'Hello, Mom. You sound great. How do you feel?'
'I'm hungry, but Nurse Heinz won't get me anything from the kitchen. I'd like some chocolate chip cookies. You always liked chocolate chip cookies when you were small, I remember.'
'I remember too, Mom.'
'Don't try to catch the man who murdered Belinda. He's too dangerous. He's insane, he'll kill you and I couldn't bear that. He's-'
The line went dead, then the familiar dial tone.
The phone rang again immediately. It was her father. 'I'm sorry, Lacey. I was so agitated that I dropped the phone. Listen, I'm scared. I don't want anything to happen to you.'
'I understand, but I must try to catch him. I must.'
She heard him sigh. 'I know. Be careful.'
'I will.' She looked at the receiver a moment, then gently laid it back in its cradle. She looked at the lovely Bentrell paintings on the stretch of white wall. Landscapes-rolling hills, some grazing cows, a small boy with a bucket on either end of a pole, carried across his back and balanced over his shoulders. She slowly lowered her face into her hands and cried. She saw her father's face from seven years ago, silent and still, no expression at all, just the silence of the grave, and he'd leaned down and whispered very softly in her ear, just after Belinda's funeral, when she'd been so blank, so hollow, but not quite yet utterly terrified, 'It's over, thank the good Lord. You'll survive, Lacey. She was only your half sister, try to remember that.'
And she'd just stared at him as if he were crazier than her mother. Only her half sister? That was supposed to mean something? It had only been three days later when the first nightmare had come in the deep of the night and her grief had become terror.
When the doorbell rang, she nearly shrieked, memories from the past overlaying the present. It was the doorbell, that was all, just the doorbell. Still, where was her gun? She looked frantically around the living room. There was her purse. She always carried her Lady Colt in her purse, in addition to the holster with her SIG.
She grabbed it, feeling its cold smoothness caress her hand like a lover even as the doorbell sounded again. She moved to stand beside the door.
'Sherlock? You there? Come on, I see the lights. Open the damned door!'
She nearly shuddered with relief as she shucked off the two chains, clicked back the dead bolt, and unlocked the door.
He was standing there in a short-sleeved shirt, jeans, and running shoes. A pale blue sweater was tied in a knot around his neck. She'd seen male models in magazines dressed like that-with the knotted sweater-and thought it looked ridiculous. It didn't on him. He was frowning at her.
He stepped inside, still frowning. 'That's quite a display of gadgets you've got on that door. A strong guy, though, could just kick it in.'
She hadn't thought of that. She lowered the gun to her side, still saying nothing. She would have to reinforce the door. No, she was being absurd.
He closed the door behind him. 'I wanted to see if you were furnished yet,' he said, and walked into the living room. He looked around at the very expensive furnishings, then whistled. 'The FBI must pay you too much. When did you get all this stuff, Sherlock?'
He was acting as though nothing was wrong. He was acting as though she was normal. She was normal. She gently laid her Lady Colt on the lamp table beside the sofa. 'I'm not much of a shopper, and Sally Quinlan had to cancel out on me. I just called an interior designer in Georgetown and told him what I wanted and needed in place before my boss found out. He took care of it. Really fast.'
He turned slowly to look at her. 'As I said, we must pay you too much.'
'No, I have a trust fund. Normally I don't ever dip into it. I don't need to, but I wanted this place furnished and I didn't want to take the time to do the shopping myself. I knew you'd keep after me until I at least got a sofa.'
'The trust is from your grandmother, right? If I remember correctly, she died four years ago and left you a bundle.'
'Yes.' She wasn't at all surprised. 'Please tell me you have better things to do with your time than memorize my personal history.'
'Yeah, I'll tell you about my better things if you tell me why you've been crying.'
Her hands went to her face. She'd forgotten. She stared at him, straight in the eye, and said, 'I have an allergy.'
'Yeah, right. Just look at all the pollen floating around in the air in here. Come on, who upset you?'
'It's nothing, sir, nothing at all. Now, would you like a cup of coffee? Some tea?'
'Tea would be great.'
'Equal in it?'
'Nah, only women use Equal. Make mine plain.'
'No chemicals for you?'
He just grinned at her as he followed her to the kitchen. A whole row of shiny new appliances, from a blender to a Cuis-inart, were lined up on the pale yellow tiles. 'No,' he said, more to himself than to her, 'not all of them are unused. I see you've pushed buttons on the microwave, but nothing else.'
'That's right,' she said coolly, as she put the teapot spout beneath the water spigot. 'However, I've always believed that woman can indeed live by microwave alone,' she added, trying to smile at him, which really wasn't all that difficult. She turned on the electric burner. 'As for the toaster, that needs bread and I haven't bought any yet.'
She said over her shoulder as she set the kettle on the stove, 'I'm not packed yet, sir, but I will be ready in time. I will meet you at the airport tomorrow morning.'
'I know,' he said, staring at the bread maker that looked like a lonely white block at the end of the counter. 'You know how to use that thing?'
'No, but a recipe book came with it. The designer said that every modern kitchen needs one.'
'Why were you crying, Sherlock?'
She just shook her head, went to the cabinet, and got down two teacups and saucers.
'You got any cheap mugs? I don't want to get my pinky fingers near those. They look like they cost more than I make in a week.'
'I guess they do. The guy went overboard on some of the things.'
'I thought women liked to pick out their own dishes.'
'Actually, I thought everyone did, guys included. But I just didn't want to take the time. There's too much happening that's so much more important. I told you.'
'Come to think of it, I did pick out my own dishes. They're microwavable.'
So are mine. That was the only criterion on my list, that and not too much fancy stuff.'
'Why were you crying?'
'I would appreciate it if you would leave that alone, sir.'
'Call me Savich and I might.'
'All right, Savich. Old Sal calls you Dillon. I think I like that better.'
'What's the guy's name?'
'What guy?'
'The one who made you cry.'
She just shook her head at him. 'Men. You think a woman's world has to revolve around you. When I was young I used to watch the soaps occasionally. A woman couldn't seem to exist by herself, make decisions for herself, simply enjoy being herself. Nope, she was always circling a man. I wonder if they've changed any.'
'I hadn't thought of it quite like that before, but yeah, I guess that's about right. What's his name, Sherlock?'
'No man. How about I pour some milk in your tea? Is that manly?'
'Sometimes, but not in tea. Keep it straight.'
She wanted to smack him. But he'd made her smile, a good-sized smile. She walked to a pristine white wallboard and ostentatiously wrote Equal on it with a blue washable Magic Marker. 'There. All done. You happy?'
