Chapter Two

      After work, Carson headed home, dreading the upcoming conversation with Heidi. Given everything else she was dealing with, he hated having to call her on her behavior. But he couldn’t let what she’d done slide. Shoplifting was a serious offense, and he had to impress on her that stealing was wrong.

       He pulled up to his rented midcentury three-bedroom, two-bath saltbox-style house and parked in the driveway; the garage was still full of moving boxes and extra furniture he hadn’t been able to part with when they’d moved. Someday he’d get to sorting through all of it, but right now, just the thought of the chore overwhelmed him and brought forth too many difficult memories.

       Turning off the ignition, he sat in his SUV cruiser for a moment, relishing the calm before the inevitable storm. Then he climbed out of his vehicle, locked it and headed toward the front door, figuratively putting his “Dad” hat on.

       He let himself in and went directly to the bedroom at the front of the house he used as an office and secured his service weapon in his home lockbox in the closet. He put his sheriff’s hat on his oak desk, and then walked through the small, sparsely furnished living room and went looking for Mrs. Philpot.

       As expected, she was in the eat-in kitchen standing at the stove making what smelled like Salisbury steak. Carson noted that the chipped tile counters were sparkling clean, and the scuffed hardwood floors looked freshly mopped. Carson didn’t require her to do housework, but Mrs. Philpot seemed compelled to keep the place spotless, which he was thankful for. With his schedule, he didn’t have much time for housework, and he hadn’t had the chance to hire someone to come in and clean.

       Today Mrs. Philpot was dressed in a hot-pink tracksuit and white tennis shoes. Her short, bright, unnaturally red hair—colored, he was sure, but, hey, whatever—was, as always, perfectly styled, and her tortoiseshell glasses sat atop her head. Though she was almost seventy, she was as sharp as a tack, and he suspected that today’s events were an anomaly; according to her references, not much usually got past her.

       Except one determined twelve-year-old bent on misbehaving—his daughter, the escape artist/shoplifter. Wonderful. What a distinction.

       “Hello, Mrs. Philpot,” he said. “Smells delicious.” She usually started dinner so Carson and Heidi didn’t end up eating at eight-thirty. That gave Heidi more time to do homework before lights-out at nine. Unless Heidi argued about having to go to bed so early, and then bedtime was more like ten.

       “Hello, Sheriff Winters,” she said, raising a wooden spoon in the air. “Dinner is almost ready.”

       “Great.” He retrieved a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water.

       Mrs. Philpot turned toward him, her hands knotted together, her brow furrowed. “I am so sorry about what happened with Heidi today. She told me she was going upstairs to do her homework, and I was busy vacuuming. She must have slipped out the front door when I was down the hall and couldn’t hear or see her.” She shook her head. “I heard her music coming from her room, and, silly me, assumed she was still up there.”

       He put his glass down on the counter. “Please don’t worry about this. Apparently Heidi has developed a very sneaky streak, and I’m sure she waited for the opportunity to slip by you and left her music on to throw you off the scent.”

       “I was just on my way upstairs to check on her when you called…”

       “As I said when we talked on the phone, this isn’t your fault, Mrs. P. It’s Heidi’s, and she and I will definitely be talking about her consequence at dinner.”

       “All right, then. Please let me know how you want me to handle keeping track of her from now on. And remember, Sheriff, this isn’t my first rodeo.” She winked at him.

       Carson blinked, but he was left without an answer; it wasn’t as if they could put handcuffs on Heidi.

       He walked Mrs. Philpot to the door and she left.

       Sighing, Carson stood in the middle of the kitchen, hating that he had to wreck the evening with a lecture.

       But there was no help for the serious conversation he and Heidi needed to have.

       He called Heidi down to dinner, then went back in the kitchen and got out plates and silverware. Despite the massive ice cream cone he’d eaten earlier today, compliments of the charming Phoebe Sellers, he was starving; he and Heidi would have to talk while they ate.

       A few moments later, Heidi called down from upstairs, “I’m not very hungry, Dad.”

       Classic avoidance.

       Sighing, he went to the bottom of the stairs. Heidi sat on the top step, looking mighty worried if you asked him; she was a smart kid, and she knew she’d messed up. She had her long, blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, and she’d changed into gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt as opposed to the jeans or legging thingies she usually wore to school. Her feet were bare, and he noticed she’d painted her toenails a funky blue. Gone were the days she used some demure shade of pink.

       “Well, come on down and at least sit with me,” he said. “You know I don’t like eating alone.” Going from a family of four to a family of two almost overnight did that to a guy.

       Heidi scrunched up her face. “Do I have to?” she groused.

       “Yup, you do.” He headed back to the kitchen. “You’ll probably get hungry when you see what Mrs. P. whipped up.”

       Just as he was loading a plate with food, Heidi appeared at the kitchen door.

       He motioned her in. “Sure you don’t want some?” he asked, holding up the serving spoon. “It looks delicious.”

       Heidi shrugged. “All right, maybe a little.” Guess she was hungry after all if she was willing to step into the fire.

       When they were seated at the table, he took a few bites, marveling at Mrs. Philpot’s cooking skills. The meal was delicious, and certainly better than the frozen pizza he would have thrown in the oven if she hadn’t made dinner.

       Heidi sat slumped in her chair and simply pushed her food around with her fork without speaking or looking at him.

       He ate and just let the silence sink in for a bit; she needed to stew for while, worry some. When she finally started fidgeting, he cleared his throat and said, “So, as you know, I had a call from Ms. Sellers from the ice cream parlor today.”

       Heidi studied her plate as if it held the magical key to getting out of the inevitable conversation. After a long silence, she huffed and put her fork down with a clank. “Yeah,” she said, her voice defiant. “So?”

       His gut burned. “So? You shoplifted, Heidi. What were you thinking?” he asked, his voice low but intense. “Ms. Sellers could have pressed charges.”

       Heidi slanted a decidedly worried glance at him, biting her lip. “So did she?”

       “No, she didn’t, luckily for you.” He swiped a hand over his eyes, wishing he could wipe away the scene playing out before him. “She could have, though, and probably should have. But she’s a nice woman, and she wanted to cut you a break.”

       “Then what’s the problem?” Heidi asked, giving him the classic eye roll.

       Dropping his jaw, he stared at her, absolutely flabbergasted. “Are you kidding me? The problem is you snuck out of the house and stole candy.”

       She said nothing, did nothing. Just sat there, blank. Unrepentant. Who was this sullen kid? What had happened to his little pigtailed daughter with two missing front teeth? The one who actually cared about what he