Page 6

CHAPTER SIX

I’d underestimated how long it would take to finish up Chloe and Theo Vasilios, and by the time Theo had been pushed back into the refrigeration unit, I’d been standing hunched over the table for more than six hours. My back was on fire and so were my feet.

“I need a soak in the hot tub and I need wine,” Lily said, working the cricks out of her neck. “Definitely wine first.”

“That sounds amazing,” I said, even though I couldn’t have either of those things. “I was thinking I could bribe Jack into a back rub.”

“I don’t even want Cole to touch me,” Lily said. “Back rubs always lead to sex. And as much as I love having sex with Cole I just don’t have the strength.”

“I really don’t want that picture in my head,” I said, rubbing my eyes.

I’d sent everything to Jack by encrypted email, but I’d printed out my findings and put them in a manila envelope to bring with me.

“Don’t let me forget to have you sign off on my hours,” Lily said. “Today more than made up for what I was missing.”

I grunted in response, wondering if it was okay to go to bed before eight o’clock or if that would officially make me old. I wasn’t sure I was going to make it to the top of the stairs, but Lily and I kind of supported each other.

“Why didn’t we take the lift?” I asked.

“Why are there so many steps?” she asked in return. “There were not this many on the way down.”

“We should have taken a break between autopsies,” I said. “My lunch tacos aren’t doing it for me anymore.”

“I don’t even care about food,” she said. “Wine. Just wine.”

I pushed open the door and stepped into the kitchen, and then I wondered if I’d opened a door to a portal somewhere else. Maybe to hell. Led Zeppelin was pumping through the speakers loud enough to shake the appliances on the countertops. The lab was completely soundproof, so this was a shock to the senses.

Lily’s hands went to her ears and she yelled, “What is happening? Are we under attack?”

“Maybe it’s psychological warfare,” I said, tossing the file onto the island countertop and plugging my own ears. “It worked with the Branch Davidians.”

Lily shrieked as Jack came out of my office, taking us both by surprise. He was wearing my noise-canceling headphones.

“What is happening?” I yelled.

He said something back, but I had no idea what it was. He finally motioned for both of us to go outside. I grabbed my file and my medical bag on the way through the mudroom, and hoped my keys were somewhere inside because I was not coming back to get them.

Jack was right behind us and shut the door with a loud thud. You could still hear the music, but it was a little more tolerable.

“What is going on?” I asked again.

“It’s the bikers,” Jack said, trying to contain his laughter. “They told Sheldon Victor loved Led Zeppelin and that Victor would have loved to be seen into the next life with the party of all parties.”

“In my funeral home?” I asked. I was ready to go back in and face deafness and bikers to shut the whole thing down.

“Don’t worry,” Jack said. “I’ve got off-duty cops here to cover, and it looks like Emmy Lu has everything well in hand. She seems to have a surprising amount of experience dealing with situations like this.”

“You have no idea,” I said.

“And believe it or not, Sheldon is handling things well. Maybe bikers are his people.”

“No, don’t say that,” I said. “The last thing I need is my assistant running off with the Hells Angels. He wouldn’t last ten minutes. He doesn’t even drive a car. How’s he going to drive a motorcycle?”

“But I bet he can tell you all about them though,” he said, grinning.

“A rational part of my brain is telling me to go back inside and keep an eye on things, but my lower back is screaming at me to go home and not look back. We can come back in the morning and pick through the rubble.”

“That sounds like a pretty rational idea to me,” Lily said, eyeing the street filled with motorcycles. “See you guys tomorrow.”

And with that Lily headed off to her little red car in the side lot. There were a group of men in their biker leathers smoking cigarettes under the farthest oak tree, so Jack and I watched Lily until her car was out of sight.

“Come on, kid,” Jack said. “Let’s get you home. You look like you’re about to fall over.”

I let Jack load me into his truck, and then I took one last look at the funeral home as we drove away. I was asleep before we reached the end of the block.

* * *

I felt Jack’s hand squeeze my thigh, and I stirred in the seat, my eyes opening before my brain could catch up. I’d learned to wake quickly during medical school, and it was a useful skill once I’d started my residency and then my subsequent years in the ER. I lived on coffee.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

“Why?”

“You growled.”

“I was thinking about coffee.”

“So have some,” he said. “I did my research.”

“You did research about how much coffee I can have?” I asked skeptically.

“I live with you. I know you with coffee and I know you without coffee. Of course I researched for you.”

