted away from her before coming back. “Shauna. It took some doing to convince them that my relationship with her was over and done with and that I hadn’t been her source for that story.”
“I see.” Because he couldn’t quite meet her gaze, she got the distinct impression that he was holding something back, but she didn’t probe. “Before I forget,” she said, “that pistol you forced on me is in the nightstand drawer in my bedroom.”
“Good. Keep it close.”
“Compton and Perkins will demand both of them back.”
“Yes. But tomorrow. First, let’s get through the night.” He looked down at the floor and ran his hand around the back of his neck. “It’s crazy. Us talking about pistols that I lifted off two dead men. Never in a million years would I have predicted I’d be doing something like that. Or any of it. All of it. Everything that’s happened to me since I went through the turnstile at the fair. I saw none of this coming. And—What?” he said when she began to laugh.
“Just minutes ago, I was thinking along the same lines. Whose life is this that I’m living? Surely not mine.”
He smiled wryly. “Beats the hell out of me, too. You think you have a handle on things, on your life, on your future, then… you get zapped with something that an instant before would have been unthinkable.”
They reflected for a moment, then she asked what he thought would happen tomorrow.
“Two lawmen were killed in the line of duty,” he said. “That will incite an angry reaction from the general public as well as from the law enforcement community. Whoever killed them will be public enemy number one.”
“Do you think it was the Fairground shooter?”
“He used a semiautomatic handgun. I’m almost positive those deputies were killed with a semiautomatic rifle. Either the same person is skilled with both, or it was someone else.”
“What does your gut tell you?”
“You have to ask? The timing of tonight’s attack is the giveaway, I think.” Speaking more softly, he added, “I don’t think he’s going to give up, Elle.”
“No. But I’m not giving up, either.” She gave him an emphatic look, then took one last drink from her glass before setting it on the counter. “However, I’m exhausted right now, and it’s going to be a short night. I’ll see you in the morning.”
She turned to go, but he hooked his hand around her elbow and drew her close to him. “Sleep with me.”
“No, Calder.”
“Just sleep.”
She gave him an arch look. “I’ve learned the hard way how effortlessly you maneuver. I’m not as gullible, naive, or malleable as you seem to believe. You see, I knew that Glenda and Jeff had slept together.”
He was stunned, and it must have shown, because she smiled. “I knew within an hour of my return from that trip out of town.”
“What gave them away?”
