Memories of Us by Linda Winfree Read Free Book Online Page A

yourself.”
    “I’m not doing anything to myself. I’m fine.”
    “Sure you are.” Rhett lifted his chin in a silent challenge Tom ignored.
    He changed the subject. “How’s Amarie?”
    Rhett moved his shoulders, both hands waffling in his silent I-don’t-want-to-talk-about-it gesture. A bad day, then. Probably a bad week. Tom dropped his gaze for a moment. At least he’d lost Everett quickly, hadn’t had to sit back and watch him fade slowly, painfully away. Amazing to think there’d been anything close to a blessing in the rapid way SIDS had stolen his son.
    “So do Celia and Cook have anything on this case?”
    Rhett’s deep voice pulled him back to awareness. Tom exhaled hard. “Not much. The only suspect they had committed suicide while in custody this morning. Nothing on the car, nothing on where that baby came from.”
    Mouth tight, Rhett shook his head. “Watch it go cold.”
    “Yeah.” Tom grimaced. He hated the idea of that baby slipping into the nothingness of a cold-case file. Fuck, Rhett was right—he let himself grow too personally involved in each and every one of these situations.
    “I’ll get out of here and let you get back to—”
    “McMillian?” Celia spoke from the doorway, her voice cool. He tensed, every nerve ending going on alert. A matching strain tightened her posture, as it had since they’d left Moultrie. No, before that, since he’d accused her of being involved with Cook. Her blue gaze flickered between him and Rhett. “I’m sorry. The door was open and I didn’t realize you were in a meeting.”
    “We were just shooting the bull.” Rhett pushed up from his chair. “Come on in. I’ve got some calls to make.”
    Celia shifted to allow him to pass into the hallway. Tom folded his hands on his desk. “Did you need something?”
    “I’m leaving for the day. I’ll be over at the sheriff’s department if you need me.” She met his gaze head-on, a cynical smile playing about her mouth. “I don’t have anything new to report.”
    Something about the exchange niggled at him, almost as though she was mocking him, distancing herself. Pulling back, just like Kathleen. His spine went ramrod straight. The comparison was fucking ridiculous.
    There was no comparison. One woman had been his wife, cutting him out of her life. The other was his employee, maintaining a professional distance. So the visceral reaction he had to Celia’s shutting down was nothing more than annoyance with her reticence.
    He pulled the brief forward again and lowered his gaze. “Let me know when you do.”
    At his transparent dismissal, silence pulsed in the room for long seconds.
    “Of course.” Her words held a distinct chill. Moments later, the door closed behind her with a soft, final snick.

    Early evening shadows stretched across small, perfectly coifed lawns. With the stress of the day tugging at his neck, Tom pulled to a stop at the curb and squinted at the wooden sign swinging from chains on a large front porch. The Bell, Candle and Broomstick. Maybe he had the wrong place. He glanced at the other homes—colorful, renovated mill houses holding antique shops, a trendy down-home restaurant, a handful of clothing stores, a casual nightclub. He knew the area, a popular neighborhood where the proprietors lived in rooms behind or above their shops.
    He just hadn’t realized Celia lived here.
    At least he hoped he had the right address. His nerves still jangled from being in that autopsy lab, and if he was honest, from the weird tension that had drifted between him and Celia throughout the day. All he wanted was to pick up the file his administrative assistant was sure Celia had and go home. Maybe do some laps. Have a Scotch. Read the huge brief that idiot trying to defend himself had sent over.
    Is that really what you want?
    No. Tom closed his eyes. He wanted to see her, away from the office, to look into those crystal blue eyes and get another glimpse of the woman beneath the cool