Spells Trouble (Sisters of Salem #1) - P. C. Cast Page 0,47
quite remember how he should respond. The Trish memories were fading away.
“It was awful.” She parted the uncomfortable silence and waded closer to him. Warmth rolled off her like she was freshly baked bread. “Old Earl Thompson finally stumbled onto something real and it killed him.” She shook her head. Her red curls bounced, tossing a spicy sweetness into the air.
Pie? Was that it?
His heart clamored and the tips of his fingers tingled. His body remembered something his mind no longer knew.
“I threw out the Ruckus Report.” She leaned in. Her breath fogged the gold star pinned to his chest. “Didn’t think it was right to keep it since he’s no longer with us. Maybe it wasn’t the right thing to do to begin with.”
Another shake of her head. Another swirl of sugar and spice.
He brushed the tip of his nose against her curls. “Cinnamon,” he murmured as a crumb of memory rolled into focus. “You bake when you’re upset.”
Dearborn’s memories faded in and out and would soon leave his mind altogether. But some memories stayed with the body. Things like driving, shooting, not to turn his head too quickly to the left. In a lifetime long before Dearborn, he’d been a brilliant painter. But that had ended in blood and tears and more stains on his immortal soul.
Trish pressed her notepad against her chest and took a wobbly step back. “Frank, I—” She fanned herself with her free hand and fluffed the round tips of her chin-length curls. “Well, I’m not quite sure what to say.” Her cheeks flamed strawberry red as she cast a glance around the bullpen.
He followed her attention, eyes narrowed and fists clenched while he took in all the darting glances and quick returns to computer monitors, stacks of paperwork, and phone calls. There had been something between Sheriff Dearborn and this Trish woman, but that was a different person, a different life. Frank Dearborn had never learned the truth about love and happiness and the pain they both brought. Now he wouldn’t allow this body or these fleeting memories to betray him again.
Trish held out the notepad and tapped at the list of names and phone numbers she’d written under two column headings: ASAP and After Lunch. “I know you’d rather not fiddle with that computer program to read your call-back list, but they’re in there, too, if you’re so inclined.”
Although she couldn’t see through his mirrored sunglasses, he kept his eyes narrowed as he snatched the notepad from her hand. He wouldn’t pine after Trish. Whatever Dearborn had had with her was over, dead.
Trish fiddled with the cap of her glittery pen. “Need another cup of coffee, Sheriff? I have a sneaking suspicion you’re hiding some pretty dark circles under those glasses.”
A dry tickle tightened the back of his throat and his stomach seized again. Only one thing could ease his pain and quiet this restless body. He had to get away from this woman, all of these people, the hot, circulated air, and the overhead lights.
Trish rested her warm hand against his bicep. “Frank, are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine,” he croaked. He’d done nothing but lie since he’d arrived. This body knew it, and it wanted him gone.
Wet coughs tore from his lungs, a thousand molten nails searing the inside of his ribs. Frank Dearborn isn’t here! he shouted at the battle lines carved inside his chest, his gut. He’s never coming back!
Trish steadied him as another barking explosion ripped through him. More hands were on him, different voices shouting concerns, solutions, all guiding him toward his office door. He planted his feet and sucked in a haggard breath. “I’m fine,” he repeated and jerked his arms away from the horde. “Just need—” His chest quaked as he swallowed back another coughing fit. “Just need some air.” He rubbed his sweaty palms against his shirt and searched for an escape. He spotted the nearest illuminated EXIT sign, fisted his hands, and blinked past the water swirling across his good eye.
“I’ll go get you that coffee, Sheriff.” Trish’s shoes clicked as she turned and clapped her hands at the crowd. “Back to work, everyone. Back to work.”
He didn’t look back as he marched to the precinct’s rear exit. Their concern would do him no good. Bodies like this yearned to be reattached to their soul or given back to the earth. Bodies like Frank Dearborn’s made his curse that much more unbearable. This body couldn’t be fixed. It had to be fed.