By Your Side

by Candace Calvert

  Fletcher waited. There had to be more. She’d made an appointment to have that tattoo removed.

  Her wistful expression closed down. “Nonni died, no warning. The house was auctioned off. The kids . . . We all went different places. Then Leah . . .”

  Was brutally raped. And you took up kickboxing.

  “Well.” She gave a short laugh, waved her hand as if to erase the pain of what she’d shared. “Guess that will teach you to ask a girl about a tat, Deputy Holt.”

  “Sir.” The waiter set their check down and Macy immediately reached for it.

  “Oh no, you don’t,” Fletcher warned, entering into what became a small tug-of-war. “I invited you.”

  “Too many times,” she insisted, adjusting her grip.

  “You’re complaining?”

  “No.” The amber eyes met his, making it nearly impossible to continue to wrestle—good thing she wasn’t a perp going for his gun. “I meant that you’re too generous, Fletcher. I’d like to get this, do that this time.” Macy shot him a look. “If you’re worried my credit card will be denied and you’ll have to wash dishes, relax. I’m packing cash. Tons.”

  “Win the lottery?” he teased. “Secret heiress?”

  “Maybe. Something like that.” Her expression was unreadable. “Let me do this, Fletcher. Please.”

  “I don’t know . . .” He stayed quiet for a moment as one of the restaurant staff lit the small stone fireplace nearest them; flames rose and warmed the cool breeze. He was reminded once again that he was far, far from humid and sultry south Texas. Reminded, too, that Macy Wynn was unlike any woman he’d known. So independent, self-assured. He admired it, but pay for the check? That was going too far.

  “If it helps my case,” she wrangled, leaning back toward the heat, “I ordered more food than you did—remember the oyster sampler?”

  Raw on the half shell, barbecue, and smoked. Macy had enjoyed them like a California otter cracking an abalone over its belly. She’d followed that with a Dungeness crab Louis, then the macadamia nut–crusted Alaskan halibut. A pescatarian fantasy, no doubt. She’d discreetly checked the right-hand column of the Scott’s Seafood menu and then savored every single bite of her order. It had been a beautiful sight. He smiled. “I remember the oysters.”

  “So . . . ?” Macy held up the check.

  “Sorry. Can’t let it happen.”

  She tilted her head. “I buy dessert?”

  “Well . . . sure,” Fletcher conceded, impressed she had room for it. “I’ll call the waiter back and—”

  “No. Not here,” Macy interrupted with a slow smile. “We’ll go to Midtown. Rick’s Dessert Diner. Great, funky, retro spot—glass display cases, checkerboard floor, vinyl upholstered booths—with like two hundred or more desserts.” The tip of her tongue sneaked across her lower lip. “Chocolate strawberry fudge cake, toasted pecan coconut cake, fudge fantasy. And pies: key lime, apple blackberry, chocolate peanut butter . . . Cheesecakes, tarts, brûlées, cobblers . . . The air reeks of buttercream.”

  Fletcher smiled, enjoying the uncensored bliss on her face. He slid the dinner check from her fingers. “What are we waiting for? You’re on.”

  Taylor daubed a sweet potato fry in ketchup, then met Seth’s gaze across the vinyl-top table. She raised her voice above the summer evening chatter of the café crowd. “Thank you. I needed to dilute that painful situation with comfort food gluttony.”

  Seth’s smile was kind, his brown eyes as warm as the molten fudge brownie she was tempted to add to her order. “I thought a little comfort was in order. Care for the caregivers. How are you doing now?”

  There was no skirting the truth with Chaplain Donovan.

  “Better, I think. It was hard not to cry in front of that poor woman,” Taylor admitted, remembering the pain in the new widow’s eyes.

  “There’s no rule against that,” Seth reminded her gently. “We’re only human.”

  “I know.” Taylor sighed. “It’s just that . . . her husband dying out there on that lake, no warning and no chance to say good-bye. It was almost like . . .” She lowered her gaze, toyed with a fry.