“I just want to do this right,” I said, trying not to let the frustration creep into my voice. I was a doctor for Pete’s sake. And women had been pregnant since the beginning of time. And at the same time, I felt like the most unqualified and most unprepared woman on the planet.

“Of course you do,” Jack said. “Having a baby is a desire of your heart, but being a mom scares you. I get that. You are not your parents. You’re going to do things right because you’re you, and that’s just who you are. You’re going to be a great mom. So eat the extra scone. And don’t torture yourself or me by only drinking one cup of coffee a day. Limit yourself to two twelve-ounce cups, and cut yourself some slack.”

I took deep, measured breaths, trying to loosen the vice grip around my chest. We’d just rattled across the one-lane bridge that led to Heresy Road, where Jack and I lived. As he approached the stop sign, I purposely avoided looking left. Turning left would take us to the old Victorian house where I’d grown up—a place steeped in unhappy memories. It was the source of my occasional panic about impending parenthood. Every time I thought about turning left, a knot of dread twisted in my gut.

Jack had made sure the house was renovated before we sold it, passing it on to another family to create their own memories. I’d made my peace with that chapter of my life, but I had no intention of revisiting it.

Turning right onto Heresy Lane, however, was a step into our future. The land on the right had been in Jack’s family for generations—acres of tobacco fields, woods, and cliffs overlooking the Potomac. His parents’ home was a few miles down the road, and when Jack returned to King George County to take the job as sheriff, he built his own house about a mile from them.

It was the same house we lived in now—well, almost the same. Part of it had been blown up a couple of years back, forcing us to rebuild. In the end, it was a blessing in disguise; the rebuild had turned it into our home instead of just his. His parents had sold off some of the land when they downsized the farm, so now there were a few neighbors scattered about. All in all, it was a good street, a good place to build a life together.

Jack pressed the button that opened our front gate and then we were driving up the tree-lined drive. Every light in the house was on.

“Doug,” Jack said with a sigh. “Looks like he’s home.”

“I take pleasure in the fact that one day he’ll have to pay his own electric bill,” I said.

“Now you sound like my mom,” he said, grinning. “That kind of talk must be a natural instinct for mothers. Before long I’ll start to hear you tell him to close the door so he doesn’t let all the cold air out.”

I didn’t say anything. Did I have natural instincts? I had no idea. I tried to picture myself as a nurturer, like Jack’s mom had been to me, and I just couldn’t see it.

I hopped out of the truck as soon as we were parked and realized I was still clutching the autopsy files in my hand. My nerves were frazzled and I knew I was just tired. It had been a long day, and I knew it was going to be an even longer weekend until we closed this case.

As soon as we walked through the front door there was a flurry of excitement and activity. Mostly from Oscar, our new dog, but Doug seemed pretty excited to see us too. Oscar barked as he sped down the long entry hall and let Jack break his momentum on the wood floor instead of skidding into the wall. There were licks and scratches and the pure joy that could only come from something that really loved you.

“Hey,” Doug said, skidding in socked feet across the wood floor. “I wasn’t sure when y’all would be home. I already ate dinner.”

Doug Carver was the nephew of Jack’s best friend, Ben. The Carver boys were the spitting image of each other. They skimmed just under six feet and had lanky frames—though Ben’s had been honed and refined from his time serving in the military—and the same sandy blond hair and misty green eyes. They were also both geniuses on a level that mere mortals like me could barely understand.

Carver and Jack had been partners of sorts back when they’d worked for the Department of Justice. Jack had gotten out of that line of work when he’d been shot three times and left for dead by a traitor. Carver had joined the FBI and knew everything there was to know about computers, AI, and how to run checks and balances on government departments. He’d written programs that exposed every bit of corruption—who was being paid and by whom, who had dark and depraved secrets, and conspiracy theories that weren’t such conspiracy theories after all.

It turns out the FBI hadn’t been so fond of Carver having all that knowledge and they’d sent a team after him and his family, and Carver hadn’t had a choice but to take his wife and children and run. We knew the information Carver had on several high-ranking members of the government would eventually be brought to light, but the most important thing for now was that he stay alive until the people responsible could be held accountable. It was hard to hold people accountable when there were so many corrupt people in high places. They had to be smoked out one at a time.

The reason Doug had ended up living with us was because his genius had left him in trouble with the law. The judge had told him there’d been no reason for a teenager to hack into the Pentagon, so he’d been sentenced to probation and house arrest until he was eighteen, and his online activity was closely monitored by every alphabet agency. Jack had been able to get the judge to be lenient on the house arrest if he came to live with us and was under our guardianship.

