Fatal Intent - Jamie Jeffries Page 0,82
of the evening talking to people about Dawn. It was amazing to learn more about Dawn’s childhood and what her friends and family thought of her. An idea began forming—how to write the third story for the Casa Grande newspaper. It would be a memorial for Dawn, rather than mentioning the Patriots.
She would weave the theme of acceptance for people despite their differences throughout the story. Maybe Mrs. Redbird was right. Maybe she was persuasive. If so, there was a larger goal here than just stopping the Patriots.
Alex lost track of time as she talked to more and more people. When the house started clearing out, she finally took out her cell phone to see what time it was. Nearly eleven! And she’d missed calls and texts from Dylan, her dad, even Lt. Watson. What was going on? She called Dylan.
~~~
It was almost like déjà vu, except for one thing, and that was Alex’s new perspective. Dylan’s explosive “Where have you been? Where are you now?” would have put her back up in the past. Something very like it had put her back up recently, in fact. It appeared her talk with her counselor, and even more recently, her determination to see things through the eyes of others and accept them stayed her temper this time.
“I’m sorry, honey. You’ve been worried, I can tell. I’m on my way home and I’ll explain when I get there, or in the morning since you should already be asleep by now. Please don’t worry.” As she babbled sentence after sentence to placate Dylan’s worry-driven anger, Alex put herself in his shoes.
She’d be angry, too. She should have left a longer text or a note at home to explain what happened and where she was going. Then, when the visit lasted longer than expected, she should have sent him a text. She certainly should have called him when she decided to stay for dinner and then talk at length with so many people afterward.
Dylan’s clipped tones told her he was still upset, even as he said he was glad she was okay and he’d see her when she got there.
Alex didn’t know what kind of reception she’d get at home, but she would do her best not to react. Dylan had a right to be concerned, even angry. She would let him know she understood, and next time she’d try to do better. During the hour it took to get home, she tried out her explanation in every way she could think of so it wouldn’t sound self-serving.
In the end, she decided to say nothing more than sorry until and unless he asked for an explanation. That way, there would be no need for ‘but’. Sorry, but I was devastated about Dawn. Sorry, but I had this amazing opportunity to get to know her better for a tribute story. Sorry, but I lost track of time. No, those were excuses. So no buts allowed. She was simply sorry.
She couldn’t promise it wouldn’t happen again. Alex only hoped Dylan could try to understand that there would be times when she wouldn’t have time to leave a note or get in touch while a story was unfolding. She wouldn’t ever escalate an argument by being overly defensive again, though. She got it. He loved her, cherished her even. The thought of her getting hurt or worse tore him up, and she needed to do her best to keep that worry at bay.
When she walked into the house, Dylan was asleep in a chair. He’d tried to wait up for her, but a five-thirty wake-up call meant midnight was far too late to stay up on a work night. Alex tiptoed past him and got herself ready for bed before going back and waking him as gently as she could. Even her lightest touch, though, startled him into violently flinching when she put her hand on his arm. He looked at her, wild-eyed and still in the grip of sleep, and then lurched up to hug her tightly, possessively. He kissed her hard and she kissed back. It would be okay now.
In the morning, Alex let Dylan sleep as long as he could, while she got the boys up and told them to get ready to go to daycare. She started the coffeepot before going back to wake Dylan just in time to get his shower, dress and have a bite to eat before leaving. She was telling the boys to go and brush their teeth when