  “It was too much like what happened with Greg.”

  She met Seth’s gaze, nodding. Words weren’t an option.

  “I’d be surprised if it didn’t bring that back, Taylor. There’s no way around it.” He set his coffee down and released a sigh. “August will be almost five years since my wife passed, and I’ve probably been on a couple hundred activations since. Community situations and tragedies within the law enforcement and fire family. Drownings, crib deaths, officer-involved shootings, teen suicides. I’m a seasoned volunteer. But to this day, whenever I’m called to make a hospital visit, I get one whiff of that antiseptic smell and I’m right back there in Camille’s room. I’m watching her fight that cruel cancer pain—and feeling so blasted helpless to fix it.” He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out the familiar package of Kleenex stamped with the chaplaincy logo. “These things will work for us too, Taylor. Trust me on that.”

  Taylor would bet there were few people more worthy of trust than this man. People felt comfortable with him, like he had wide enough shoulders to share anybody’s burden. It’s what made him such a great crisis chaplain, why officers and firefighters hung around his family’s uniform store long after they’d purchased their pair of pants or that new flashlight. Seth Donovan invited folks’ confidences because he listened without judging.

  “You did great out there,” he told her. “And now that we’ve slid that heart on your sleeve—” he pointed toward the front of her shirt—“back up where it’s safer, you get to be proud of yourself for getting through your very first death notification. You made a difference today, Taylor. That’s good.” He peeled the wrapper from an antacid tablet. “Your call will be added to the monthly debriefing, of course. But informally, can I answer any questions or concerns?”

  “I . . . May I ask something personal?”

  “Sure.” He set the tablet on his plate. “Ask away.”

  “It’s just . . .” Taylor’s breath snagged. “How long did it take?”

  “For what?”

  “To stop feeling so lost . . . alone?” She heard the pain in her voice, knew there was no way Seth could miss it either. “After your wife died. How long did it take until things got better?”

  His smile was like a hug. “I think everyone’s different, Taylor. I leaned pretty heavily on God. I’ve let him pick me up and throw me over his shoulder more than a few times—still do. And time does help. It will get better.” He nodded. “Friends are good medicine.”

  “Yes.” She wrinkled her nose. “And they can be a pain too. All the ‘You should get out more’ hints and those awkward ‘At least you’re still young; you’ll find someone else’ lines that are supposed to be hopeful.” She groaned. “Someone even e-mailed me a link to widow’s etiquette. When to stop wearing your wedding ring and how soon is too soon to date.” Taylor shook her head.

  “All that ‘help’ that feels so insensitive.”

  “Exactly.” She met Seth’s gaze, grateful. And wondered if he too had struggled over that ridiculously painful decision to change his Facebook status from married to single. He kept his personal life pretty private, but she’d heard he was dating a forensic tech. “I’m determined to move on,” Taylor added, “but I guess I resent being told how and when.”

  “Well . . .” Seth’s eyes held hers. “No worries. I’m not the kind of friend who’s going to preach grief etiquette. And I’m only going to make one important suggestion.”

  Taylor lifted her brows.

  “The molten fudge brownie.”

  “I can’t believe you actually knew the counter girl at the Dessert Diner.” Macy studied Fletcher as he maneuvered the Jeep Wrangler into the turn lane that would bring them closer to her neighborhood. They’d passed the Southside Bank a mile or so back and she’d purposely found something to look at on the other side of the street. “And
don’t try to convince me that your pie slice wasn’t half again bigger than mine. I thought she was going to strain a muscle lifting it.”

  “Coincidence on all counts,” he insisted, smile lines creasing his rugged profile. “Like she said, I met her once at her son’s school when we responded to a bomb threat. A prank fortunately. We only talked a little, but I guess she remembered me.”

  Who wouldn’t? Macy was grateful her memories had moved from the realm of sniper incidents to . . . this. Whatever this was.

  “If my pie slice was bigger,” he conceded, “it’s because most business owners appreciate having law enforcement officers on-site. Simple as that.”

