Chapter 7

Isat in the diner across from the police station, looking over my notes. Sometimes a change of scenery helped, and I was stumped. The waitress arrived and topped off my coffee. I had been there for two hours, just drinking and working the case.

After talking to Earl and his friend, I had learned little more than I knew at the beginning. Someone was selling a highly toxic offshoot of crystal meth, and the people who were buying were fine, upstanding citizens. I had reinterviewed the families of each of the victims.

Victim number one was Carrie Fishburn, a local beauty and stay-at-home mom of three. Her kids would never be the same. Her husband seemed baffled that Carrie would even know where to find drugs, much less risk her health and her life by ingesting them.

Carrie's friends described her as well-liked and fun to be around. She was a member of the PTA and the set designer for the local high school production of The Wizard of Oz. I hadn't met a less likely drug user in all my years on the force.

Something must have happened in Carrie's life, I reasoned. Or she must have interacted with someone along the way who made illegal stimulants seem fun. I retraced Carrie's steps on the day she died.

She had dropped off her kids at school, like she always did. She had picked up dry cleaning for her husband at ten, hit the grocery store at noon. The clerk remembered her because they'd chatted about a soccer game, one of the international championships that not a lot of Americans watch. By 2:00 p.m., Carrie was face down on her kitchen floor, the after-school snack she had been cooking burning in the oven.

Had she run into someone in the grocery store? Was the dry cleaner to blame? I had hit both of those venues and come up with nothing. I stood and packed up my notes before leaving the diner. Walking back across the street, my thoughts drifted over to Lindsey. The last time I saw her, she had been leaning against the hood of a car, eating a taco. If I had her number, I could call her up on the pretense that there had been a break in the robbery case. Or I could manufacture some lie about the cabin.

It wasn't fair how the landlord treated her. Despite all the anger, I could tell she was in love with that little cabin. She had been promised the opportunity to purchase it herself, and when I came along, she had been tossed out on her ass. I definitely didn't like being the bad guy.

I pushed my way through the door to the station house, nodded to Cheryl, and went to my desk. I tried taking out my notes again, but it was no use. I had run up against a wall. There wasn't any juice left in this rock I was trying to squeeze. I leaned back in my chair and let my thoughts wander. Like a magnet, they focused in on Lindsey.

Maybe we could work out some arrangement where we both got to keep the cabin. Maybe we could be roommates. Stranger things had happened. I could keep the big bedroom in the back, and she could transition into one of the smaller ones. We could share the refrigerator and the bathroom, taking turns like responsible adults. It could work.

I sat up straight, grabbed my phone, and headed for the door. The hair salon was only a five-minute walk from the police station, and I covered the ground in half that time. I knew Lindsey would probably be mad, but I was looking forward to seeing those fiery eyes again. When I reached the salon, there were two women working, but neither of them was Lindsey.

I pushed the door open and walked inside. Lindsey's friend Ava looked up from her client and frowned. She looked back down again, pretending to be engrossed in her task. I marched up to her and interrupted.

"Is Lindsey working today?"

"No," Ava said curtly.

"Do you have her number?"

"Yes, I have her number," she said, pinning her client's hair in a messy bun.

I waited a beat. "Can I have her number?"

Ava began to comb the remaining locks, preparing for a cut. "No."

"It's about the cabin," I whispered.

"I don't care." She set down her comb and picked up her scissors.

"I have an idea that I think might work," I tried again.

"I have an idea too," she said sweetly, turning to face me at last. "Go back to Nashville."

Wow. I was used to getting the cold shoulder from witnesses, but I wasn't accustomed to so much personal vehemence. Ava was looking at me like she wanted me to explode, as if she could concentrate hard enough and make me disappear. I wasn't going to get anywhere with this loyal friend, so I nodded respectfully.

"Ma'am," I said to the woman in the chair. I turned and left the shop, walking slowly back to the police station.

If I couldn't find Lindsey at work, and her best friend wouldn't give me her phone number, I could always try the cabin. Before I thought better of it, I climbed into my truck and started her up. The drive took about fifteen minutes before I spotted the turnoff onto the cabin's unpaved road. The truck chugged uphill, crunching over gravel as it slipped deep into the forest. When I broke out into the cabin's clearing, I found Lindsey's car parked beside the house.

I pulled up next to her, put on the parking brake, and killed the engine. Before I even had a chance to swing the door open, she appeared on the porch, angry as hell.

"What are you doing up here?" She stormed up on the truck.

I hopped down from my seat, breaking ground on the clearing's dirt floor. "I just came to talk," I said.

She debated for a moment; her pretty face pinched with worry. "I'm not moving. This is my house—I don't care if the landlord didn't sign the lease."

"I don't agree with how he handled the situation," I said, hands in the air as if I was dealing with a nervous gunman. "I think it's unfair what happened to you."

She wrapped her arms protectively around her waist and nodded. "Thank you."

"What if we shared the cabin?" I presented my idea. "There are more than enough bedrooms. There's ample parking. We could share the refrigerator."

"No!" Lindsey snapped before hearing me out. "I just decorated the living room. I need those two other bedrooms. And I don't even know you."

"I know it's not ideal," I tried again. "But I'm a pretty easygoing guy. I work a lot, so you'll have the place to yourself most days. We could stay out of each other's hair, and you wouldn't be homeless."

She stepped closer; her eyes narrowed to a laser focus. I couldn't help appreciating her hair, pulled back in a messy ponytail. She wasn't wearing any makeup, and at this distance, I could see flecks of gold in her eyes. She was wearing a pink sweater and a pair of grey pajama bottoms that hugged her hips. I wondered if I would get to see her this way every day if we moved in together, if we got comfortable with each other. I could imagine curling up on the couch together to watch the fire in the hearth or the big game on TV.

"I'm not going to be homeless," she swore, "because this is my cabin, not yours. I had it first."

"The lease was never signed." I shook my head. I didn't want to throw her out on her pretty rear, but I clearly had the law on my side. "I don't want to kick you out, but I will if you want to be difficult."

"I wouldn't live with you if you were the last man on Earth," she snapped.

"That's ridiculous," I said. "I'm not asking you out on a date. You could pay rent. Just until you find something better…"

She straightened. "Thank you for your offer, but I'm not interested."

I sighed. "Okay. I'm moving in on Monday. Call me if you want to stay. Otherwise, I'd appreciate you having all your stuff out when I get here." I swung back into the driver's seat and shut the door.

She scowled, staring death rays at me as I backed up and turned around. Part of me hoped that she would be gone by Monday. Part of me wished that she would stay. I wasn't sure that living with her would be a good idea, but what was I going to do? I couldn't kick her out if she had no place to go. And seeing her walk around the house in her pajamas was worth an added headache. I grinned at my own stupidity and drove back to work to beat my head against the wall of my unsolved case some more.