Chapter 2

Josie Quinn's kitchen looked like the scene of a massacre. Thick red liquid oozed into the grout between the kitchen tiles. Splatters had formed an intricate pattern across her kitchen cabinets. Scarlet fluid dripped from the knobs of the drawers and slashed across the white door of the refrigerator. Something wet landed in Josie's hair. She reached up, using an index finger to probe her black locks. It came away red.

"You've got to be kidding me," she muttered to herself.

How had it gotten onto the ceiling?

Scratching sounded at the back door.

"Just a minute," she called.

Her Boston terrier, Trout, whined when she didn't open the door for him precisely two seconds after his first scratch. She ignored his plea. The last thing she needed was the dog tracking the red mess all over the house. Another droplet splashed onto her forehead. This time, a stream of expletives left her mouth, rising in volume as she moved out of dripping range. Outside, Trout started barking. From elsewhere in the house, she could hear her husband, Noah Fraley, moving around. He'd taken charge of cleaning the living room.

There would be no time to clean up the mess before he came into the kitchen. The thought had barely crossed her mind when she heard his footsteps approaching, likely drawn by Trout's increasingly agitated barks.

Noah appeared in the doorway. "What's going— Holy shi?—"

Josie turned to face him, grimacing. "I'm sorry."

Noah took in the room, his eyes widening as he noticed the spatter on the ceiling. "Is that?—"

"Yes." Josie sighed. "It's spaghetti sauce. No, it's not hot. I never even made it to the stove. I opened the jar and dumped it into the pot. I was on my way to the stove and the pot just…"

"You dropped it."

"It slipped out of my hand!"

Noah looked toward the back door where Trout now stood, his paws pressed against the screen, watching them with the kind of intensity that he normally only reserved for treats. "Just a minute, buddy," Noah said.

With a sigh, Trout spun three times and lay down on the doormat.

"How come he always listens to you but not me?" Josie complained.

Noah grinned. "Don't change the subject. Heating up the sauce is like the easiest part of making spaghetti."

Josie put a hand on her hip. "Oh really? Did you or did you not overcook pasta just last week?"

He shrugged. "Well, yeah, but it didn't go quite…" his eyes panned the room again, "this badly."

Josie tried to tamp down her annoyance. A corner of Noah's mouth twitched, and she knew he was about to laugh.

She held up a hand. "Don't. Don't even think about laughing at this."

Carefully, he stepped over a particularly elaborate splatter along the floor and walked over to her. He touched her hair and came away with a smudge of sauce on his index finger, which he licked clean. "It's not that bad."

Josie swatted his arm. "It is that bad! Look at this place."

"I've seen worse at crime scenes." He leaned closer, one hand pushing her hair from her shoulder. "You have a little bit…" She felt his mouth against her neck. In spite of herself, a shiver of delight ran down her spine. She braced her hands against his chest. "Noah."

His arms snaked around her waist, pulling her closer to him. As always, her body responded instantly to him. The kitchen suddenly felt extremely hot. He trailed kisses from under her ear to where her collarbone met her throat. "I prefer whipped cream," he said against her skin. "But I can make spaghetti sauce work."

Heat rose to her cheeks. "Don't make this sexy. This isn't sexy."

His hands roamed up and down her back. Now his mouth was at the hollow of her throat. "Just give me a chance."

Gently, Josie pushed against him. He lifted his head to meet her gaze. His hazel eyes flickered with playfulness, and again she had to remind her traitorous body that they had things to do—other than what her mind was already envisioning. "I'm serious. We need to get this cleaned up. This will set us behind."

He kept her body flush against his but used one hand to brush a stray hair behind her ear. His expression turned serious. "The case manager won't be here until tomorrow at ten. We have plenty of time. Besides, the main criteria is that the house is safe for a baby. It's okay if it looks lived-in, remember?"

He was right, of course. Josie was confident about their safety measures, and the house was relatively clean to begin with since they were hardly ever home. They both worked for their local police department. Noah was a lieutenant and Josie was a detective. Both of them were part of the four-person investigative team. The city of Denton was not a major metropolitan area, ensconced as it was in a valley bisected by a branch of the Susquehanna River and nestled among some of Central Pennsylvania's most beautiful mountains. Still, it saw its fair share of crime. Its population had been steadily rising in the last several years so their department was busier than ever.

