Glass Slipper Bride

“With words,” she confirmed.

“Words. Ahha. And what words would those be?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. We couldn’t read them after it broke.”

“The window, you mean.”

“Yes, of course.”

Of course. Zach contemplated the container of coffee growing cold on his desk and wondered if it was possible to drown in it. He rejected that particular avenue of escape and sat back again, elbows propped on the arms of his chair, fingers templed. “So your sister broke up with her boyfriend, Janzen, and he tried to write words on her window and probably broke it that way, so no one knows what he was writing.”

“Except you.”

“Me?”

“No, you. The word you. That part was written on the brick next to the window.”

Zach swallowed something hot and acrid that tasted strangely like anger, but he couldn’t have said just with whom he was angry at that moment. He rubbed a hand over his face and said, “So he wrote something that ended in the word you.”

“Exactly.”

Zach waited, but she didn’t say anything else; so he thought perhaps he would offer some suggestions. “What do you think he wrote? I hate you? I want to kill you?”

She shrugged, not quite meeting his eyes.

“But it was a threat of some kind,” he pressed impatiently.

She sighed. “I think so.”

He floundered helplessly. This obviously was getting them nowhere. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to speak with your sister.”

Jillian closed her enormous eyes in obvious relief. “Oh, thank you! I’m so worried about her.”

He nodded, “Right. So, um, shall I call her?”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Jillian said. “Just show up around six o’clock.”

“Show up?”

“At Camille’s.”

“You want me to come by her house at six o’clock this evening?”

Delicate, wispy brows drew together. “Is that a problem?”

It wasn’t, actually. He often made calls to women’s shelters, private offices and police stations, and he could make this one on his way to dinner at his brother’s. Why, then, was he looking for excuses not to go? He shook his head. “Just tell me where, exactly, I should show up.”

She rattled off an address in North Dallas between the Park Cities and LBJ Freeway. He grabbed the pen and wrote it down in his notebook.

“And your sister—will she be expecting me?”

“Absolutely.”

He closed the notebook and laid the pen atop it. “I’ll see her, then.”

Jillian got up from the chair and attempted to smooth her wrinkled skirt, saying, “I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Keller.”

“No problem.” He stood and thrust back the sides of his pale, tweed sport jacket to place his hands at his waist. “Thanks for the lunch.”

“My pleasure.”

He nodded and forced his mouth into a semblance of a smile until she’d maneuvered around the chair and turned toward the door. Then for some reason, without even planning to, he heard himself calling her back. “Jillian.”

She turned and blinked owlishly at him. “Yes?”

“About that, um, date thing.”

Her cheeks immediately flamed pink. “Oh, don’t worry about that. It was a silly misunderstanding.”

“I know, but it’s not that I wouldn’t... That is, I have a policy about getting involved with clients. It’s not wise. Emotions tend to run high in situations like these, and I can’t let myself take advantage of that.”

“Of course,” she said. “You’re a professional.”

“Exactly.”

She smiled wanly. “I understand.”

“Good.”

Still smiling, she pushed her glasses up on her nose and went out the door. It had barely closed behind her before he remembered that she wasn’t a client at all. Her sister might be, but Jillian Waltham was not. No reason really existed why he couldn’t ask her out on a date if he wanted to. Not that he wanted to. He just didn’t want her to think that he didn’t want to, which didn’t really make any sense even to him.

It was the Serena thing, no doubt. Funny that she should put him in mind of Serena, though. She didn’t look like Serena—well, other than that tall, model’s build—and she certainly didn’t behave like Serena, who had been quietly confident and well-spoken. No, it was something else. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on just yet.

He sat down and contemplated the brown sack containing the lunch he hadn’t ordered, but it was Serena’s face he saw. A perfect oval framed by long auburn hair, expressive green eyes, straight, slender nose, a full lush mouth. That face had sold everything from mascara to opera tickets. But as lovely as it had been, it was nothing compared with the loveliness of her soul. Serena had been that rare, true beauty who was as pretty inside as out. And she was gone, killed by a crazed, obsessive fan who had fancied himself somehow rejected by her. As was that naive, cocky young policeman who had fed the threats and complaints into the system, believing that would be enough to protect her. He knew better now.

The system was hamstrung by minutiae and overburdened by the sheer volume of similar cases. The average policeman’s hands were literally tied by what seemed to Zach to be nonsensical laws and the unscrupulousness of the criminal population. Law enforcement was an honorable profession, one embraced wholeheartedly by his family, but Serena’s loss had convinced him that he could do more by working the system from the outside than the inside, and he had done a lot of good since then. He admitted that without vanity or ego. It was the balm that made old pains bearable.

So why did he recoil from this case? Jillian Waltham wasn’t even the target. He probably wouldn’t even see her again. Even if he found cause for concern and took the case, he would be protecting Camille Waltham, not her sister—and for pay. Talking news heads tended to make good money, even if they were only local. So it was settled, not that it had been in question, really. He would stop by Camille Waltham’s neighborhood and see what she had to say about this broken window and her former boyfriend. If he did take the case, he’d be dealing with Camille. It should be simple enough to stay clear of Jillian’s path.

It occurred to him that the whole thing might be blown out of proportion by a nervous sister; Jillian had said that Camille considered the broken window an accident. He’d reserve judgment until he’d heard the whole story. Then, even if Camille did need and want his services, he could see no reason for Jillian to be overly involved.

He felt slightly foolish now. Talk about overreacting! He pictured Jillian Waltham’s pixie face behind those big, clunky glasses and laughed at himself. What was he thinking? She was nothing like Serena, really, and she wasn’t the target, so he wouldn’t have to see her even if he did take the case.

He began to unpack the lunch sack, his stomach growling in anticipation of the treat to come. With Jillian Waltham and her arresting eyes tucked firmly out of mind, he leaned back, propped his feet and dug in.

When she opened the door and smiled at him, his stomach dropped. The baggy khaki shorts and oversized red camp shirt were not much improvement over that awful deli uniform, and yet she had definitely improved somehow.

“Jillian. I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, trying not to study her too closely.