leave.”
Quinn frowned. “Personal matter…”
I was going to let it drop, but Quinn obviously felt he had to explain. “My wife took the kids on a little vacation—without telling me. Wait, that’s not entirely accurate. She left a note.”
“Jesus, Mike, what happened?”
“We had a fight one night. Next thing I know, I come home from a double-shift and she’s gone—took the kids and hopped a plane to Orlando for a week. I come home to a note, you know? Needless to say, I panicked. One of her old boyfriends works at the Disney World resort, and I thought she’d decided to snatch the kids and leave me.”
For many months now, Mike had been confiding in me about his bad marriage. He’d gone back and forth many times on the issue of divorce. Finally, for the sake of his young kids, he’d decided to try marriage counseling.
“I thought you said the counseling was helping?”
“I thought it was. But she was obviously acting out….” He sighed in disgust. “When I got down there, it was passive aggressive central. She acted like it was some carefree family vacation that we’d planned for months. For the sake of the kids, I went along.” He shook his head. “She pulled the kids out of school, terrorized me, ran up our credit cards on first-class tickets…I left cases hanging, victims’ families…I could have strangled her.”
“I’m sorry, Mike.”
“I’ve consulted two lawyers. The estimates for a contested divorce and custody battle…” He shook his head. “You can’t imagine.”
“Believe me, I can,” I assured him. “Although I was lucky. Matt never contested my getting Joy.”
“That wouldn’t happen with me.”
“The rewards of full-time parenting outweigh the expenses.”
“Maybe so. But those attorneys still need to put their fat fees on a low-carb diet.”
“Well, look on the bright side. Lots of lawyers patronize this place. Ultimately, you’d be helping my bottom line.”
I smiled. Quinn’s grim demeanor cracked, and he laughed out loud. I laughed too, and squeezed his hand. I was about to pull it back, but he held on, caressed my fingers gently with the rough pad of his thumb. I met his eyes. What I saw there made my limbs weak.
Across the room, a throat loudly cleared. I looked up. Matteo was standing there, glaring at us. Quinn noticed. He released my hand, finished his coffee, and rose.
“I’ve got to go,” he told me. “But I’ll check back with you after I talk with this Fen character.”
“I’d appreciate that,” I whispered.
Then Quinn touched my arm. “Don’t worry, Clare. With a second murder using the same modus operandi, I predict Tucker will be out of jail in no time….”
I closed my eyes, praying he was right. “Thanks, Mike.”
Quinn gave me one last small smile. Then he was gone.
As I bussed the table, Matt approached. “What did the flatfoot want? Did he tell you he threw Tad in jail?”
I ignored the jibe, carried the cups to the coffee bar. Matt followed me behind the bar and pinned me to the counter. He tried to hug me, kiss me. But his gestures weren’t simple affection as much as raw possessiveness. Once again, I regretted the other night.
“Want to have dinner after we close up?” Matt asked. “There’s a new late-night Thai place on East Seventh.”
“Matt, I…” My voice trailed off when I noticed a scarlet smudge on my ex-husband’s collar. Lipstick, in a garish hue I would never wear.
Matt followed my eyes, found the smudge.
“Jesus, Matt,” I snapped, “we just slept together two nights ago—”
“Take it easy, Clare, this lipstick is Joy’s—”
“Joy was never here.”
“No, I ran into her on the street, an hour or so ago.”
I crossed my arms. “And I suppose you had that little talk? About Joy’s questionable friends and their drug use?”
Matteo looked away. “I didn’t have time. She said she was running late…”. He could see the doubt in my eyes. “Clare, honestly, I can explain—”
“Forget it.”
“Come on, it’s almost closing time. Give me a break.”
“I was stupid to have ever thought you’d change,” I shot back. But I didn’t really think myself stupid. I’d been smart—smart enough to have protected my heart from Matt. Smart enough to have already guessed this would happen.
“Clare!” he called as I strode away. But I just kept walking.
NINETEEN
THE next day was Saturday. I opened the shop, greeting the baker’s Yankee-jacketed delivery boy and my first customers of the morning in a near-robotic state. I couldn’t stop thinking of Tucker. I had run out of leads. Even worse, my own decidedly less than