In Plain Sight. Tara Quinn Taylor
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“Could you see your front door every second of that time?”
“Of course not. The Thorntons are on the same side of the street.”
“How do you know someone didn’t see you leave and then enter your house?”
Ignoring the blade of fear that slid through her, Jan forced a chuckle. “Like I said before, you need to be writing suspense, Green. Because stuff like that only happens between the pages of a book or on the screen. I was two houses down, for goodness’ sake.” They were still on her stoop.
“But it only takes…”
“And during that time you were bringing out your trash.”
She went inside. He stayed out.
“You mad at me now?” she asked lightly.
“No.” But he was frowning.
“You just changed your mind about taking my trash out?” She’d been rolling the big can out by herself for years, didn’t need his help, but she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to mess with him.
It took her mind off her weariness.
“Of course not,” he said. “I’ll meet you at the gate.”
“Simon!” She laughed out loud then. “You can come through the house.”
She didn’t really understand his hesitation. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been inside before. He’d seen every inch of her 2,000-square-foot home when he’d trailed behind the police officer who’d searched it after the brick incident the week before.
He walked through, went out to wheel the trash to the curb, then relocked the gate from the inside and came back into her kitchen, all without a word. He stood there, staring at her.
“What?” She’d poured herself a very weak vodka and orange juice—mostly orange juice—and leaned against the counter, taking a sip.
“It’s none of my business.”
“Probably not. But I’m sure you’ll tell me, anyway.”
He shook his head. “You know what you’re doing. And you have an inside track on crime in this town.”
“Yeah.”
“But I’d still appreciate it if you’d be a little more careful. A woman living alone…”
“I won’t live my life in fear.”
“I’m not suggesting you should. Keep in mind, though, that I live right next door. And I’d like to be able to relax now and then without constantly having to listen for strangers with evil intent bothering someone who’s nice.”
He thought she was nice. That was all right. Because she thought he was sweet.
“Okay,” she said, her mouth twitching as she held back a smile. “In an effort to contribute to your peace of mind, I will be more diligent about locking my door. Since this is the first time in years I can remember leaving it unlocked, I don’t think it’ll be too much of a challenge.”
And she was no idiot. She was prosecuting a killer who had loyal associates. She wanted to live long enough to get him into prison.
“Thank you.”
“Now how about a truce?” She held up her glass. “I have vodka to offer.”
“I accept.”
She was shocked. He was supposed to have made a joke and been out of there. Didn’t he remember his own MO?
Turning, she took down a glass from the cupboard. A juice glass. She didn’t entertain enough to justify highball crystal.
“You pour,” she said, handing him the bottle and pushing the orange juice his way.
He took a splash of juice to go with his vodka, leaned back against the opposite cupboard…and suddenly she was nervous. The man seemed a lot more vital, standing in her kitchen.
“I didn’t realize you knew the Thorntons all that well.” He adjusted his glasses.
His eyes were brown. She’d never noticed before.
“I don’t really. They drop off fruitcakes at Christmas, but I think everyone gets them.”
He nodded. “Never did figure out the appeal there.”
“Me, neither. But my mother likes them. I give them to her.”
“Good, she can have mine next year, too. I feel like a jerk when I throw them away.”
Jan chuckled with him. Took a sip of mostly orange juice and wished it was mostly vodka.
“A few years ago, my washer valve broke when I was out of town,” she said. “The whole house flooded. The Thorntons had just moved in, and they noticed the water coming out from under my doors and called the city to turn off the water. They also helped me move out all my furniture while the damage was being repaired.”
“Where was I?”
“I have no idea.” She smiled at him again. “That was before I’d actually met you. But I think you were gone. For about a month I didn’t see any papers at the end of your drive when I left for work in the morning.”
Oh. Well. It only took a second for her to realize that she’d just admitted that she paid attention. And remembered something that had happened almost four years ago. That was embarrassing.
“I took a…river rafting trip,” he said, stumbling a bit over the words—as if he was finding this experience awkward, as well. “I was gone for almost a month,” he continued, resting one foot in front of the other. “Must have been then.”
She wanted to look away. And didn’t.
“So how were the Thorntons?”
“Fine. They named him Mark.”
“I hear hesitation in your voice,” he said, his expression curious. “Why? Don’t you like the name?”
Were all writers as observant as he was?
“Of course I like the name.” She shrugged, putting her edgy reaction down to fatigue. “I’m sure it’s nothing. They just seemed to go on and on about how happy they were that the baby’s a boy. I got a pretty strong sense that if they’d had a girl they would actually have been disappointed.”
“Maybe they wanted to please the grandparents or something.”
“Maybe. I can’t imagine the sex of a child mattering to me as long as he or she was healthy, but I realize it makes a difference to some people.”
He switched legs, crossing one over the other. She couldn’t really explain why she wasn’t offering him a seat. Standing just seemed like a better idea.
“I also couldn’t help wondering if my father was disappointed, when I turned out to be female.” Jan’s gaze shot up, stricken when she realized she’d spoken aloud. Simon didn’t care about her anxieties.
And he was only supposed to see what she presented to the world. A daring, driven attorney who did things her own way, but always played by the rules.
“Did he act disappointed?” His direct gaze, the soft tone in his voice, made her knees shake.
She shook her head and took a seat at the table in the middle of her kitchen. Simon followed her, bringing the bottle and the carton of juice.
“I don’t really remember much about him,” she continued, telling her better judgment to shut up. She had to start working through things or she’d go nuts. And really, who was safer to think aloud with than a distant neighbor who didn’t have any reason to care, beyond a generic sense of compassion.
“He died when I was four.”
“He