The Mccaffertys: Slade

But it had been a thousand years ago. She’d been a rebellious girl trying to fit in. Not a grown woman with a law degree. Sensible, she reminded herself. These days she was sensible.

And sometimes she hated it.

* * *

“DON’T LECTURE ME,” Randi ordered as Slade walked into the den. She was seated at Thorne’s computer, glasses propped on the end of her nose, the baby sleeping in a playpen in the corner.

“Did I say a word?”

“You didn’t have to. I can see it in your face. You’re an open book, Slade.”

“Like hell.” He propped a hip against the edge of the desk. “I think you and I need to clear the air.”

The corners of her mouth tightened a fraction. “Just a sec.” Her fingers flew over the keyboard. “You can’t believe how much e-mail I’ve collected…” With a wry smile, she clicked off and added, “It’s great to be loved. Now, as I was saying, don’t start in on me about the baby’s father. It’s my business. So if that’s what you mean by ‘clearing the air,’ let’s just keep it foggy.”

“Someone tried to kill you.”

“So you keep reminding me, over and over.” Something darkened her eyes for a heartbeat. Fear? Anger? He couldn’t tell, and the shadow quickly disappeared. Standing slightly, she leaned over the desk, pushing aside a cup of pens and pencils. “I get enough advice from Thorne. And Nicole. And Matt and even Juanita.” Pointing an accusing finger at his nose, she said, “From you, I expect understanding.”

“I don’t know what you’re asking me to understand.”

“That I need some space. Some privacy. Come on, Slade, you know what it’s like for the whole damned family to be talking about you, worrying about you, clucking around like a bunch of hens. It’s enough to drive a sane person crazy. That’s why you and I both moved away from Grand Hope in the first place.”

“So who says you’re sane?”

“Oh, so now you’re a comedian,” she quipped, smothering a smile as she took off her glasses and leaned back into her chair. Large brown eyes assessed him. “What’s with that private detective?”

“Striker?”

“Yeah, him. I hear he’s your friend.”

“He is.”

“Humph.” She frowned, fluffing up her short locks with nervous fingers. “There’s a reason they’re called dicks, you know.”

He snorted. “Testy, aren’t we?”

“Yes, we are. We don’t like being watched around the clock, spied upon, our lives being dissected. Tell him to lay off. I don’t like him digging around in my personal life.”

“No way, kiddo. It was my idea to bring him into the investigation.”

“And it was a bad one. We don’t need him.” She was adamant. “We’ve got the sheriff’s department. Detective Espinoza seems to be doing a decent enough job. Kelly should never have quit the department to work with Striker.”

Something was going on here; something Randi wasn’t admitting. “Is it Striker you don’t like? Or P.I.s in general?”

“Both. Aren’t the police enough?”

“No.”

“But—”

“Kurt’s just trying to help us find the bastard who wants you dead. You might be a little more helpful, you know. It’s like you’re hiding something.”

“What?”

“You tell me.”

“I would if I could,” she snapped. “But that’s just not possible right now. However, if I remember anything, anything at all, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Yeah, right. Then try concentrating on something besides people I dated fifteen years ago.”

Randi’s eyes narrowed. “It bothers you, doesn’t it? What happened with Jamie?”

“I haven’t thought about it much.”

“Until now.” His sister’s smile was nearly wicked. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing,” he said, knowing as the word passed his teeth it was a lie. Jamie had gotten to him. Already. And he felt an unlikely need to explain himself, to set the record straight about the Sue Ellen thing.

Or is that just an excuse to see her again? Face it McCafferty, you haven’t been interested in a woman since Rebecca, but one look at the lady attorney and you’ve barely thought of anything else.

“So what’re you working on?” He pointed at the computer and shoved his nagging thoughts aside.

“Catching up on a billion e-mails,” she said. “I’ve been out of the loop awhile. It’ll take days to go through all of these and I’ve got to get my own laptop back. This one is Thorne’s and I don’t think he appreciates me monopolizing it as it’s his main link to his office in Denver.”

“He’s got a desktop ordered. It should be here any day.”

“That’ll solve some problems.”

“Where’s your laptop?”

She bit her lip. “I don’t know…I can’t remember…but…why don’t you ask Kurt Striker. I hear both he and the police have been in my apartment. Damn.” She raked her fingers through her short, uneven hair, and when she looked up at Slade, her expression was troubled. “I’m really not trying to be a pain, Slade. I know everyone’s trying to help me, but it’s so frustrating. I feel like it’s really important for me to get back home, to look through my stuff, to write on my own computer, but I can’t remember what’s on the damned thing, probably just ideas and research for future columns, but I feel like it could help—that it might be the reason some psycho is after me.”

“Maybe it is,” he said. “Juanita said you were working on a book.”

“So I’ve heard. But…” She sighed loudly. “I can’t remember what it’s about.”

“Then I guess we’ll just have to find the damned laptop, won’t we? Striker’s still working on it.”

“Striker. Oh, great,” she muttered as Slade left her.

In the kitchen, he yanked his jacket from a hook near the back door and walked outside. The late-afternoon sky was already dark, the air brisk.

Overhead, clouds threatened to dump more snow. Not that he cared. He climbed into his pickup, started the engine and cranked on the wheel. He’d drive into town, have a drink and…and what?

See Jamie again ran through his mind.

“Damn it all to hell.” He threw the truck into first and reached for his pack of smokes. He’d always gotten himself into trouble where women were concerned and he knew, as the tires slid on a slick patch of packed snow, that he hadn’t changed over the years.