Jack Murray, Sheriff

“Ah.” He pulled a small notebook from an inner pocket of his suit coat, then without opening it replaced it. “I can’t help you officially.”

“I realize that. I do appreciate you stopping.”

“Would you like to tell me about it?”

Like was hardly a word she would have used. And yet she’d had nobody familiar with such situations to give her advice. Her best friends were happily married. People threw things and screamed at each other on the other side of town, where lawns were shaggy and yellowing and paint peeled, not here. Or so she had always believed. This man, she guessed, knew better.

Without having consciously made up her mind, Beth began to talk, giving him the facts: Ray had moved out nearly a year before, at her request. At first he hadn’t believed she meant it. When he picked up or dropped off the girls, he alternated between charm and feigned indifference, both designed to show her what she was missing. When she went ahead and filed for divorce, he tried arguing with her, only at the last minute getting a lawyer to represent him. He hadn’t disputed custody; Ray was a long-haul trucker who was gone for days on end. The visitation was to be liberal, agreed upon between the two of them. So far he had picked up the girls when they expected him, which was the only positive Beth could think of. He had paid the child support until the divorce was final, but since then he had changed, giving freer rein to the anger that was one of the principal causes of the divorce. He wanted her to beg for the support check, and she refused.

At first he had said things to her, but out of the girls’ hearing; when she stayed calm, he said them in front of Stephanie and Lauren. Which upset her enough that she couldn’t pretend composure she didn’t feel. That it upset them, too, seemed to have no weight with him.

Once he realized he’d found the way to get to her, Ray escalated his tactics. He gave one or the other of the girls “messages” to pass on to Mom. He had little talks with them about how crazy it was that their mother had broken up the family. Tonight was the third time he had brought them home late—so late, it couldn’t possibly be innocent. Maybe the first time had been; Beth was willing to give him that much credit. But by the time they showed up four hours later than she had expected them, she’d been terrified.

She might as well have handed him a weapon.

“If I didn’t react, he’d probably quit doing it,” she concluded with a long sigh. “Maybe I could, if it weren’t for all the articles about noncustodial parents who disappear with the kids. Every time I see a picture of a missing child, I can’t help imagining…” She gave an involuntary shudder. “I don’t think Ray would do that. I don’t think he really wants the kids full-time, he just enjoys these little jabs. But when they’re due and an hour goes by, and then another one and another, every time I wonder…” She didn’t have to finish. Instead Beth lifted the mug of tea for a sip, needing the second it gave her to regain her poise.

The sheriff listened to her bleak story without interruption or comment. Nothing she said surprised him; his expression told her that he’d heard worse, and probably seen it, too.

He wasn’t a handsome man. In fact, he should have been homely with a crooked nose and features that were too crudely sculpted, yet somehow he wasn’t. She might have even found him attractive, if his eyes hadn’t been so cynical, his mouth so hard. Sheriff Murray had been sympathetic to her, but he wasn’t a soft man.

When she set down the mug, he met her gaze squarely. “What if I hadn’t shown up tonight?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your ex-husband struck me as a very angry man, Ms. Sommers. If he got some satisfaction from scaring you this time, he’s going to do it again. Question is, what will he do next time? And how long will just scaring you be enough?”

“I…don’t know,” she admitted, feeling sick. It was ironic, when she ought to know Ray better than anyone else in the world. They had been married for twelve years, and had dated regularly for two years before that. But Ray had changed, even his anger becoming more unpredictable. She was no longer confident that she knew what he would or wouldn’t do.

“Let me check on the girls,” Beth said, and at his nod hurried upstairs. Stephanie was in her nightgown, bending over the tub to rinse Lauren’s hair. Beth paused in the bathroom doorway to watch for a moment, unobserved.

“Too hot!” Lauren exclaimed.

Her sister adjusted the water, then dumped another cup over the eight-year-old’s soapy, sodden red curls.

“Too cold.”

