before they kissed.
She’d barely slept, reliving that kiss over and over again.
And, right or wrong, smart or stupid, she wanted a hundred more just like it.
Beyond that?
Time would tell.
* * *
“I’M GOING WITH YOU,” Melba told Eli, leaving no room for objections.
She was standing, looking very official in her uniform, in front of his desk, where he’d been filling out a preliminary report regarding Freddie Lansing’s unfortunate demise.
“I guess the red dress wouldn’t have been appropriate,” Eli remarked, with a sigh, leaning back in his chair. He clasped his hands behind his head and stretched, tired to the bone.
“Very funny,” Melba said.
“I wasn’t kidding. You look good in that dress, Summers.”
“If I didn’t know you’re batshit crazy about Brynne Bailey, I’d call you out for sexual harassment, Sheriff Garrett.”
Eli winced, shoved back his chair and stood. “It’s that obvious?”
Melba rolled her eyes. “Only to those of us with functional eyeballs.”
“Shit,” Eli said. “Do you think she noticed?”
“No,” Melba said, adjusting her service belt. “She was too busy being batshit crazy about you.”
Eli doubted that was true—he’d known Brynne for a long time—but a man could hope. “You’re a fine one to talk,” he pointed out. “Things are pretty hot between you and Dan, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t,” Melba said. “Let’s go and tell the Lansings their son is dead. I want to get this over with, and I’m sure you do, too.”
There was no denying that. “This is the part of the job I hate the most,” he confided, as they left his inner office for the reception area, where the night dispatcher, Evelyn, occupied the main desk.
Evelyn, a middle-aged woman and former beat cop, nodded in farewell as they passed.
Outside, they headed for the SUV.
“Dan’s back at our house again, now that Freddie isn’t a threat,” Melba said, once they were inside, seat belts fastened, good to go.
“I’d be lying if I said I’m not glad that little shit streak can’t hurt my family,” Eli confessed, starting the engine. “I wouldn’t have wished Freddie dead, but I’m relieved.”
He was relieved, but for some reason, he had a niggling sense that, somehow, things were still unresolved. There was another shoe, he was sure of that, and who knew when and how it would drop?
“There’s always the chance the kid might have turned his life around at some point. Found Jesus, or something,” he said, as they rolled out of the lot and onto the highway.
“Fat chance,” Melba said. “Look at the facts, Eli. He killed that poor girl—Tiffany—you know he did. Forensics will prove it. And if he took her life, who can say he hasn’t murdered other people? Or would have, if he’d survived.”
Eli absorbed all that, weighing it in his mind—and in his gut, which seemed to have a mind of its own. “Why do you suppose he did himself in like that? He wasn’t the poster child for mental health, but this seems out of character. He had a lot of years ahead of him.”
“Sure,” Melba confirmed dryly. “Years he would have spent in prison for murder.”
“He was a narcissist, Melba, if not a straight-up psychopath. He probably thought he’d get away with killing that girl.” He paused. “If he did kill her. At least until the forensics people wrap up their investigation, everything we have is circumstantial.”
“He did it,” Melba said, with certainty. She was probably right; her instincts were good. Better than good. “But I get what you’re saying—keep my theories to myself, at least where the public is concerned, until we have something solid.”
“Yeah.”
“Mind if I brainstorm with Dan?” she asked, gazing straight ahead, at the road.
“Go ahead,” Eli said. “I plan on doing that myself, at some point.”
“He’s still trying to trace Tiffany Ulbridge’s steps back to Lubbock, or where she was before she came here.”
“Good,” Eli said.
They rode in silence for a while, each thinking their own thoughts.
After a few minutes, they passed the Painted Pony Creek Motel, looking as forlorn as ever in the rapidly fading light of day, and a couple of minutes after that, they were pulling into the Lansings’ driveway.
The stripped Christmas tree had been removed from the front walk and probably burned out back.
Fred’s car was parked outside the attached garage, and the two pit bulls were prowling the fenced area alongside the house. If food or water had been provided, the bowls were out of sight.
“Here we go,” Melba murmured, unsnapping the holster on her service belt. Although she wouldn’t have admitted it under the