I didn’t really know how to parent a kid like Doug, so we were feeling our way. It was odd to have a sixteen-year-old under our roof who’d just started driving and who’d already graduated from college and was working on his first master’s degree. And as far as having his computers monitored, I was pretty sure the only other person who had the ability to really figure out what Doug was up to most of the time was his uncle. And just like his uncle, Doug had become very helpful on cases now that Carver was in the wind.

“No worries on dinner,” I said. “We’ll grab something for ourselves.” Knowing Doug, he’d probably eaten most of what had been in the house. I’d had no idea teenagers ate so much.

“If you already ate dinner,” Jack asked, “Then what are you eating now?”

“A snack,” Doug said, shoving what looked like a peanut butter and banana sandwich in his mouth. “And then I made brownies for dessert.”

We followed him into the kitchen, Oscar on our heels.

“I’m glad to see those YouTube cooking classes are paying off,” Jack said.

“Someone’s gotta cook around here,” Doug said, grinning and then looking at me. “We know Jaye’s not going to do it.”

“I’d argue with you, but I’m too tired and it’d be a lie anyway,” I said. “So I’m just going to eat your brownies.”

“That’s cold,” Doug said, shaking his head. “But you look like you could use one, so I’ll have pity on you.”

“You want a sandwich?” Jack asked me, already digging in the fridge for supplies.

“No,” I said. “You always put lettuce and tomatoes on them.”

“Because I’m a grownup,” Jack said, rolling his eyes and making a sandwich with military precision.

“You guys working on that case you sent me earlier?” Doug asked. “All the golf cart logs and stuff?”

“The honeymooner murders over at The Mad King,” Jack said.

“Brutal,” Doug said, cutting a brownie for me and scooping it out on a napkin to put in front of me. “I haven’t had a chance to start going through your data. I had an exam that had to be finished by seven o’clock tonight, so I’m finally coming up for air.”

“Of course you waited until the last minute to take it,” I said dryly.

“Of course,” Doug said. “No need doing that stuff early. I’ve got procrastination down to a science. I turned it in with twenty minutes to spare. So what’s up with the honeymooners? How’d they get dead?”

“Multiple gunshot wounds,” I said, reaching for the brownie Doug had cut for me. “At least for the bride. Single bullet wound to the head for the groom. The death do us part came early.”

“Good one,” Doug said with a snort of appreciative laughter, his eyes lighting up at my gallows humor. He perched on one of the kitchen island stools, swinging his lanky legs. “Murder-suicide?”

Doug had the makings of an excellent cop, and it was sometimes hard to reconcile the contradiction between his analytical, adult brain and the gangly teenage body that housed it. One moment he’d be cracking inappropriate jokes, and the next he’d make an observation that would have impressed veteran detectives.

“No, definitely murder,” I said, savoring the rich chocolate flavor as I took a bite. After hours in the clinical sterility of the lab, the homey sweetness was almost overwhelming. “Two different weapons. Most likely two different killers. I found a good fingerprint on Chloe Vasilios crusted in the blood on her arm. There was a smear that looked like a handprint, presumably from where he moved her body. Only the index finger left a print. Based on the pattern, I’m thinking he was wearing gloves but there must have been a tear in them. I sent it over to Jack to see if it matched the print on the 9mm that was used to kill Theo Vasilios.”

“It was a match,” Jack confirmed, leaning against the counter with his sandwich untouched in front of him. The lines around his eyes had deepened during the day, a testament to the toll the case was taking. “We just got a partial from the weapon, which supports your glove theory. Caught a break there. Prints are being run through the system, but nothing has come back yet.”

“I need murder details, people,” Doug said, his fingers drumming impatiently on the countertop. “The media isn’t saying anything about anything, so I’m completely in the dark here.” His excitement was palpable, the same vibrating energy he got when diving into a particularly challenging computer problem.

“There are more details than I even know where to start,” I sighed, feeling the weight of the day settle back onto my shoulders despite the sugar boost.

“That must have been a heck of an autopsy,” Jack said, his eyes meeting mine across the kitchen island.

“Did you not get my report?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I haven’t had a chance to look at it,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “I wanted to hear it from you first.”

“Oh, good,” I said with mock enthusiasm. “I love giving surprises. Has next of kin been notified?”

