When She Dreams (Burning Cove #6)(86)

He went silent for a moment, sorting through the bits and pieces of the past that he stored in his personal mental attic.

“It’s messy,” he warned.

“So was my story, if you will recall.”

“I told you I used to be a homicide cop in L.A. I led a small team that rescued a woman who had been kidnapped for ransom. Elizabeth was the daughter of a wealthy industrialist. Afterward she decided I was a hero. I liked being one. It didn’t hurt that she was beautiful and glamorous and exciting.”

“The two of you fell in love?”

“Or something that felt like love. Her parents objected, of course. Mine were not exactly enthusiastic, either. We ran off to Reno to get married. It was a mistake. Her family was furious. They were sure I was after her money.”

“What about your family?”

“My parents have a farm in Washington State, just outside of Walla Walla. They’re big on common sense. They knew the marriage was headed for disaster, but after the deed was done they tried to be supportive. Things started falling apart right at the start. It rapidly became apparent I didn’t fit in with Elizabeth’s high-society crowd and she didn’t approve of my job.”

“She fell for a hero and then discovered heroes come with a side of reality,” Maggie said. “You were enchanted with the beautiful princess you saved and then found out that princesses are real people, too.”

“You sound like an advice columnist,” he said.

“I do, don’t I?”

“Things went from fantasy to reality in a matter of months. Elizabeth wanted me to quit my job and take a position in her father’s company. I declined. Couldn’t see myself sitting in an office all day long working on budgets, marketing, contracts, and all the rest of the stuff that goes with business. Elizabeth’s parents insisted on giving us a very nice, very big house. Elizabeth redid my wardrobe so that I wouldn’t embarrass her at social gatherings.”

Maggie smiled. “But you managed to do that anyway.”

He held up one finger. “Another lucky guess. As I was saying, things continued on a downward trajectory. Then I got saddled with the Chichester case. Still listening? Let me know if I’m boring you.”

“I’m riveted,” Maggie said.

“Why?”

“I’m always intrigued by drama, real or fictional. Character flaw.”

“Because you’re a writer?”

“Yep. And don’t try to tell me you don’t have the same quirk.”

He turned his head to look at her. “What makes you say that?”

“Simple. You became a cop, and now you’re a private detective. Talk about career paths that are focused on human drama. What makes us different from other people is that we are compelled to find answers and fix the problems that create the drama. We want to somehow make things right. I try to do it in my writing. You do it every time you take a case.”

He considered that for a long moment. “Hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“Go on with your story.”

“There’s not much more to tell. I was assigned to what became known as the Bloody Scarf Murders. The killer sliced his victims to death with a knife, soaked scarves in their blood, and tied them around the women’s throats.”

“I remember the headlines,” Maggie said.

“There were a lot of them after I arrested Chichester. He was out on bail within hours. The family was furious. He managed to find the address of the house where I had been living with Elizabeth. He planned to murder her. It was his idea of punishing me. But she had moved back into her parents’ mansion by then. I was the only one in the house. Chichester came after me instead. He had a knife. There was a struggle. I used the coatrack to defend myself. In the end we fought for control of the damn thing. I won.”

“That explains why I couldn’t sort out the sources of the shadows on the coatrack,” Maggie said, looking satisfied. “You both handled it during the struggle.”

He let that go. “Elizabeth went to Reno. I moved out of the house. Six weeks later we were divorced. I picked up my last paycheck and moved to Adelina Beach. Took the wardrobe and the coatrack with me. That’s it, the whole story, and if it winds up in a confession magazine or in that novel you’re writing—”

“I told you, I always change the names to protect the innocent.”

“Somehow that does not reassure me.”

She smiled. “But it doesn’t scare the daylights out of you.”

“Don’t be too sure of that.”

“I don’t frighten you, do I?”

“I seem to recall telling you that you were hard on the nerves.”

“But you’ve got nerves of steel.”

“Maybe not steel.”

Maggie watched him, her eyes unreadable behind the sunglasses. “For the record, you don’t scare me, either.”

He put his glass down on the table, sat up on the edge of the lounge chair, reached out, and used both hands to remove her sunglasses. There was no laughter in her eyes. She was intent. Serious. Determined.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he said.

“It means I trust you.”

“That’s good,” he said. “That’s very nice.”