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“Oh, the barnwood wall. Yes, I want one. And you went with the smoky gray paint, which is just right. Your desk is big and beautiful with an important leather chair. The lights hit modern rustic without being too much of either. Built-ins, perfect, and I like the pocket for blueprints like my dad has.”
“He gave me the idea. Here.”
He handed her the wine.
“You need a leather sofa, offset that with a live-edge coffee table, some art, a rug—something just faded enough.”
He watched her wander the space, placing finishing touches. “Dean was right.”
“About?”
“You got the decor gene from Elsie.”
“I guess I did, and like her, I can’t help myself. You’ve gotten so much done. Has it really been that long since I was over here last?”
“Couple weeks, I guess. Your place tends to be more private, most of the time.”
“I can’t decide if it’s more fun to see the progress bit by bit or to come in on a finished product. Either way, Jesus, Nash, you’re making a wonderful home.”
He remembered sitting in the chilly kitchen on a table of sawhorses and a door, and planning.
“It’s what I wanted. I’m finding I want it more every day.”
“It’s good to be home, and this is yours now. I didn’t know how good it was to be home until I came back to it. Let’s walk out to the shop so I can envy your next piece of furniture.”
The idea of Sloan Cooper worried Clara like a bad tooth. It troubled and distracted her during the day, kept her awake at night.
She read everything she could find on this constant irritation. High school track and cross-country star.
Big forking deal.
Her family owned a bunch of vacation rentals and such under the name All the Rest. She came from money then. One of those types.
She could have dismissed the woman with that background. Just some rich kid who had time to run for fun and probably hadn’t spent a full day doing real work.
But she read up on the tree-hugger police, too, and they were a lot more than she’d thought. That added worry, and more yet when she found that damn name mentioned in some of their articles.
She’d worked as a kind of detective, covering the whole state. Going after poachers, sure—as if God didn’t give man dominion over animals. And government cashed in with their license fees, their rules and fines.
But more than that.
She’d helped catch a man who’d killed his wife and tried to pass it off as an accident down in Assateague State Park, and busted up a meth operation—Clara did not approve of drugs—running throughRocky Gap. Led herself a team that took down a father and sons beating up on and robbing from hikers in Deep Creek.
And it looked like she did that one the same day she got herself shot. Not by the boys and their daddy, but at some gas station store outside of Hagerstown.
She carried a gun like regular police, but that hadn’t helped her.
Never in her life had Clara wished anyone dead. That was for God to decide. But she wished, and she’d prayed, that he’d take a good long look at this one. And call her home.
When Sam, reaching for her in the night, found her side of the bed empty, he went out to find her at the computer and chugging Mountain Dew.
“Babe, you need your sleep.” He moved behind her to rub her shoulders, and saw she’d pulled up another search on Sloan Cooper.
“You gotta let this go, babe. It’s wearing you down. She’s nothing to worry about.”
“It keeps pulling at me. I feel like there’s a message trying to get through to me, but there’s too much noise around it. I’ve been praying on it, and praying on it, but I can’t hear it clear.”
“Because you’re not getting good sleep. Off your feed, too.” Bending down, he kissed the top of her head. “You come on back to bed, and I’ll relax you.”