“The wedding was at the Briarly Country Club, so all of the family is still in town,” Jack said, finally picking up his sandwich. “I sent an officer and the chaplain over to break the news to his parents. Rogers told me they’re taking it pretty hard. Apparently Theo was their only son. They’ve got no other children.”

“Did the bride have any family at the wedding?” I asked, suddenly curious. The lack of connections for such a young woman had been bothering me since I’d first seen her on the villa floor.

“No,” Jack said, his tone suggesting this had raised his suspicions too. “Not that we’ve been able to find. She doesn’t have a next of kin, so there’s been no family notifications. Looks like attendees were only the groom’s family or mutual acquaintances. We asked for a full guest list from his parents. They’re supposed to have the wedding planner send it over.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” I murmured, brushing brownie crumbs from my fingers.

“Why’s that?” Jack asked, alert to the shift in my tone.

I pushed the autopsy file across the island to Jack, the manila folder sliding smoothly across the polished granite. “I’ll just start at the top. That will be easiest. I do agree with Derby’s initial background check that she’s under twenty-one. Her wisdom teeth still hadn’t fully erupted. But her medical history is sketchy at best. She’s got third-world dental care and a couple of broken bones that weren’t set properly.”

“Maybe she was trafficked from another country,” Jack suggested, his expression darkening.

The words hung heavy in the kitchen. We’d just closed a case involving child sex trafficking, and those wounds were still fresh for all of us. I could see the memory flicker across Jack’s face—the same haunted look he’d worn for weeks after we’d found those children.

“That’s a definite possibility,” I said, keeping my voice clinical to distance myself from the emotions the thought stirred. “She wasn’t malnourished, and it doesn’t look like she ever has been, based on the health of her organs. She had no signs of drug use, recent or prolonged. Her tox screen came back showing a blood alcohol level of point one. So she was definitely drunk. Theo’s BAC skimmed right at the legal limit, but he weighed eighty pounds more than she did. He’s a smoker, but not a serious one. Otherwise, he’s a healthy forty-six-year-old male.”

“Gross,” Doug interjected, his teenage sensibilities clearly offended. He wrinkled his nose. “She was nineteen and he was forty-six? He’s old enough to be her dad.”

“Europeans age differently,” I said teasingly.

“So what’s the surprise?” Jack asked, drawing us back to the central mystery, his eyes scanning the photographs I’d included in the file.

“When we were at the crime scene, I agreed with you that Chloe had to be the target, considering how many times she was shot,” I said. “I recovered seven bullets from the body. One in the frontal lobe, one in the throat, three center mass, and two in the pubic bone.”

Jack looked at the photographs I’d taken of the entry wounds, his expression hardening as he studied the pattern. “If the head shot was the killing blow, and I think it was based on what I’m looking at here, then the killer positioned her on the ground and shot her in a deliberate pattern. I could fit a playing card over the three bullet holes in her chest. That’s a shooter with a steady hand. Same thing with the two shots to the pubic bone. They’re less than an inch apart and side by side. We’re looking for someone who’s very comfortable with a weapon. This is surgery.”

“A professional hit?” Doug asked, his voice dropping to a near whisper as he leaned over to glimpse the photos. His fascination with the macabre was both concerning and typical for his age.

“Maybe,” Jack said, carefully laying the photos back in the folder. “But definitely someone who knows their way around a weapon. That narrows down your killer once we’ve got a suspect list. It could be someone with military training.”

“Or secret service?” I suggested, arching a brow. “Aren’t diplomats protected by secret service?”

“Sometimes,” Jack replied, nodding. “Depends on the ambassador and the circumstances. But that’s something worth checking out when we get Theo’s full background from the State Department.”

“You still haven’t gotten it?” I asked, surprised. Usually, Jack’s connections opened doors that would remain firmly closed to others.

“If there’s anything I’ve learned about working with the government,” Jack said with a wry smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “it’s that they don’t do anything fast, and they probably don’t want to give me the information anyway. They might even try to take over the investigation.”

“Can they do that?” Doug asked, looking up, a hint of worry in his eyes. Having been on the wrong side of government interest, he knew better than most how those agencies operated.

“No,” Jack said firmly. “They can put pressure and make things difficult. But that’s one of the things TV gets wrong. Jurisdiction belongs to us unless we ask for help or hand it over. And I’m not a fan of going that route.” He took a bite of his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully before continuing. “We were able to get a judge to sign off on a warrant to search Theo’s home, and I sent Martinez with a couple of the guys from CSI to do a search, but nothing turned up. There’s a carriage house in the back with a tenant, but the warrant didn’t cover the carriage house since it’s a separate residence.”

