In Her Tracks (Tracy Crosswhite #8)(77)

She thought of her conversation with Art Nunzio in his office. “Because somebody needs to speak for that little girl. Somebody needs to be her voice.”

“Because somebody needs to give a shit,” Walsh said. “I think that’s how you put it.”

Tracy smiled, thinking of Nunzio. “I do. I can’t help that.”

“And you can’t help worrying about those you love,” Walsh said. “So, what’s wrong with caring?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing.” Walsh smiled. “It’s a mother’s instinct to worry about her daughter; for a wife to worry about a husband. Unfortunately, because of what you do, you see horrible things happen to young girls and young women. You’ve got to learn to separate the two—your profession and your life.”

“I thought I did.”

“You told me you became a detective to find your sister, that you made it your profession and therefore that one was integral to the other. What you experience in your profession does not mean it is going to happen to you or those that you love. Statistically speaking, it is far less likely. Lightning rarely ever strikes twice in the same place. Almost never,” Walsh said with a smile. “So rather than asking ‘Can I do this job?’ you should ask ‘Do I want to continue doing this job?’”



Tracy beat Dan home. She planned to cook him a nice dinner and to try to relax. She’d called Therese on the way and had her remove chicken breasts from the freezer and defrost them in the microwave, then start rice in the cooker. She’d make Dan chicken marsala, one of his favorite meals.

When she arrived at home, she found everything as she had asked, except Daniella, who was fussy and didn’t want to be put down or ignored. Therese offered to stay, but she’d already worked late three days and she had her painting class. Tracy sent her off.

When Dan got home, Tracy had the parsley, mushrooms, and garlic on the kitchen counter and the chicken breasts in the pan, but she hadn’t been able to get any further. She was pacing, walking Daniella.

“She’s fussy,” Tracy said. “Maybe she has a tooth coming in.”

“You want me to take her?”

“And she’s hungry.”

“I can give her a bottle. What’s cooking?”

“Nothing at the moment; it was going to be chicken marsala, but I haven’t gotten that far. I was hoping to surprise you.” She sighed. “Surprise.”

Dan smiled. “You’ve activated my taste buds and it sounds too good to not follow through. I’ll handle it from here.”

Tracy’s smile waned as Dan went into the kitchen and started to cut and dice. “Things are different, aren’t they?” she asked.

“Sure they are,” Dan said, chopping parsley.

“Better?”

He stopped the knife in midstroke and looked at her. “What’s the matter? What’s bothering you?”

She told Dan about the panic attack in her office and her visit with Lisa Walsh.

“Everything okay now? Is there anything I can do?” Dan asked.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Really. Lisa just made me realize that Daniella has already changed our lives.”

Dan nodded and smiled, but it looked uncertain. “But . . .”

“No buts . . . just . . . different,” Tracy said. “A family.”

He looked at the chicken. “Look, if we’re being honest, I missed lunch and ate a sandwich at my desk about half an hour ago, so I was going to suggest we have something light and read by the fire.”

Tracy laughed. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

“Because I could tell you went to a lot of trouble and that this meal was important to you. So, I was going to keep my mouth shut, at least when I wasn’t forcing chicken marsala down my throat. Are you hungry?”

“Not particularly.”

“Why don’t we save the chicken marsala for tomorrow? Unless you’d like to watch me split my pants.”

The back door opened and Therese walked in. She dropped her keys on the counter with a clang.

“What are you doing back?” Tracy asked. “I thought you have painting class.”

“I did,” she said. “Until it started snowing.”

Tracy and Dan moved to look out the windows. Snowflakes floated gently to the ground.

“It’s not real heavy, but the teacher sent a text saying it’s supposed to get worse.” Therese looked at the food on the counter. “I can see you were planning an evening alone. I’ll just grab something and go on back to my room so as not to intrude on your alone time.”

“There isn’t going to be a lot of alone time,” Tracy said. “Not for the next eighteen years.”

“Tell me about it. You have just the one. My parents had the seven of us. I shared a room with two sisters my entire life.”

“Not sure how your mom did it?” Tracy asked.

“She didn’t do it alone. I can tell you that.”

“What do you mean?” Tracy asked.

“We looked out for one another, my siblings and me. The oldest helped to raise the youngest.” Therese looked to be contemplating something. “It was just natural, really, especially among me and my sisters. My brothers were lazy lots, but . . . Have you thought about a sister for Daniella?”