Josie felt a stab of worry at the thought of their schedules. If they ever hoped to adopt a child, they'd have to be home to do it. Assuming that the case manager from the adoption agency they'd chosen would approve them to do so. They'd decided to try to have a baby last year but when they couldn't conceive, Josie underwent extensive testing only to find out that her chances of having a baby were slim to none. Her fertility issues were not easily remedied and even if she endured surgery and fertility treatment, she still might never conceive. They'd decided instead to look into adoption.

They'd done weeks of extensive research into the process and vetted licensed adoption agencies until they found one they'd felt comfortable with. Then they had gone through a lengthy intake process, which included a head-spinning amount of paperwork. Financial information, proof of insurance, medical records, even their dog's medical records—and that was just the tip of the iceberg. Josie had had to disclose the childhood abuse she had endured at the hands of a woman who'd posed as her mother as well as the details of her ongoing mental health treatment.

They'd had to complete the requisite hours of training and take classes on multiple topics like how to talk to your child about adoption; how to talk with birth parents; how to care for a baby; and more. Josie had felt overwhelmed at first but the classes were a blessing, putting her more at ease and helping her feel more prepared for what was to come. For her, more information was always better. It always helped alleviate anxiety. The next step in the application process was a home study by their case manager at the agency. The very thought of it had Josie's nerves frayed. It had taken months just to get to this point and it was the culmination of all their efforts thus far. The home study was crucial to getting approved to adopt.

"Hey." Noah brushed his fingers through her hair, looking for more sauce, no doubt. "What is it?"

"No one is ever going to give us a child if we can't even cook a meal."

Their lack of culinary skills was legendary among their friends. Noah was passable but Josie was downright terrible. The sauce massacre was tame compared to her usual kitchen catastrophes. They relied heavily on takeout and the kindness of their best friend, Misty DeRossi, who was a masterful cook. She brought them meals two or three times a week. It was her way of thanking them for being such a huge part of her son's life. Harris was almost eight now. Josie's late first husband Ray had become involved with Misty after he and Josie separated. After Ray's death, Misty gave birth to Harris. Josie had initially detested Misty, letting her jealousy get the best of her. Then she held Harris for the first time and felt a surge of love so strong, she knew she'd do anything to protect him and be part of his life. Misty had extended Josie the grace that Josie had been too emotionally insecure to give her, and now they were close friends. Found family.

"We already had to disclose that our culinary skills need work," Noah said, breaking through her thoughts. "It's not like we have to cook a meal for our case manager tomorrow. At least, I don't think so."

Josie took a step back from him. "But we can't cook! How are we supposed to feed a child when we can't even cook for ourselves? I mean sure, there's formula and baby food when they're infants, but what happens when they get older?"

"We'll ask Misty to teach us," Noah said easily. "If she gets too frustrated with us, then we'll take a cooking class together."

"With our schedules?" Josie demanded. Part of the home study involved in-depth interviews with the case manager. Their crazy work schedules would come up and neither of them was about to lie as to just how much time they devoted to work.

Josie could feel her face burning but not with desire this time. She threw her hands in the air and let them fall back to her sides. Trout must have heard her voice go up an octave because he was standing with his paws pressed into the screen again, watching her closely. He whimpered this time, the sound mournful instead of demanding. He had always been uncannily in tune with her feelings, and he didn't like it when she was upset.

"You're worried about how our work schedules will affect our application for adoption again?"

"Of course I am!"

Noah snagged one of her hands and held it tightly. His skin was warm and dry. This time, his touch sent a wave of comfort through her. Gone was his earlier playfulness. Now his eyes were filled with compassion and sympathy. "Josie, we talked about all of this. We will work it out. We managed to make time for all the classes, didn't we? Maybe we'll need to make adjustments. Sacrifices. Plenty of couples both work full-time and manage to raise families."

"But—"

He squeezed her hand. "But we won't know until we try. Come on, I'll help you clean this up and then we'll get the rest of the house ready. Also, let's just order pizza."

Josie felt some of her anxiety ebb. Smiling, she said, "That sounds good."

From the door, Trout barked. He loved pizza crust.

