Marked for Murder. Lauren Nichols
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problem,” he said, unreadable thoughts clouding his eyes. “You have things to do. Maybe I’ll drop by your place later.”
Stunned, not sure why he’d do that—or if she could even handle another meeting—Margo swallowed and moistened her lips. “You’re not driving back to Pittsburgh?”
“No.” There was no explanation attached to the word, and she didn’t think she could ask for one. Instead, she watched him leave—watched him bump knuckles with Sarah, then step into the late-August sunshine and close the door behind him.
What little energy she had left drizzled away. Why was he thinking about coming by later? What did they have to talk about? They’d said all that needed to be said eleven months ago when she’d broken their engagement. They were over.
Weren’t they?
Pushing away from her desk, she said goodbye to Sarah and headed out the side door, where one of the department’s two black-and-white prowl cars waited. She slipped inside, fastened her seat belt. She couldn’t think about Cole anymore—couldn’t open herself up to what-ifs and maybes. Letting herself think there was hope for them would destroy her this time if it failed to happen. For her own sanity, she needed to concentrate on her job and try to ignore the nervous beating of her heart.
TWO
It was 8:20 p.m., and Margo had been running on coffee and adrenaline for seventeen hours. Pulling into her driveway, she parked the prowl car near the kitchen entry to her white cottage and sank back in her seat. She was in no hurry to get out. As she’d driven home, she’d noticed the soft lights glowing in some of the homes she’d passed, and suddenly, entering her dark, empty house wasn’t very appealing.
She was thirty-two years old. She should’ve been married by now, maybe even had a baby on the way. She loved police work. She did. But at the end of the day, it wasn’t enough. Recently, her mom had begun to guiltily suggest that it was time to let a good man into her life again. Someone like Margo’s dad, who’d died after a massive stroke last year. But the truth was, no man had ever made her as happy, then as miserable, as Cole had. As for her mother… Charlotte McBride was coping better with her husband’s loss now. In fact, she’d left Sunday for North Carolina to spend time with a friend who’d also been widowed. Margo found comfort in that. A year ago, her mom had been a grieving puddle of nerves, frightened of living alone, fearful of money matters, only held together with meds, her faith in God…and her only child.
Two light knocks at her car window nearly catapulted Margo through the roof. She jerked her head to the left—and her spirits fell a little further.
Cole backed up to let her out of the car. “Sorry I startled you.”
“No problem,” she murmured, deciding that God was just as mad at her as she was at Him. There was no other reason she could think of for Cole’s wretched timing. She shut the cruiser’s door and glanced around. His black Silverado was nowhere in sight. “Where did you park?”
He nodded toward the lovely Victorian bed-and-breakfast fifty yards from Margo’s tiny front porch. “I walked. I’m staying at the Blackberry.”
Situated on a slight hill on the opposite side of the street, it was the last building on the block before thick woods and highway asphalt took over. In the near twilight, electric candles burned in the windows of Jenna Harper’s Blackberry Hill B&B, its pink shingles and white gingerbread aglow in the lamppost and landscape lighting.
Margo held back a groan. What was Jenna thinking? It was downright traitorous for a good friend to rent to another good friend’s ex. Especially when it put the couple in uneasy proximity.
“You wish I were staying somewhere else,” he guessed when she failed to reply.
“No, not at all,” she fibbed. “I’m just…surprised.”
“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