by the front entrance with her arms crossed as she stared at a wanted poster. Energy still snapped from every sinew in her body, as if she were a rocket ready to blast off.
“Joan,” he said.
She turned, and her green eyes reflected a tangle of anger, trepidation, and regret. “Hey.”
In college, whenever she’d looked at him like that, he had hugged her and reminded her she was not alone. But a hug now would not be appropriate, nor would it repair anything. “I’ve got the evidence bins in the conference room.”
“Terrific. Thank you.”
She followed him down the hallway to the small windowless room. Gideon flipped on the light. There was a large table, a half dozen chairs, and a coffeepot emanating a slightly burned scent. In the center of the table were the three dusty brown boxes.
“Not much to go through,” he said.
“I’ve seen homicide files that were thinner.” She set her purse down.
He noticed her fingers were red from the cold. When was she going to get gloves?
“It might take me a few hours,” she said.
“The room is yours for the rest of the day. But you can’t take anything out of here,” he gently warned her.
She shrugged off her jacket and draped it over a chair. “Feel free to frisk me when I leave.”
His brain immediately flashed to his hands on her body. His groin tightened, and the annoyance tracking him since yesterday amplified.
She rubbed her hands together, either to warm them or maybe express anticipation of the task.
He was tempted to caution her that this material might be tough to see. She was a cop, but that did not make her immune to evidence that had directly affected her life. She always put up a good front, but he knew the person behind the facade was not so tough.
“Don’t get all stressed out, Gideon,” she said as she removed the top of the first box. “I can handle this.”
Christ, could she still read him with just a glance? “I know that.”
“When you’re worried, you still purse your lips,” she said.
He opened his mouth to relax his lips and voice a denial. “You think you know me?”
Her gaze snared him. “I know you, and you know me more than either of us would like to admit.”
“A lot has changed, Joan. We aren’t kids anymore.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Now, as before, she hid behind boldness and sarcasm. The fear lurking in the shadows did not surprise him, but it was troubling.
“Remember, you can’t take the files.”
She shifted her attention to the first box, her fingers skimming over the tabs of the folders. “I get it. Look. Don’t take.”
He walked to the door and then paused. “Joan, what do you hope to find?”
“I’m not really sure, Gideon.” She removed a dusty yellow-white file.
He could not save her now, any more than he could have ten years ago. “Call out if you need me.”
“Thanks.”
Sighing, he left, hearing the other file box tops hit the conference room table. When he returned to his office, his phone was ringing. He snapped it up, both annoyed and grateful to have his thoughts diverted. “Detective Bailey.”
“Becca here. I’m at the jail. Received a drunk-in-public complaint call from the manager at the Double R Bar. A fellow by the name of Ryan Davis, who is now in the drunk tank.”
“Why are you telling me this?” He sat in his chair, leaned forward, and began to doodle the letter J on his blotter.
“He got drunk because his girlfriend would not answer her cell or her apartment door.”
Becca had a punch line, or she would not have bothered with the call. She paused, as if savoring her coup. “The girlfriend’s name is Lana Long. Mr. Davis’s driver’s license gives his last known address in Denver.”
He dropped his pen. “I’ll be right there.”
“He’s still pretty drunk.”
“I still want to see him.”
He grabbed his coat and Stetson and, on the way out, stopped at the front desk. “My sister is dropping off Kyle in two hours. I should be back in plenty of time to take him to his doctor’s appointment.”
A phone rang, and as the deputy reached for it, he said, “If you’re late, we’ll look after him.”
“He can wait in my office.”
The deputy gave him a thumbs-up as his attention shifted to the call.
Fifteen minutes later, Gideon was headed into the jail, removing his hat as he greeted the officer on duty. After checking his weapon in a locker, he hustled to the cell where Davis was being