Scene of the Crime: Mystic Lake

“I know, but I want to be an FBI agent like you,” he replied.

By that time, they had arrived at their house. Max went into his bedroom to play one of his video games while Amberly started frying burgers for dinner.

As she worked, she couldn’t help it that her mind went back to Cole Caldwell. She’d gotten mixed messages from him all afternoon. There had been moments when she’d caught him staring at her, when she’d felt the heat of male interest emanating toward her. But they were brief moments followed by coldness and an edge of resentment.

She told herself she didn’t care how he treated her, what his thoughts were of her. All that mattered was that they somehow figure out how to work together to discover who was killing the young women in Mystic Lake.

As she flipped the burgers and then made a quick salad, her thoughts moved from Cole to the crime. The dream catchers confused her.

It was a dichotomy for the killer to brutally stab three women to death and then hang a dream catcher above each victim as if to assure them happy dreams throughout eternity. What did it mean? What did the dream catchers mean to the killer?

After dinner, several games of Go Fish and a bath for Max, she tucked him into his bed for the night. “I’m sorry I won’t be around this weekend,” she said as she touched the owl pendent hanging around his neck.

“It’s okay. Me and Dad will have fun. We always do. Now, tell me a Granny Nightsong story before I go to sleep.”

“Granny Nightsong thought the wind was an old man who, when grouchy, blew. On a windy day, she’d yell at the old man, telling him to hush his mouth, to stuff a sock in it.” Max giggled at this, and the sound wrapped around her heart and squeezed it tight.

“She was funny.”

“She was funny and wonderful, and I wish she would have lived long enough that you could have grown up with her. She would have loved you so much.”

Max nodded, his eyelids beginning to droop. “Are you working on an important job now?”

“Very important. I’m helping a sheriff find a bad guy. His name is Sheriff Cole Caldwell.”

“Sheriff Cole… If I don’t be an FBI agent, maybe I’ll be a sheriff.” His eyes drifted closed and she knew he was asleep. Still, she remained seated on the edge of his bed, drawing in the scent of childhood, of little boy…that scent that belonged to Max alone.

She and John might have gotten a lot of things wrong between them, but Max had been nothing but right. He was her heart, her hopes and dreams.

She finally got up from his bed and left his room. She went into the kitchen, poured herself a cup of coffee, threw a bag of red licorice on the table and then began to spread out the crime files.

There was no question that she was looking forward to tomorrow night and meeting up with Jeff Maynard and some of his friends at Bledsoe’s. Amberly had good instincts about people, and they might be more apt to talk to a woman than to a sheriff.

Going back to the first murder of Gretchen Johnson made sense to her. That was where the killer established his pattern, that’s where a possible personal connection could be found between killer and victim.

Cole had surprised her with his assertion that he go with her to the bar. There had been times during the afternoon that she’d thought he wanted her anywhere else but close to him.

He could go with her tomorrow night if it made him feel better, but that didn’t mean they were going to stay together inside the place. She couldn’t accomplish what she needed to with him at her side.

Although the idea of having him right at her side was far too appealing, she had to keep her personal, crazy attraction to him firmly under control.

She’d noticed as they’d walked the streets of Mystic Lake that morning that he was well liked and respected by the people he served. He probably had some hot honey- bunny at home to snuggle with, to get him through the long, lonely nights.

He’d told her his wife had been killed eight years before. Men didn’t do well alone, and she couldn’t imagine that a man like Cole Caldwell had spent the past eight years entirely alone.

Besides, she didn’t care. She had a crime to solve, a son to raise, and that was more than enough for her at this time in her life. She’d stopped believing in long-term relationships and marriages when she’d finally decided to leave John. Whatever she felt toward Cole Caldwell was nothing more than a healthy dose of lust—and she had learned the hard way that friendships might last forever, but passion was a fleeting emotion meant to make fools of people.

AT PRECISELY NINE-THIRTY Friday night, Cole’s doorbell rang. He’d expected her to be exactly on time, and she was. They’d agreed to meet at his house half an hour before leaving for Bledsoe’s.

He opened the door to greet her, and for a moment, his breath caught in his chest. Clad in a pair of tight jeans and a turquoise, sparkly blouse, with her hair loose and flowing down her shoulders and back, she looked sizzling hot and definitely not like the professional agent he’d spent time with the day before.

He had foregone his uniform, opting instead for a pair of blue jeans and a short-sleeved button-down navy shirt. For an awkward moment, they simply stared at each other, and then he found his voice.

“Come in,” he said as he gestured her inside. As she swept past him, her perfume teased his nose, and he felt a tightening of every muscle in his body.

“Nice place,” she said as she entered his living room. “Very functional and masculine.”

He looked around the room as if seeing it through her eyes. Functional, yes, but also cold and impersonal. When he’d bought this house and moved here, he’d still been reeling with grief. He’d bought the furniture he needed to exist, and that was it.

Since that time, he’d done little to make it a real home. It was just the space where he ate, showered and slept when he wasn’t on the job.

He motioned her into the kitchen and to the small, round table. “Want something to drink?” he asked, wanting some sort of activity to take his mind off her sexiness.

“No, thanks. I figure I’ll order something when we get to Bledsoe’s,” she replied as she took a seat at the table.

He remained leaning against the refrigerator, feeling the safety of that much distance from her. He’d noticed she was pretty the first moment she’d arrived at the scene. But it was as if on that day, she’d been a photo negative, and now she was a full-blown colored photograph.

“So, what’s the plan?” he asked, since this was her idea to begin with.

“If things were going to go my way, then you’d stay here and I’d go to Bledsoe’s alone.”

He raised a brow and gave her a tight grin. “But you don’t always get your way in life.” The smile fell. “Bledsoe’s is usually filled with a pretty tough crowd, all the lowlifes in town seem to gather there on the weekends. You aren’t going in there alone.”

“I’m also not going in there as an FBI agent asking questions,” she replied.

He couldn’t help the way his gaze slid down the length of her. “I’d say that’s obvious,” he replied dryly.

“So, we need to come up with a cover story of sorts if you’re going to be with me. And by the way, I don’t want you lurking at my side every minute of the night. That defeats everything I’m trying to do.”

“I’ll find some corner to sit in and nurse a beer,” he replied.

“Have you done that before?”

“Occasionally but not often. When I have spare time in my life, I like to take my fishing pole and sit on the bank of Mystic Lake.”

“There’re fish in it?”

“Rumor has it that it was stocked years ago, but I’ve never caught anything. I just enjoy sitting alone to unwind after a long day.”

“No girlfriend to help you unwind?” she asked.

“Nope. I have no desire for a girlfriend, a second wife or a relationship. I’m satisfied with my work and my fishing time. That’s enough for me.” His voice took on an unintended rough edge. Never again would he put his heart on the line, never again would he risk going through the agony he’d experienced when he’d lost his wife.

“Okay. So, the plan,” she continued. “I think we should tell anyone who asks that I’m an old friend who finally decided to come to town for a visit, and I insisted we go to the bar because you’re kind of a fuddy-duddy and I’m a party girl.”

“I’m not a fuddy-duddy,” he said irritably.

“It’s just a cover story,” she replied with a small laugh. “I’m not actually accusing you of being a fuddy-duddy.”