Marked for Murder

“Good. Because I might be here for a few days. It depends.”

Margo felt her nerve endings curl into little knots. “It depends on what?”

“Things,” he answered cryptically, then lifted a plastic grocery bag she’d failed to notice. “Have you had dinner?”

“Yes. I had a bagel a little while ago.”

His rugged features lined. “A bagel isn’t dinner. You never did eat enough to keep a bird alive. Do you have eggs?”

“Cole—why do you need to know that?”

“Because I picked up a few things—ham, cheese, a green pepper. I thought if you hadn’t eaten, I’d make us a couple of omelets, then we could talk about things.”

“That’s not a good idea.”

“Why?”

Margo met his eyes. Because every time they talked she ended up hurting. “Because I’ve been awake since three a.m., and I can barely think. I’m tired, Cole. Too tired to fill our awkward pauses and silences. I need a shower, and I need some sleep.”

“I’m only asking for a few minutes,” he said. “I can have the omelets on the table by the time you’re out of the shower.”

She shook her head wearily. “No, you can’t.”

“Okay, it might take a bit longer—and you don’t have to say a word. I’ll do the talking. All you have to do is nod or shake your head no.” He lowered his voice, his dark eyes gentle on hers. “Please. This is important to me.”

Finally, Margo nodded. He’d said please. He’d said it was important. She couldn’t refuse. “Can you say what you need to say in thirty minutes?”

“Yes.”

Good, because that’s about all she could manage.

Ten minutes later, feeling human again, Margo padded barefoot across the blue braided rug in her small living room, following the sound of music from a country station. She’d added the plants, wall hangings and other warm touches to the room. But Cole had helped her pick out her country-blue sofa and love seat, tables and lamps after she’d accepted his proposal. It was furniture she’d insisted that she pay for—furniture that would eventually grace the home he’d begun to build.

Months later, the only thing they’d done together was argue.

Drawing a guarded breath, Margo stepped into the kitchen. He’d said she didn’t have to say a word, but that wasn’t realistic. If he needed to talk, as long as he didn’t bring up the past or assess blame, she’d talk back.

“You’re moving right along,” she said.

Cole glanced around briefly from the charcoal-gray countertop where he was adding chopped green pepper to the diced ham, onions and shredded cheese on the plate beside him. He stepped to the left and put the cutting board in the sink. “Hunger’s a great motivator. I stopped at the diner a little before seven, but they were already closed. I hope Aggie’s okay.”

Normal conversation. So far so good.

“She’s fine. She helps out with bingo at the church every other Wednesday night.”

“I didn’t know that,” he said, taking the eggs from the fridge and setting them on the counter. He pulled a clear glass bowl from the cupboard. “I like what you’ve done with your kitchen.”

“Thanks.” Eleven months ago it had been a bright, sunny yellow. Now her oak cabinets and appliances stretched along one white wall with a burgundy-roses border. A few steps away in the dining area, a ruffled burgundy valance topped the oversize window that looked out onto her deck and the woods below. The centerpiece of burgundy silk roses, greens and baby’s breath set on a doily in the middle of her round table, was her own creation.

Updating her kitchen had been therapy. She’d needed something to fill her free time after Cole left—something besides caring for her mother.

Margo stared at his broad shoulders and tapering back as he cracked eggs into the bowl and set the shells aside. And a poignant rush of déjà vu threatened to crush her heart and lungs. Once in a while after church on Sundays, they’d skip breakfast at the diner and make brunch here together. It had been quite an adventure, with both of them sidestepping and bumping into each other as they worked. He used to laugh that he couldn’t wait until they moved into their dream home where they’d be cooking in a kitchen larger than a postage stamp. So much for dreams.

Cole turned around, breaking her thoughts and wiping his hands on a dish towel. His dark brown hair was longer now that he didn’t have to comply with department policy. But if anything, the slightly shaggy look made him even more attractive.

“Okay, everything’s ready for the pan, and your tea’s decaf.” He nodded at the steaming stoneware mug on the counter. “It won’t keep you up.”

No, but having him back in town would. “Great. Can I help?”

“Sure. Want to sauté the vegetables?”

The way she once did? Yes, she would.

The theme from an old TV detective series pounded from the cell phone clipped to Cole’s belt. Pulling it from its case, he checked the number and frowned. “Sorry. I need a few minutes. It’s a callback from a new client.”

She hesitated. “A new client? Sounds like things are going well at Sharp.”

“Well enough,” he replied quietly.

They both knew what she’d meant. Are you happy there? Is the work satisfying? Do you still think about returning to your old precinct in Manhattan?

Henry Mancini’s Peter Gunn theme continued to play in Cole’s hand. “I’d better get this,” he said. Then he flipped open his phone and went into the living room, his low baritone fading. “Mrs. Farley. Yes, I did call. Thanks for getting back to me.”

Margo moved to the range, adjusted the flame under the skillet, added a little butter and olive oil and then tossed in the crisp vegetables.

Was he happy at Sharp Investigations? Could he be happy doing anything but police work? He’d come from a long line of tough city cops. His dad, uncles and grand-dad had all served, and from them had sprung a handful of rowdy cop cousins—incurable jokesters who loved saying that Cole had shed his Andy Sipowicz image to be Charity’s Barney Fife.

She’d known his history when they’d fallen in love and he’d chosen to move here. She just hadn’t known that being a cop was such a large part of who he was as a man. She heard his voice again, as clearly as if their first real disagreement had happened only days ago.

“You know Wilcox was wrong,” he’d said. “I can’t believe you want to stay. Is that the kind of man you want to work for?”

“Yes, he was wrong,” she’d returned. “He should’ve asked for help from the state guys before the case went cold. But it doesn’t make any sense for both of us to be without jobs. And if you’re being honest with yourself, you know this was the first time John made a misstep.”

“Yeah, John’s a saint,” he’d snapped, shutting her down.

After a thoughtful moment, he’d said quietly, “I spoke with my precinct captain yesterday. I can have my old job back if I want it. All I have to do is say the word.”

Fear had nearly taken her breath away. “In Manhattan. Constantly putting your life on the line.”

“I’d be a cop again.”

“And I’d be terrified every time you walked out the door.”

The nerve in his jaw worked. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that you’re building a home we already love. And I’m saying we want children. Cole, I don’t want to raise them in a city.”

“I need to work, Margo. I can’t go on like this in definitely.”