  “Makes sense.” Macy glanced at the badge and weapon secured to his belt, more visible now that he’d slung his jacket over the seat. “You never know when a layer cake heist will go down.” She laughed at Fletcher’s groan. “Seriously, you always carry that gun when you’re not working?”

  “Bad guys don’t take days off.”

  “Good point.”

  Macy pushed down the nagging sense of foreboding that had been dogging her for several days. It made little sense since there had been no news regarding the freeway sniper. Only coverage of the bank employee’s funeral service and an interview with the paralyzed security guard. She’d muted the TV for both.

  “One of my roommates is away doing her insane weekend work marathon. And Sally’s probably sleeping before her night shift,” Macy told him, noticing that they were about to turn onto her street. She couldn’t deny she was reluctant for the evening to end. It had been great, and there was something so nice about the way he’d taken hold of her hand as they walked to the car from the dessert place. “You’d have to put up with the Dood, but I have some good organic coffee beans. And clean cups—a minor miracle. It’s not really that late. . . .”

  “Thanks. I’d like—” Fletcher suddenly braked the Jeep four houses down from hers. He hunched forward, staring into the shadows between the streetlights. “See that car?”

  “Where?”

  “There, across the street. With the running lights—no headlights?”

  “Yeah.” The foolish foreboding came back. “Why?”

  “Recognize it?” Fletcher inched the car forward, his gaze never leaving the vehicle across from them. “Older-model dark sedan—Buick, looks like. Have you seen it before?”

  “No. I mean, I don’t think so. Not that I remember.” Macy’s words escaped in a confused stagger. “Why? Do you think there’s something wrong with—?”

  “Wait.” Fletcher stiffened, reached for the window button as the sedan’s headlights came on. “You have your house key?”

  “Yes. But what’s going on?”

  Fletcher stuck his head out the window, craning his neck. “I need to check the guy out. I don’t like the way this feels.” He unfastened his seat belt and reached down to touch his holster.

  Macy’s breath sucked inward.

  “He’s pulling away,” Fletcher told her, stepping on the gas. “Be ready to get out. I’ll drive to your porch. You’re safe. Go straight into the house, lock the door.” He roared up her driveway, hit the brakes. “Go, Macy!”

  She threw off her seat belt and jumped from the car. Once she hit the porch, she turned to look over her shoulder—as Fletcher whipped the Jeep around, tires squealing in pursuit.

  32

  “I’M SORRY,” Fletcher told her, settling onto the couch. “I got caught up with things and lost track of time.” He noticed she’d changed her clothes, the dress replaced by those pants she’d worn at Yosemite and a sort of thin, lacy pink sweater and flip-flops. Her hair was pulled into a loose knot. “Am I keeping you up?”

  “No. It’s fine.” Macy sat beside him, drew one long leg up. “I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway after all that happened with that car.” She tried for a casual shrug. Didn’t pull it off very well. “I mean, I wasn’t sure where you’d gone or what was happening.”

  “I’m sorry,” Fletcher repeated, recognizing the look in her eyes. Worry, even fear maybe. Though she’d try to hide that like a champ; he was sure of it. He should have come back here sooner. “I wish I hadn’t put you through that. But I can’t promise it won’t happen again. It’s that whole thing we talked about earlier—bad guys not taking a day off. And cops needing to be prepared.”

  “Like ER nurses. There’s a CPR face shield and a pocket mask in my glove compartment. Somewhere under an avalanche of energy bars and hair bands.” Macy met Fletcher’s gaze. “Was it him, the shooter?”

  “We don’t know yet.” Fletcher knew he could only say so much, though she was obviously worried. For good reason. “The fact that he took off like a bat out of—folks don’t do that for no reason. The headlights off. No bulb on the rear license plate. I got close enough to hit the plate with my headlights and got a partial. And I snapped a couple of decent pics with my phone. Then I lost him in traffic when I was calling it in to the comm center.” He frowned. “But it’s something to work on. The car fits the general description. And this location . . .” Fletcher stopped himself.