“What were you looking for at the dead guy’s house?” Doug asked, his natural curiosity piqued.

“Anything that might lead to a killer,” Jack explained, wiping a smudge of mustard from the corner of his mouth. “Or point the finger directly at Theo. Martinez said he found a couple of weapons, but they were tucked away in the closet and looked like they hadn’t been fired recently. Neither of the guns was a .22.”

Jack’s blue eyes narrowed slightly as he recalled the details. “Martinez said it looked like a house that had been staged, like you see when someone is trying to sell their home. Not a lot of personal stuff or photographs lying around, and the few photographs they did find were only of Chloe and Theo together. No family pictures.”

Jack ran a hand through his hair, a gesture I recognized as a sign of his mounting frustration. “Martinez said it was definitely Theo’s place. Chloe’s presence in the house was minimal. She had a closet that was filled with mostly new clothes, shoes, and handbags, and a few things in her nightstand drawer and in the bathroom.”

Jack rubbed at the tension that had gathered at the back of his neck and said, “Was that the surprise?”

“Oh, I’m not there yet,” I said, savoring the moment. I pulled out another photograph from the folder and slid it across to him. “The victim had a tattoo on the bottom of her foot. I almost didn’t see it during the initial examination. I enhanced the photograph so you can see it better.” I handed him the close-up. “Anything about that look familiar?”

Jack studied the image, his expression shifting from curiosity to shock as recognition dawned. “I’ll be damned,” he said softly. “That’s not a coincidence.”

“What’s not a coincidence?” Doug asked, craning his neck to see. “You guys are driving me crazy with your vagueness.”

“It’s not vague to me,” Jack said, tapping the file. “I’m looking at it right now.” He laid two photographs side by side in front of Doug: one of the tattoo on the bottom of Chloe’s foot and one of the bullet holes in her body.

“Oh,” Doug said, his eyes widening as he made the connection. “What are the chances of that happening?”

“Of the tattoo on her foot being the exact pattern as the bullet holes in her body?” Jack asked rhetorically. “Pretty slim.”

“Theo has a matching tattoo on the bottom of the same foot,” I added, watching Jack’s reaction carefully.

Jack’s eyebrow arched at that, his mind visibly working through the implications. “Very interesting. Maybe it’s gang related.” He pushed the photograph of the tattoo across to Doug. “Let’s get that into the SMT database and see if we get any matches.”

The SMT database—scars, marks, and tattoos—was used by all law enforcement agencies nationwide to track identifiers that might connect victims or perpetrators to organized groups.

“I’m glad it was an eventful autopsy,” Jack said, his tone lighter than his eyes suggested.

“I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet,” I said, leaning forward slightly. “Chloe Vasilios had recently had sex.”

“Sexual assault?” Jack asked.

“There are no signs of sexual assault,” I said.

The kitchen fell silent for a moment, save for Oscar’s soft panting as he dozed at Jack’s feet.

“That’s not out of the realm of possibility,” Jack said reasonably. “A newly married couple. They could’ve even had sex in the back of the car on the way to the resort.”

“I don’t think so,” I countered, shaking my head. “I took samples of seminal fluid from Chloe. Theo showed no signs of recent sexual activity. I’ve got enough DNA to see if it’ll match with Theo, but my gut says no.”

“Love, money, and revenge are the top three motives for murder,” Jack said thoughtfully, closing the file. “Now we have to figure out how sex ties into a tattoo and a ritual killing.”

“A lover scorned,” Doug said, shaking his head with the wisdom of someone who’d only experienced relationships through movies and TV shows. “I’d be a little upset too if the lady I was romantically involved with ran off and married another dude.”

Jack took out his phone, his fingers already scrolling through contacts. “We need that wedding guest list. Most likely whoever she had sex with was at the wedding.”

“That’s cold,” Doug said, wincing slightly.

“You need to eat something besides brownies for dinner,” Jack said absently, not looking up from his phone as he scrolled through numbers.

I suppressed a smile. Brownies seemed like a perfectly okay dinner to me, especially after the day I’d had, but I figured I’d indulge Jack. He was new at the whole pregnancy thing too, and his protective instincts were in overdrive.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll eat a sandwich.”

Jack looked at me skeptically and left the room to make his call. I turned to Doug with a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ll pay you twenty bucks to make me what you’re having. And drizzle some honey on top.”