An hour later, little remained of the pizza, and they were still working on the kitchen. Noah stood on a ladder, using a cloth to wipe at the spots on the ceiling. Trout sniffed every square inch of the room, occasionally licking a speck on the floor that Josie had missed.

Her cell phone rang. She walked over to the kitchen table and glanced down at the screen. Discomfort turned the slice of pizza she'd just eaten into a stone, heavy in her stomach. A generic outline of a man showed up where the contact's photo was supposed to be. Josie hadn't added a photo for their newest team member because she didn't want to see his face any more than she absolutely had to. But she knew it was him because the word Douchebag appeared over the top of the non-photo. One day, after a particularly irritating shift with him, she'd saved him in her contacts under that name.

"Who is it?" said Noah.

Josie sighed. She swiped the red icon to decline the call. "It's Turner."

"Great." Noah sounded anything but thrilled.

Over a year ago, they'd lost a beloved member of their investigative team, Detective Finn Mettner. He'd been shot and killed in the line of duty. Josie had held his hand while he bled out. She had been so deeply affected by Mettner's death that she'd even gone on a retreat to help deal with some of her trauma. That hadn't gone as expected at all. Then, upon her return, she met the department's new hire, Detective Kyle Turner.

He wasn't a good fit.

He was arrogant and rude. He took forever to finish reports and he frequently passed off more difficult cases to the rest of them instead of handling them himself. He also disappeared for hours at a time during his shifts with little or no explanation as to where he went or what he was doing. Their other detective, Gretchen Palmer, who had more experience than Josie and Noah combined, detested him the most. She frequently called him lazy, and Josie couldn't disagree. She still wasn't sure why he'd been hired in the first place. Their Chief had had nearly a hundred applicants for the position.

Her phone rang a second time, the word Douchebag floating across the screen once more.

Noah said, "Don't answer it."

"But why is he trying to get in touch with me? I'm not on call."

Noah dabbed at what remained of the spaghetti sauce stain on their white ceiling. "Maybe he has a question about something."

Josie sent the call to voicemail again, irritation rising in her throat like acid reflux. "Then he can send a text message like a normal person."

She went back to scrubbing the cabinets. A moment later, her phone chirped.

"There's your text," Noah muttered.

With a groan, Josie walked back to the table and picked up her phone. Turner had texted two words in all caps: PICK UP.

He wasn't going to stop until she spoke to him. With another sigh, she stabbed the call button under his name. The phone rang eight times. A headache started to pulse in her temples. She was about to hang up when he finally answered. "Quinn, I need your help."

"Gretchen's on call today."

"I know. She's busy with a shooting. I've got a bank robbery in the shithole part of town. There's some big accident out on Prout Road. The middle of damn nowhere according to Google Maps. Dispatch asked for a detective but I'm fresh out. Can you come in?"

She felt Noah's presence behind her. He'd come down from the ladder and now leaned in toward her shoulder, listening to the conversation.

There was only one reason the uniformed officers would need a detective at a motor vehicle accident. Josie said, "There was a fatality?"

"That's what I heard."

Noah groaned softly and Josie knew what he was thinking. Beyond the sad reality that someone had lost their life, the paperwork would take hours.

"Did the Chief authorize me to come in? Have you talked with him about this?"

Having served as interim chief at one point, Josie knew that one of the most pressing things about the job was the constant worry about going over budget.

"He's MIA. Look, it's not like this will cost the department extra. You come in and he'll give you your paid time off another day. Easy-peasy."

He was so cavalier about everything, although he had a point. They could cover all the bases without pissing off Chief Chitwood, which Josie was all for.

"Have you called anyone from the Fatal Accident Reconstruction Team? You'll need one of their officers. They're in the station directory. Labenberg is probably on. She works afternoons."

Turner snickered. "You want me to call the FART?"

How old was this guy?

Ignoring him, Josie asked, "Can't you go over to the scene once you're finished with your bank robbery?"

"Is Fraley there? Maybe he can come in."

Noah blew out a breath, sending a lock of her hair fluttering. "I'll go in."

"No," Josie said. "You're much faster at housework than me. I've done a lot of MVAs with fatalities. It's only noon. I'll be home before you go to bed."

"Quinn?" said Turner. "What did you say?"

Noah laughed. "You just don't want to clean up anymore spaghetti sauce."

"Text me the precise location," Josie said into the phone. "I'll be there in twenty."