by Nora Roberts
at first.”
“Don’t you worry about that. You came down to take pictures?”
“Yes. I often do. I—we—I mean the dog and I walked from the house, through the forest. I spent some time in there getting photos, but I wanted to take some here. After the rain. There was a boat with a red sail, and Tag had the shoe. A woman’s pink heel. I don’t know what he did with it.”
Sam took the water bottle out of her jacket pocket, handed it to her. “You have a little water now, honey.”
“All right.”
“You didn’t see anybody else?”
“No. He kept barking and whining, but I didn’t pay any attention because I wanted the shot. Then I yelled at him, and turned. And I saw her. I went a little closer, to be sure. And I could see . . . So I called the police. I called you, and I called Xander.”
“I want to take her up to the house. I want to take her away from here.”
“You do that.” Sam gave Naomi’s shoulder a light rub. “You go on home now. I’m going to check in with you before I go.”
Xander took her hand, kept it firm in his as they started up the track. She didn’t speak until they were in the trees.
“I hurt her.”
“Naomi.”
“I hurt her on Friday night, at the bar. I meant to. And she walked out of there with her wrist aching, her pride ripped up, and her temper leading her. Otherwise, she’d have left with her friend.”
“I looked at you instead of her. You want me to feel guilty about that, to try to work some blame up because it was you, not her? This isn’t about you and me, Naomi. It’s about the son of a bitch who did this to her.”
It was the tone as much as the words that snapped her back. The raw impatience with anger bubbling beneath.
“You’re right. Maybe that’s why I needed to call you. I wouldn’t get endless there-there’s and poor Naomis from you. That sort of thing just makes it all worse. And it’s not about me.”
“Finding her’s about you. Having to see that’s about you. You don’t want any poor Naomis, I’ll keep them to myself, but goddamn, I wish you’d gone anywhere else to take pictures this morning.”
“So do I.”