“For Pete’s sake,” Stephanie muttered, but she fiddled with the knob again. The mirror and the sliding doors that turned the tub into a shower enclosure were both steamed up. Kneeling on the bathroom floor with the towel wrapped around her head, Stephanie looked like a mother in miniature. With the mild exasperation in her tone, she even sounded like one.

The normalcy of the scene was reassuring. Beth hated the weekends when her daughters went to their father’s, but it helped to know that they had each other. At eleven going on twelve, Stephanie was the usual confused mixture of maturity and childishness, but Beth had confidence in her judgment—up to a point.

“How are you doing, guys?”

Stephanie turned her head. “Okay.”

“Too hot!” Lauren yelled.

Stephanie rolled her eyes. “It’s never perfect!”

Beth stepped forward to kiss the top of her older daughter’s head—actually, to kiss a wet towel, but the gesture was understood. “Sweetheart, it was never perfect when I had to rinse your hair, either. Forget toilet training. I was really happy when you started taking care of your own hair.”

“How come she isn’t old enough to?”

“Lauren’s doing everything but finishing up the rinsing,” Beth reminded her. “Now, I’ll be back to tuck you two into bed in a few minutes.”

“Can we read in bed?”

She ought to say no, as late as it was, but she was afraid once they went to bed, they would lie in the dark remembering tonight’s scene and worrying about the next visit to their dad’s. Maybe a good book would give them pleasant thoughts instead to fall asleep with.

“Why not?” Beth said.

She’d half expected to find the sheriff waiting in the hall, eager to make his departure. But no, he was still sitting at her kitchen table, his head back and his eyes closed as if he were catnapping. When she entered the room, he became alert instantly, his eyes appraising. She was suddenly uncomfortable, perhaps only because she hated being in this situation. Or was it that, for a moment, she had been aware of him as a weary and very sexy man, not just a police officer?

If so, she must be crazy. She had every reason to feel grateful, humiliated, frightened, you name it. But attraction was ridiculous. Unless her hormones had decided that any man who came charging to her rescue was worth keeping around.

If she had imagined that his appraisal had been masculine rather than professional, he quickly disabused her. “Have you changed the locks on the house since your divorce?”

“No. I’ve been intending to…”

“Do it. You might consider a security system as well.”

“The only trouble is, I have to let him in,” she pointed out. “He has a right to see the girls.”

“Yes, but at least then he couldn’t surprise you.”

She nodded slowly. Steph and Lauren would be well aware why Mom was having a security system installed.

“Do you have a brother or a father who could be here when Mr. Sommers picks up and drops off the children?”

“No,” she said tersely. “I think that would make matters worse, anyway. Ray would get more belligerent. And I don’t want anyone hurt on my behalf.”

He frowned. “You need protection, Ms. Sommers. A woman alone with two children is vulnerable.”

Beth set down her mug with a click. “Exactly what is it that a man could do to protect me that I can’t do myself?”

“Exert physical force, if need be.” Before she could respond to that one, he switched directions. “Tell me, do you know how to handle a gun?”

“No, and I wouldn’t shoot my ex-husband if I knew how!” Beth said. “That’s all the girls need, to see their dad bleeding to death on our front porch.”

Jack Murray leaned back in his chair, an expression of impatience on his hard face. “Ms. Sommers, I have the feeling you’re not taking this threat seriously. I know it’s hard to picture a man you’ve lived with doing violence to you, but…”

Beth stood, pushing her chair back. “Sheriff, I’m a capable woman. I own a business. I employ six other people. I consider myself competent and reasonably intelligent. I would probably lose a fistfight with my ex-husband, but since that hardly seems like a solution to my problem, I’m afraid I don’t see how I could take this threat more seriously.”

Their gazes met, before he said in that neutral tone a policeman must have to master, “I didn’t mean to imply that you’re incapable. The problem is, in a situation like this you have the reasonable facing the irrational. What if he’d come through that door tonight?”

“He has a key,” Beth said. “He didn’t use it. When I told the girls that their father was throwing a temper tantrum, I meant it. That’s all it was.” Please, God.

Jack Murray made a sound under his breath, one in which she read disbelief and impatience. But presumably it was also a form of concession, because he, too, stood.