Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
WINSLOW
“Are you coming over tonight?” Griffin was barefoot, one step down from where I stood on the top stair of his porch. He was still taller, but it gave me easier access to his mouth.
“Maybe.” I leaned in and pressed my lips to his stubbled cheek.
His hair was disheveled, the strands sticking up at all angles from where my fingers had combed it earlier.
Griffin had woken up first and come to the kitchen to make coffee. Instead of eating breakfast, he’d hoisted me onto the counter and devoured me instead.
My man knew how to use his tongue.
“Want me to come to your place instead?” he asked.
“Let’s see how the day goes.” My own bed had been deserted for a week. I loved my little house, but I loved Griffin’s too.
It was relaxing out here on the ranch. Serene. I hadn’t realized just how loud my thoughts were, how loud my life was—even the solitary moments—until I’d come here and spent a few hours in a rocking chair and cleared my mind.
My head was full of cases and stress from the station. Despite my best efforts to smother those feelings, I worried about fitting in and my reputation.
The moment I pulled onto the Eden ranch, the noise dulled. The worries faded. Or maybe it didn’t have a damn thing to do with the property but with the man standing one step below me.
“Have a good day.” I kissed him goodbye.
“You too.” He propped a hip against the railing, his arms crossing over that broad chest as he watched me descend the stairs and head for my car.
It was early, the morning air fresh. The weather forecast promised it would be a scorcher, and as I started the Durango, I wished I had taken another day to enjoy the summer sunshine.
But there was work to be done, so I shoved the key into the ignition and headed into town.
Griffin had washed my clothes yesterday, and though I doubted anyone would notice I was in the same apparel as I’d worn on the Fourth, I made a quick pitstop home to ensure the place hadn’t flooded and swap out my clothes for something fresh.
The shift change was over by the time I arrived at the station. The night-shift crew were likely in their beds while I filled a coffee cup and surveyed the quiet bullpen. Now that the Fourth was over, we were trimmed down for a few days to give everyone some added rest.
Except for me. I stifled a groan at the files scattered on my desk when I settled into my office. I hadn’t earned vacation yet.
One file always seemed to rise to the top of the stack.
Lily Green.
I flipped it open, a photograph of her death on top. A month ago, this picture had made me cringe. But I’d stared at it long enough that now the only emotion I felt was soul-deep sadness.
“Oh, Lily.” I turned the gruesome photo on its face, then skimmed the edge of the one beneath. It was the last selfie she’d posted on Instagram for Memorial Day.
Lily Green was a beauty, her blond hair like strands of spun sunshine. Her smile was as bright as the stars. Maybe it was all an illusion. Maybe the smile and the sparkling eyes had been the facade she’d put on for the world.
It was easy to force smiles. It was simple to lie and tell people you were doing great when the truth was that every heartbeat caused you pain.
I’d spent a month searching for signs that Lily might have been depressed. I’d questioned friends and family. I’d gone on an unsuccessful quest to find a boyfriend. I’d dug into all of her social media accounts and even pulled her text records and credit card statements.
But there’d been nothing to find.
Maybe because there was nothing to find.
No hidden confessions. No secret boyfriend. Chances were, she’d gone out with her friends to have some fun, then met a guy to hook up with. Considering I’d done the same with Griffin on my first night in town, it definitely wasn’t out of the question.
Maybe he’d gone his own way and she’d stayed behind, suffering in silence.
Until it had just been too much.
I touched the edge of her photo one more time, then closed the lid on the folder.
Obsessing over Lily’s suicide wasn’t getting me anywhere.
Because of their age, there was a limit to the number of questions I was willing to ask about the other suicides.
My job wasn’t to reopen wounds unless absolutely necessary.
If parents, friends and loved ones were healing, I respected that process.
I was living that process.
Some of my worst moments over the past year had been in Bozeman when I’d been going about my normal day only to have someone walk up to me on the street and tell me how sorry they were for my loss. Even if they meant well, each time was like a slap in the face.
People handled grief differently. Some welcomed the outpouring of affection and support. Others, like me, held it close to the heart and only let small pieces go when they were ready.
Yesterday, telling Griffin about Mom’s and Dad’s deaths, I’d let a piece go.
Lily Green deserved as much energy as I could give her. But Melina Green deserved space to heal. Today, that meant giving the case some room to breathe.
So I tucked the file into my desk drawer, adding the other suicides beside it, and I went about clearing my desk.
