by Katie Ruggle
“You’re not crazy.”
* * *
After he ended the call, she hovered by the door. Only seven minutes had passed when she heard his distinctive knock. Once he was inside and the doors relocked, she moved to the coffeemaker. It was as good an excuse as any to avoid looking directly at him.
“Want some?” she asked, already reaching for his daisy cup.
“Sure. Before you make it, though, show me exactly where you saw this kid last night.”
Leaving the cup on the counter, she led the way upstairs and into her bedroom. It was strange having Chris there, and her skin prickled with an odd combination of heat and goose bumps. She firmly ignored both reactions.
Kneeling on the window seat, she felt him behind her, close enough for his body heat to warm her back through her shirt.
“I saw someone move from those trees”—she pointed—“to the far side of the house. He kind of peeked around the corner, like he was checking to see if anyone was watching, and then he must’ve gone around the back of the house. The next time I saw him, he was on that side”—her pointing finger shifted—“looking in the window.”
“Did he touch the glass, could you tell?”
As she nodded, her hair brushed against his chest, catching on the buttons of his flannel shirt. “He cupped his hands on either side of his face, like he was trying to see inside better.”
“Okay.” He gathered her hair and tucked it over her shoulder, away from the snagging buttons. She turned her face toward him in surprise. “I’m going to go check things out over there.”
Daisy nodded again, her voice stuck in her throat. Chris was leaning forward slightly, his head tipped down, his eyes on hers, and he had an unreadable look on his face. It wasn’t the bad sort of unreadable, like the sheriff tended to wear. Chris looked…hungry and sad and the same sort of wistful as she’d felt the day before as she watched the three happy couples. Then he stepped away, and the look disappeared, making Daisy wonder if she’d imagined it.
After all, she’d apparently been imagining all sorts of things lately.
* * *
As Chris walked around the for-sale house, peering intently at the snow-covered ground, Daisy tried unsuccessfully not to obsess over what he was seeing. After catching herself wandering into the living room to stare at him through the window for the hundredth time, she decided that, if she was going to watch Chris anyway, she might as well have a good view. Taking the stairs two at a time, she hurried to her bedroom window.
While she’d been switching locations, Chris had stopped focusing on the ground and had turned his attention to the window the prowler had been looking through the night before. The distance made it hard to see details, but Chris had some sort of black case, about the size of a shaving kit, open on the ground next to him.
Leaning farther and farther forward, she tried to make out what he was doing. Chris was holding something dark and was moving his hand in back and forth motions over the window. It almost looked like he was painting, although, from Daisy’s vantage point, it didn’t appear that the brush was leaving anything behind on the glass.
After he finished his brushwork, he pulled a sheet of clear film off its white backing and pressed it to the glass. Peeling it off the window, he returned it to the backing, using the side of the house as a work surface. He repeated this one more time before packing up his kit and walking to his squad where it was parked in front of her house.
Daisy rushed downstairs to meet him at the door, although she was careful this time not to open the inner door too early in her excitement. Impatiently, she waited for the thud-click of the exterior door lock before untwisting the locks and freeing the chains.
“Well?” she asked as she pulled open the door.
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to let me in? Maybe make me that coffee you promised?”
Stepping back, she waved him inside. This time, she waited until the door was relocked and he’d stepped out of his boots before demanding, “What did you find?”
“The yard’s a mess,” he said, looking at the coffeemaker and back at her.
“What does that mean?” When he continued eyeing the brewer like it was a water fountain in the desert, she sighed and popped a hazelnut cup into the machine. “You know, you’re welcome to help yourself.”
“It tastes better when you make it.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Do you want to hear what I found over there or not?”
“Yes, please.” She put the daisy mug in place to catch the coffee and turned back toward Chris, making the “get on with it” gesture that she’d stolen from him.
“There are boot prints everywhere. Some I could tell were old, since they’d gone through some melting and refreezing cycles. The new ones were mostly similar to mine, so I’m assuming those are Rob’s from this morning.”
“Mostly?” Her pulse accelerated. Despite Chris’s insistence that she wasn’t crazy, the incident with the sheriff had allowed doubts to creep into her head.
“Hard to tell, but I thought I saw a few partials—very partial—of a different style of boot. The other prints almost completely covered them, though.”
“Covered them?” Daisy frowned, confused. “Like the sheriff walked on them? Why would he do that?”
Chris shrugged, his brows drawn together. “Not sure. I haven’t talked to him about this yet.”
Her stomach dipped. “Is this going to cause a problem for you? I mean, I basically shooed him away and called you to tattle. Will he be pissed?”
Scowling, Chris said, “I’m pissed. If he trampled evidence because he was determined you were imagining things, he deserves to be called out on it.”
“How do you know I wasn’t?” Although she tried to keep her voice casual, Daisy couldn’t quite manage it. “Imagining things?”
“First of all, I know you. If you said you saw someone, then there was someone there.” His matter-of-fact tone calmed her. “Secondly, I lifted a couple of handprints from the window.”
It took a second for the information to sink in. “That’s what you were doing to the window! Really? There were prints?”
