She patted the sofa, and the dog jumped up beside her, resting its head next to her knee. I’d had the idea that greyhounds were hyperactive creatures, always bouncing around as if their veins ran with espresso. This one, however, had the poise of an Art Deco sculpture.
“What’s his name?”
“Trois. He is a rescue from the local greyhound group. The woman at the adoption center told me his final racing number was three, hence Trois.”
Outside, Trey continued talking on his cell. His voice was low, clipped. I could see him through the windows as he paced back and forth, half in shadow, half in the opalescent glow of the porch light.
Gabriella shook her head. “I cannot believe he is ripping open this case again.”
“You’re familiar with it?”
“Very. Is he perseverating?”
The clinical term for what happened when Trey locked onto an idea and wouldn’t—couldn’t, Eric reminded me—let go. Breaking his laser lock was almost impossible at those times.
“I don’t know,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes at me. “This is not your doing, is it?”
“This is all Trey, I promise you.”
“But you are involved?”
I felt the first prickle of annoyance. “I just told you that I wasn’t.”
“I am not suggesting that you are at fault. It is simply that where you are concerned, Trey tends to…” She rubbed her temple with her forefinger. “I am sorry. Mon Dieu, this is difficult.”
“It’s not easy at this end either.”
She flung a hand toward the porch. “It does not help when he comes stomping in here as if he were still…as if…”
“I know. He and I are going to have a talk about this.”
“Good.”
She stood up and crossed the room. Ignoring the wine, she pulled down a crystal decanter, held it in my direction. I shook my head, and she sloshed a cocktail glass half full. She took a long sip, then swirled the liquor as she spoke.
“He became obsessed, you must understand. He had always been very boundaried about his work. But this case, the Talbot case, was different.”
“Because his testimony was thrown out?”
“Yes. But there was something else.” Another sip, her eyes assessing and sharp. “He was not supposed to be in Buckhead that morning. It was not his assigned beat at the time.”
“Then what was he doing there?”
She kept the edge of the glass pressed against her bottom lip. “He was here. At this house.”
“With you?”
“No. Trey and I had…” She pursed her lips. “I do not like the phrase ‘broken up.’ But we had decided that we could no longer be together, and I had gone back to Provence to clear my head. And my heart. I was not in Atlanta during this time.”
I folded my hands in my lap. The clock chimed the quarter hour. “But Trey was here?”
“He was. Out front. Watching the house, he said. Thinking. The Talbots lived less than a mile away, right across Chastain Park. When the request for backup came, he was the closest officer on duty. So he responded, even though he knew he would be reprimanded.” She tilted her head, focused on the fireplace across the room. “It was a very difficult time for me. Trey too, I think, even though he knew our uncoupling was the right thing to do. He felt as if he’d failed. As if he’d been unable to save our relationship. I told him I would come back, and that we would talk. But he had the accident before I could.”
Uncoupling, she called it. And it hit me hard again, right in the gut, the whole history of these two people, years that I was not a part of. I could not deny him his past—I had quite the colorful one myself—but his backstory occasionally pole-axed me.
Outside, Trey walked back and forth on the porch, phone at his ear. The gauzy curtains blurred his features, but his posture was rigid.
Gabriella regarded me over the liquor. “I saw you in the cards before I ever met you. The Queen of Wands. And I am grateful for you in his life. I know that you and I do not always agree on what is best for him, but we have agreed to respect each other’s opinions, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Then, please, be careful here. You and I both know Trey is a man of rules. That is his primary method of recovery. But if there is one case that could cause him to break every rule in his book, it is this one.”
Before I could say anything, Trey came back inside. He stood in the threshold, determined and frustrated and confused all at the same time.
I stood up. “Well?”
He put his phone back in his pocket. “I know who has the files.”
“And?”
He exhaled in a burst. “And now I really don’t know what to do.”
Chapter Eight
Trey stared out the passenger seat window as I drove us back to Kennesaw. He did this when he had to think or calm down, and both were on his agenda now. He’d decided to stay with me for the night, which surprised me. His apartment was usually a refuge during times of stress. He’d click the triple locks in place, close the shades, and recompose himself in stillness and silence. But tonight he wanted to stay at my place, where the hot water ran out in five minutes and the mattress was uneven.
“I don’t want to be in the city,” he’d said, and I hadn’t argued.
We left the cloistered
