Why bother telling him that I also wanted big things for myself, but wasn't afforded the same opportunity as him?
“What about you, Patricia Byrne, stewardess extraordinaire? Where are you from?”
“My father was in sales, so I'm from a lot of places. We moved every couple of years, but I was born in New Jersey.”
“Brothers and sisters?”
“I have one sister. She’s older and married.”
“Are you close with your family?”
As the waiter set down a basket of bread, I considered the question. Perhaps at one time I would have been able to answer with an unequivocal yes, but not now. “We used to be, but they don't... they don't like my job.”
“Ah,” he said. “And what made you want to become a stewardess?”
“I wanted to see the world,” I said with a shrug. “I'm just not cut out for teaching or being stuck behind a desk, and college wasn't an option for me. I'm also not ready for a family and children. Maybe one day, but not now.”
“Interesting. Most women your age are very interested in starting a family. What did your parents say when you told them you wanted to become a stewardess?”
That day was so fresh in my mind, and I felt physically sick whenever I thought about it. The screaming, the tears, the disappointment in their gazes... it all washed over me in one huge wave a guilt. “They weren't happy,” I said, picking up a roll and taking a sip of wine. Who wanted to discuss such depressing things? Certainly, not me. Time to change the subject. “And what about your family? How did they react to you becoming an FBI agent?”
I imagined they'd be thrilled and very proud.
“They were pretty upset,” he said. “The ranch has been in my family for generations and my parents thought they'd pass it to me since I’m the oldest, but the truth is, I hate ranching.”
Both of us had disappointed our families by going our own way instead of down the path they thought best for us. “Maybe one of the younger children can take it over,” I offered.
“I'm sure they will, but that doesn't alleviate any of the grief I caused.”
The conversation came easily as we waited for our dinner. By the time my steak arrived, I was famished and almost forgot the second item on my agenda: why was the FBI bringing in an agent from Dallas to investigate my neighbor's murder?
“This almost tastes as good as back home,” he said, slicing his steak into pieces. “Are you enjoying yours?”
“Very much so,” I replied, even though I secretly worried about the calories. Girdles were bad enough to wear, but girdles that held in too many meals were the worst. The pinching and squeezing could become unbearable. Yet, I cleaned my plate. At those prices, I wouldn't leave one speck of food. I didn't want him to think of me as unappreciative.
“Would you like a coffee?” he asked when our plates had been cleared.
“Yes, thank you.” Probably not the best idea since I'd be up late with the caffeine, but I didn't want the evening to end, and it was time to get down to my second agenda item. “So, please tell me, Special Agent Bill Hart... why do you have such an interest in my dead neighbor?”
“I'm with the FBI. I investigate things. Federal Bureau of Investigations,” he said with a chuckle.
I grinned, but he wasn't going to dismiss my question so easily. “Murders happen every day in every city,” I replied. “Yet, an FBI agent has flown in from Texas to probe into the killing of my neighbor. Forgive me, but it doesn't make any sense. Why aren't the police handling it?”
He stared at me a long moment, his smile slowly fading. As he glanced around the dining room and shifted in his seat, I realized I'd made him uncomfortable. Perhaps he wasn't used to people questioning him? After all, his role in life was asking questions, not answering them.
I almost apologized. Almost. Instead I bit my tongue and waited for an answer I felt I deserved. If he wanted my assistance in his case as he had claimed earlier in the day, then an explanation was warranted.
As he clasped his hands together on the tabletop and leaned forward, he studied my face for a long moment, and I wondered if I had a speck of bread stuck to my chin or lettuce in my teeth. “I suppose it won't hurt to tell you the truth, but Patty, this needs to be between you and me, okay?”
I mirrored his actions and nodded. To an onlooker, it most likely appeared we were in a deep, meaningful conversation. My heart pattered and the room became very warm. I was about to be let in on a government secret, but I attempted to set my features to neutral so as not to give away my excitement. “Of course. What is it?”
“I'm looking into Charles' death because I'm hunting a serial killer.”
Chapter 10
“A serial killer!” I said, much too loudly. The table next to us glanced over as Bill hushed me. So much for me keeping my cool and harboring secrets well.
Bringing my hand to my mouth, I tried to recover from the shock. A serial killer? That option had never occurred to me.
“Please keep your voice down,” Bill murmured as he smiled at the couple staring at us.
“I'm sorry,” I whispered. “I just... I can't believe Charles was murdered by a serial killer.”
The questions flew through my mind. How many others? Who did he think it was?
“He wasn't,” Bill said, gripping my hand.
Confusion set in and I furrowed my brow. If he wasn't murdered by a serial killer then why the investigation? “I don't understand. Please explain all this to me.”
“Of course. But this isn't the place to do it,” Bill said. “Can we go to my hotel or back to your place?”
Narrowing my gaze on him, I wondered if he was trying to get me into