He grinned as he nodded. “Both sides, as if someone had cupped his hands against the glass to look inside. And I lifted a beautiful, crystal-clear print of his right pinkie finger. He must have rolled his right hand as he took it off the glass.”
Relief flooded through her, the feeling so intense that she couldn’t breathe for a second. When her lungs started working again, she blew out a long exhale. “I’m not crazy.”
“You are not crazy. The handprints won’t be much use unless we have a suspect in custody so we can do a comparison, but I’ll send the fingerprint to the Colorado Bureau of Criminal Apprehension and have them…oof.”
Daisy looked up at his stunned face, her arms wrapped tightly around his middle. “Sorry. I know you hate it when I touch you, but I’m just so relieved that I couldn’t help myself. I’m letting you go and backing away now.” She retreated to the other side of the kitchen, unable to stop grinning, even when Chris’s surprised expression turned into a scowl.
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, what do I mean?” It wasn’t that funny, but she started giggling as she offered the filled coffee mug to Chris. He accepted it absently but didn’t take a drink, all his attention still focused on her.
“I don’t hate it when you touch me. What makes you think that?”
She shrugged. “Whenever I try to give you a hug, you jump away like you’re a cat and I’m an ocean wave.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Please.” The complete and total lie made her smirk at him. “The last time I tried to hug you, after you gave me Max, you couldn’t run away fast enough. Admit it—you’re a total hug-blocker.”
His mouth hung op
en. Daisy was tempted to close it with a finger on his chin, but she supposed she’d pushed him far enough for the day, especially since he’d come running over when she’d needed help.
“There are so many things wrong with what you just said. I’ve never run away from anything,” Chris said. Daisy hid another grin. Of course, accusing him of running off was what had tweaked him the worst. “And I’m not a hug-blocker, whatever that is.”
“Yeah, you kind of are.”
“I’m not—are you laughing?”
“Sorry. I’m not laughing at you. Well, maybe a little, but I’m mostly really happy that I’m not having hallucinations.”
His outraged expression softened. “You’re as sane as I am, Dais.” He finally took a sip of his coffee, his eyes fixed on something over her shoulder as he thought. “What’s Rob’s deal, I wonder?”
The thought of the sheriff made her stomach start churning again, in a mix of anger and apprehension. “The dispatcher said he wanted to know if I called. Isn’t that…weird?”
“It is unusual.” His thoughtful frown deepened. “I’ll check with…do you know which dispatcher you talked to last night?”
“I didn’t get a name, but she had a squeaky voice.”
Chris’s mouth quirked up in a smile. “Libby. I’ll see if she’s working tonight. Maybe she’ll know why Rob’s fixated on you.”
Her stomach lurched. “Fixated?”
Refocusing on her face, Chris shook his head. “Wrong word, sorry. I’m wondering if he’s thinking Macavoy’s going to try some moonlighting again, so Rob’s using you as his security system.”
Although she tried to smile at his weak joke, Daisy wasn’t very successful. The idea of having the sheriff’s focus on her for whatever reason was not a pleasant thought.
“Isn’t Gabe back yet?” Chris’s scowl had returned.
“Nope.” She kept her voice light. “The Connor Springs job must’ve hit a snag.”
His grunt was skeptical. “I’m back on nights now, so call me if anything comes up.”
“Will do.”
“Good.” Grabbing one of Gabe’s travel mugs from the cupboard, Chris dumped the remaining coffee from his cup into the to-go mug. “And I don’t hate it when you touch me.”
“Uh-huh.”
He rinsed the daisy mug and put it in the dishwasher. “I don’t. It just makes it…harder.”
Since his back was turned, he couldn’t see her confused expression. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing.” He blew out a breath and headed for the door. “Never mind. See you later, Dais.”
As she locked the inside door behind him, she yelled through the wood, “You are so weird, Deputy Jennings!”
If he responded, she didn’t hear him.
* * *
“He did what?!” Lou leaned forward, a teriyaki meatball hovering inches from her mouth.
Hearing the horror in the other woman’s voice made Daisy hedge her words. “It could’ve just been a case of not watching where he was stepping, I suppose.”
“He’s the sheriff,” Lou said flatly. “He was looking for evidence. That’s pretty sad if he trampled on the very boot prints he was looking for by accident.” Eyeing the meatball in front of her face as if trying to figure out how it got there, she popped it into her mouth.
“It does seem strangely incompetent of him,” Rory agreed. “He can be hard-edged, but I’ve never found Rob to be inept.”
Ellie frowned. “You don’t think Rob did that on purpose, do you? But he’s such a sweetheart. Since this whole Anderson King thing started, he’s been wonderful about lending me his deputies every time George gets called away. Plus, he organized that search for my father. I just can’t imagine him hiding evidence.”
“He’s always been upfront with me, too,” Lou added. As silence filled the room, Daisy shifted uncomfortably. These women didn’t know her very well at all. To them, she was probably still that weird shut-in. If she kept pushing, insisting that the sheriff had covered up evidence—either by accident or on purpose—Daisy would not only lose the argument, but she’d probably lose her only chance at friends, too. In a determinedly cheerful voice, she said, “Let’s talk about the Gray case.”
