Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(65)

Twelve miles later. Winded. Sweat-soaked. Chilled.

He finally headed for home. Footsteps tired now, but mind still churning.

He wished he could turn back the clock. He wished he could pull his finger off the trigger the second before he sighted Jimmy Gagnon's head. He wished, in fact, he'd never even heard of the Gagnons, because now, for the first time, he wasn't sure anymore what he'd seen, or why he'd done what he'd done, and that was the most frightening thing of all.

Three days later, Bobby wasn't afraid that Catherine Gagnon was a murderer. He was afraid that he was.

Bobby ran home.

He called Susan.




S HE WANTED TO meet at a coffee shop. They settled on a Starbucks downtown. Neutral territory for them both.

He spent too much time picking out his clothes. He ended up with jeans and a long-sleeved chambray shirt he remembered too late Susan had given him for Christmas. Finding his wallet, he ran into a photo of them hiking together, and that sent him into another emotional tailspin.

He exchanged the chambray shirt for a dark green jersey and headed for the Pru.

Business, he told himself. It was all about business.

Susan was already there. She'd selected a small table tucked away behind a towering display of silver-and-green logo mugs. Her hair was pulled back in a clip at the nape of her neck. Long blonde strands had already escaped, curling around her face. The moment she saw him, she started tucking the loose tendrils behind her ears, the way she always did when she was nervous. He felt an immediate pang in his chest and did his best to ignore it.

“Evening,” he said.

“Evening.”

They suffered an awkward moment. Should he bend down and kiss her on the cheek? Should she stand up and give him a friendly hug? Hell, maybe they could shake hands.

Bobby expelled another pent-up breath, then jerked his head toward the counter. “Gonna get a coffee. Need anything?”

She gestured to the giant, foam-topped mug in front of her. “I'm fine.”

Bobby hated Starbucks. He stared at the menu with its dozen different espresso drinks, trying to figure out how you could make so much money off a coffee shop that offered hardly any plain old coffee. He finally settled on a French roast the perky cashier assured him was dark but smooth.

Bobby took the oversized mug back with him to the table, noticed that his hands were shaking slightly, and frowned harder.

“So, how have you been?” he asked at last, setting down the mug, taking a seat.

“Busy. The concert and all.”

“How's it going?”

She shrugged. “The normal amount of panic.”

“Good.” He took a sip of his coffee, felt it sear a bitter trail all the way to his gut, and missed Bogey's with a passion.

“And you?” Susan asked. She still hadn't touched her drink, just kept turning it between her palms.

“Bobby?”

He forced his gaze up. “I'm hanging in there.”

“I thought you would call on Friday.”

“I know.”

“I read the paper, and I was so . . . sad. I was sad about what happened and how that must feel for you. All evening on Friday I'd thought you'd call. Then Saturday morning, I thought to check your drawer. Imagine my surprise, Bobby, when I discovered it empty.”

His gaze went to the tower of coffee mugs; her eyes bored into his face.

“You've never been the most approachable man, Bobby. I used to tell myself that was part of your appeal. The strong, silent type. A regular macho man. Well, I'm not finding it very appealing anymore, Bobby. Two years later, I deserve better than this shit.”

The unexpected curse startled Bobby into looking at her again.

Slowly, she nodded. “Yes, I swear, sometimes I even break things when I get mad. In fact, in the past two days, I've broken quite a few things. It gave me something to do before the investigators came.”

Bobby raised his coffee mug. Christ, his hand was shaking.

“Is that why you finally called, Bobby? Not out of concern for me, but because of curiosity over what the investigators said?”

“Both.”

“Fuck you!” Her control disintegrated. She was nearly crying now, pushing at her eyes with the heels of her hands, trying desperately not to make a scene in public, but failing.

“I was wrong to walk out on you on Friday,” he offered awkwardly.

“No kidding!”

“It wasn't something I planned. I woke up, I looked around . . . I panicked.”

“Did you think I couldn't take it? Is that what this is about?”

“I thought . . .” He frowned, not sure how to put it in words. “I thought you deserved better than this.”

“What a crock of shit!” Whatever he'd just said, it was the wrong thing, because now she was shaking with rage. She let go of her coffee mug and stabbed a finger at him instead. “Don't you put this on me! Don't you get all high and noble, Neanderthal male just trying to protect his little woman. That's bullshit! You ran away, Bobby. You never even gave me a chance. The going got rough and you split, plain and simple.”

Bobby's own temper started to rise. “Well, excuse me. Next time I've just shot a man, I'll be sure to put your feelings first.”

“I cared about you!”