“You got it,” Doug said with a grin, already reaching for the ingredients. “There’s one banana left.”

“What? We just bought a bushel yesterday,” I said, genuinely baffled at the rate of banana consumption in our household.

“Yeah,” he said, grinning unrepentantly as he peeled the last banana. “Those things went fast. You’ve got to eat bananas quick or they’ll go bad.”

I just sighed, watching him assemble my contraband sandwich with practiced ease. For all his computer genius, Doug’s culinary talents were largely limited to items that could be slathered with peanut butter or drowned in syrup—a fact for which I was currently grateful.

While Doug crafted my sandwich, I dutifully went to the fridge to pull out turkey and cheese and all the healthy things Jack liked on his sandwich. I arranged them on a plate with mechanical precision, my mind already circling back to the bizarre case we were facing.

Jack returned to the kitchen just as I slid his plate across the island, the perfect picture of a dutiful wife providing a nutritious meal. If he suspected anything about my imminent peanut butter banana transaction, he didn’t let on.

“I was able to get in touch with the wedding planner,” he said, pocketing his phone. “She just emailed me the guest list. Let’s work in the office. I’m going to try and put some pressure on the guys from the State Department to get me Theo’s full background. And I want to go talk to the parents first thing in the morning.”

“Sounds like you might need a little preview into State Department records,” Doug said, cracking his knuckles with exaggerated significance. He grabbed an unopened bag of chips and a soda from the fridge, his eyes glinting with the thrill of a potential digital heist.

“Not yet,” Jack warned, fixing Doug with a look that brooked no argument. “We’ll give them a chance to do things the easy way first. We’ve got plenty of work to do without you having to hack into the State Department.”

Doug shoved another brownie in his mouth, his expression noncommittal, and then left the room with his chips and soda, the lack of verbal response speaking volumes.

I caught Jack’s eye as Doug disappeared down the hallway, and we shared a knowing look. Doug’s silence almost certainly meant he’d already hacked into the State Department databases—probably on a daily basis, just to keep his skills sharp. Some kids practiced piano—Doug practiced circumventing government security systems.

Jack must have gotten that impression too because he looked at me and said, “Bring your sandwich.”

“Doug has the chips I want,” I said.

“You’re meaner than him,” Jack said. “Just take them from him.”

I had no idea why Jack’s statement hit me wrong. I knew somewhere in my brain that he was just teasing. But I started crying and couldn’t seem to stop. Which made both of us very uncomfortable because I’m not a crier. The buildup from the day had reached its peak and had no place left to go except to leak out my eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Jack asked. “Are you hurt?”

I felt crippled with the weight of emotions that were pressing down on me, and I hunched down and hid my face.

“God, Jaye,” he said, physically picking me up and moving me to the closest chair. “Do I need to call the doctor? Tell me what you need.”

My cheeks were flooded with tears, and Jack’s face blurred in my vision. “You…you said I was…you said I was mean.” And then a fresh burst of tears escaped and I buried my head in my hands.

I could feel Jack close beside me, but I couldn’t see what he was doing or his expression. The not knowing made me cry harder.

Jack scooped me up and then took my place in the chair, setting me on his lap. “Umm, Jaye? You’re going to have to help me out here. I have no idea what to do in this situation except apologize.”

“I can’t help it,” I said. “My brain knows this is the most ridiculous conversation we’ve ever had. Every bit of it. I have no reason to be crying. This makes no sense. But it feels like my brain is separated from the rest of my body.” I tried drawing in a couple of deep breaths to get control of myself. “I’m fine now. I am.”

“Uh-huh,” Jack said, rubbing my back in slow circles. “No need to rush it. I like sitting here with you. It was a long day.”

I scrubbed my hands over my eyes and knew I probably looked a mess. “I’m fine,” I said again. “I feel sanity returning.”

He took my face between his hands and tilted my head so I had no choice but to look at him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“You didn’t,” I said. “I think it’s the hormones.”

“Hey, I’m trying to apologize here,” he said, making me smile. “Now you’re supposed to say that you forgive me.”

“I forgive you,” I said immediately.

“Good,” he said. “Just for that you can have another brownie with your sandwich.”

“I want chips,” I said, scooting off his lap. “I need to replenish my salt. Sorry I lost my mind there for a minute.”

“I’ve known you since you were five years old,” he said. “You think this is the first time I’ve seen you lose your mind?” He kissed my forehead. “Go wash your face. You’ll feel better.”