“Okay.” Lou hopped up from the couch and hurried over to the pile of stuff she’d dumped in the corner of Daisy’s living room. Daisy got up to help, but Lou already had an easel set up and an oversized pad of paper propped on it before Daisy even reached her.
“Is this the substitute whiteboard?” Ellie asked, smiling.
“It is.” Lou pulled out a set of markers. “Cal volunteered to bring the real one here in the back of the pickup, but with the sleeting-raining thing it’s doing outside, I didn’t want to risk having the whole thing erased by the time we got here. I needed something whiteboard-like, though. It helps me to see things written down when I’m trying to figure something out.”
“Where is Callum?” Ellie asked.
“City Council meeting.”
That was met with a chorus of groans from everyone except Daisy.
“I assume that’s bad?” she guessed.
“So boring,” Lou agreed. “If I hadn’t already had this planned, I would’ve had to make up something so I could get out of going. Speaking of that, Ellie, don’t you have search and rescue training tonight?”
“Nope. That’s George’s thing. I’d just get myself lost if I tried to find someone in the wilderness. I help him with his reports, but that’s about it.”
“Does Ian have night shift tonight?” Lou asked Rory, who nodded.
“Where’s your guy?” Ellie asked Daisy.
She blinked at the woman in confusion. “My…guy?”
“Please.” Lou chucked a marker at her, and Daisy ducked out of the projectile’s path just before it connected with her forehead. “We all saw how Deputy Chris was showing off for you on Saturday.” Her voice lowered. “‘Me big strong man, do many pull-ups.’” She finished her imitation with a grunt.
“Oh no!” Despite herself, Daisy felt her cheeks getting red. “We’re not… Chris and I are just friends.” Ellie and Lou snorted laughter, making her face even hotter. Even Rory looked like she was holding back a smile.
“Friends,” Lou said, “do not look at their friends like your cop looks at you.”
“She’s right.” Ellie reached over from where she was sitting in one of the armchairs and squeezed Daisy’s hand. “Chris couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. And his expression goes all…smooshy when he’s looking at you.”
Daisy was pretty sure she’d be able to toast a marshmallow on her face, it was burning so hotly. “No, really. We’ve never stepped out of the ‘friends’ box. He doesn’t even like it when I give him a hug.”
“Maybe he likes it too much.” Lou was doing something weird with her eyebrows as she said it.
“What’s wrong with your face?” Rory asked, squinting at Lou.
“Can we talk about dead people now?” Daisy asked quickly.
“Fine.” Lou didn’t sound happy about it. “But trust us on this—Deputy Chris wants you.”
Shaking her head, Daisy let it drop. It was too embarrassing to tell them about all the times Chris refused to let her touch him. A subject change was definitely in order. Besides, it would be nice to think about something other than her own drama for a while. “Could you recap what you’ve learned so far? Chris gave me the highlights, but he’s not really able to share much.”
Lou grabbed a blue marker and uncapped it with a flourish. “Sure. It helps to go over everything again, anyway. I see new connections that way.” She sketched a line of blue spikes.
“What are those?” Rory asked.
“Waves.” She drew some stick people next to the squiggly lines.
“Really?”
Lou glared at Rory. “Yes
. I accept that I am not an artist, okay? If you are going to be judgmental, then you can be the draw-er.”
“Why are you drawing pictures?” Ellie asked. “We’re all literate. You can use, you know, words.”
“Fine.” Lou sighed, scribbling beneath the feet of the stick people. “Everyone’s a critic. So, Willard Gray was a Vietnam vet who lived by himself in a run-down cabin at the edge of Simpson. According to town gossip—which is kind of hit-and-miss as far as accuracy—he kept to himself, except when the Esko Hills home development was about to be built next to his property a few years ago. He de-hermit-ified long enough to attend a few City Council meetings to protest the new construction, but the homes were built, and he retreated back to his cabin, shaking his angry fists.” Lou picked up her glass from the coffee table and took a drink. Placing the water back on its coaster, she looked around at the other women. “How am I doing so far?”
“This matches what I’ve heard about him,” Rory said.
“Good. So, sometime between last fall and this past January, someone kills Willard, cuts off his head and hands, and tosses him into Mission Reservoir. In early March, a lucky, lucky dive team volunteer manages to find the body during an ice-rescue training exercise.”
With a cough that might have been disguising a laugh, Rory interjected, “She kicked him.”
Frowning, Lou turned her glare onto Rory. “Ian is rubbing off on you, and not in a good way.”
Widening her eyes in mock-innocence, Ellie asked, “So, you didn’t kick poor Willard’s corpse?”
“Not really relevant.” Lou sent all three women a warning look, which Daisy didn’t feel she deserved. Until that moment, she hadn’t known about Lou’s method of corpse-discovery. “Moving on. We didn’t have a name for the victim at first, since his…um, missing parts made identification tricky. I felt sort of responsible for the poor dead guy, since I…discovered him—don’t say it!”
Ellie and Rory gave her innocent looks.
“So, I started trying to find out who this guy was. Once Cal and I figured out the ‘Willard’ part, Chris was able to ID him as Willard Gray, Simpson’s resident grumpy hermit.”