By the time I left the station at six, my inbox was nearly empty, I’d had three meetings, and every report that I’d needed to review and approve was finished.
The officers had taken my critiques of their reports better than expected.
The lack of detail was less noticeable now, though there was still room for improvement.
Two of the files I’d been given, both having to do with incidents on the Fourth, needed some revisions, so I left them with notes on the officers’ respective desks.
The bullpen was quiet again. The evening shift had clocked in, and besides the dispatcher at the phones, the other officers were out on patrol.
I had collected my purse and walked out, keys in hand to lock my office door, when I nearly collided with Officer Smith coming down the hallway.
“Oh, sorry.”
“Watch it,” he muttered, giving me a wide berth.
This guy. “Officer Smith,” I called to his back as he walked by.
He huffed and turned, fisting his hands on his hips. He was in plain clothes, a pair of track pants and an athletic shirt. “What? I’m off shift. Just using the gym.”
I stared at him, his ruddy cheeks and sweaty hair. For the month that I’d been here, I’d been kind. I’d been polite and professional, hoping that in time I’d win everyone over, including Tom.
Call it wishful thinking, but I’d been making progress with the staff. They didn’t need to treat me like a friend, and it would be better if they didn’t, but they were beginning to realize that I was the boss.
And I wasn’t going anywhere.
As I looked at Tom Smith and the snarl on his lip, I realized I wasn’t going to earn his respect. His loyalty. He’d made up his mind and it wouldn’t change.
“Your report from Saturday is lacking. You’ll find my notes on your desk. I’ll expect to see the corrected version tomorrow.”
His nostrils flared. “Whatever.”
“Chief. The correct response is, Yes, Chief.”
Another nostril flare. Another snarl. Then he was gone.
I waited until I heard the door slam open and close. Then I blew out the breath I’d been holding. Tomorrow, I’d make sure I had a decent job description drafted for his position in case he quit. Or he pushed me far enough that I’d let him go.
Digging my phone from my purse, I sent Griffin a text.
My place.
As much as I wanted a quiet night at the ranch, I had a bottle of wine at home and it was calling my name.
Downtown Quincy was swarmed with tourists walking up and down Main as I drove home. There’d been a shoplifter this morning at the kitchen goods store. Two speeding tickets, one a local and one from out of state. Otherwise, life in my new small town seemed wonderfully simple.
Tonight, it felt like mine.
I’d heard from long-time cops in Bozeman that it was easy to get jaded toward the bad. That you searched for crimes around every corner. Maybe it would happen to me. Or maybe this little town, even with its faults, would keep the jagged edges away.
Quincy was home.
I turned onto my street, a lightness to my heart. It vanished when I spotted a familiar truck parked against the curb. And a familiar blond reporter standing on my sidewalk, talking to my ex.
“Shit,” I muttered, pulling into the driveway. “Both of them? I should have gone to the ranch.”
Skyler met me at the driver’s side, opening the door for me.
“What do you want?” I asked, brushing past him and heading for the house.
I ignored Emily Nelsen completely. Griff had mentioned she lived in this neighborhood. Judging by the leggings and tank top, she’d been out for a jog and must have spotted Skyler. She was probably looking for gossip to spread in her precious paper. Maybe that I was cheating on Griffin.
“Winnie.” Skyler’s hand touched my elbow as we took the porch stairs.
How ironic was it that just yesterday I’d told Griffin about Skyler? “What?”
“Let’s talk. Please.”
“About the house? Sell it. I don’t care. But I don’t want it.”
“No. Let’s talk about us.”
“There is no us.” From the corner of my eye I spotted Emily inch closer. Nosy bitch.
“I’ve been worried about you. Yesterday especially.”
“Yet here you are, a day late.”
“I figured you’d be busy yesterday and didn’t want to bother you.”
Or he’d had his own plans and hadn’t wanted to cancel. “If you actually cared about the anniversary of Mom and Dad’s accident, you wouldn’t have planned a golfing weekend last year over the Fourth. Or maybe that trip was just an excuse to fuck your side piece.”
He stiffened. “I’ve told you. That was just sex.”
“Not to me.”
“It wasn’t a real affair.”
“Oh, so you didn’t really put your penis inside her vagina?”
“Jesus, Winnie.” He flinched. “Do you have to say it like that?”
“Yes. Go away, Skyler.” I leaned past him. “And you too.”
Emily’s eyes widened.