  “My neighborhood.” The pink sweater sagged to expose a bare shoulder as Macy hugged her arms across herself. “My bank . . .” She glanced toward the door. “It’s all in his target area. Should I be expecting detectives again?”

  “No. Not tonight,” Fletcher said gently. “I told them I’d be here. But I’m sure your neighbors are fielding some questions right about now.”

  “What do you think? Do you think it was him?”

  “I think it’s very possible. The description and partial plate information went out to all units.” He couldn’t tell her that the FBI had expressed keen interest in his photos, especially the one that seemed to show a defect in the Buick’s trunk—a round hole. More than large enough for a rifle barrel. When the media got ahold of that, there would be immediate and endless comparisons to the 2003 West Virginia shootings. “We’ll know more soon. I really don’t have anything more than that, Macy.”

  She was quiet for a moment, arms still hugged across her sweater. When she finally spoke, it was barely over a whisper. “Where the car was parked . . . did they find oil?”

  “Yes.”

  It took her a few minutes to put together the coffee she’d promised earlier, and meanwhile she heard Fletcher occupying himself with Dood. Macy had banished the dog to a bedroom after arriving home, for fear he’d wake Sally. She didn’t want him to go completely bonkers, barking again like he had when she was getting dressed for dinner. Long before Elliot showed up.

  Was the shooter out there then? Her stomach shuddered. And then there was the oil. That puddle at the church across from the bank, then at the hospital . . . and here now, on her street. It could still all be coincidence. But it was far too close for comfort. And explained the nagging and dark sense of foreboding plaguing her for days.

  Stop it.

  Macy poured the richly scented coffee into her roommate’s Seriously? mug, grabbed her own cup of green tea, and carried them toward the living room, reminding herself of what Fletcher said: they didn’t know if the car tonight belonged to the shooter. It was possible, but not certain. There was no reason for her to be paranoid. Prior to Fletcher’s action-movie stunt, she’d had a great evening and anticipated a far different ending. More along the lines of quiet conversation and a little more hand-holding. All of which might still be possible. Even with detectives grilling her neighbors.

  And the fact that her very good-looking date . . . just set a gun holster on the coffee table?

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Fletcher told her, moving the weapon aside so she could put the cups down. “This couch sort of sinks.”

  “Not a problem,” Macy managed, despite a rising laugh.

  “What’s funny?”

  “This.” She shook her head. “Me, with you.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Police officers were part of my early education.” She dunked her tea bag a few times, dec
ided the story was more entertaining than pitiful. “When I was six—that last year with my mother—we spent a lot of time sleeping in our car.” Macy saw Fletcher wince. “It wasn’t so bad. It was a big gas-guzzler, had a working radio, and was roomy. We didn’t have a lot of stuff. Mom . . . she knew how to make any situation feel like a Disneyland commercial. And a life lesson. The cops were part of acting improv.”

  “Acting?” He regarded her over the coffee mug.

  “That’s right. Mom taught me the drill when it came to dealing with law enforcement. She always said, ‘If you need your life saved, trust them with that, Macy. But with anything else, you have to remember the cops are all about doing their jobs—upholding the law. So if we find ourselves a teeny bit on the other side of that line, we need to put on our show faces.’” Macy sighed as a high-gloss magazine image of her mother came to mind. Spectacularly Nordic.

  Fletcher met her gaze, waiting.

  “If we were sleeping in the car and a cop rapped on the window or shone his flashlight, it was my cue. I talked first. I did it exactly the way Mom coached me—two scenarios. First, if the officer was kind-looking, I’d roll down the window, sit up straight—” Macy pulled her shoulders back—“smile, and say, ‘We’re moving to Grandma’s house in Tiburon. I brought my clothes and all my toys . . .’ But if the officer was grouchy-looking, I’d clutch my little hands to my chest, make my eyes as wide as I could, and say, ‘My uncle Bob is a policeman too. In Wyoming. He catches the bad guys and makes sure all the children are safe.’”