Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why?"

He laughed. "Because I miss you?"

Her eyes flickered. "One of my friends invited me to a sleepover this weekend."

He tried to swallow his disappointment. "Which friend?"

"Jenny Q. You met her mom at open house at the school last September."

Reed frowned. "I don't remember. I'll have to meet her again before you can go."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. She and I are also doing a science project together for school. You can take me there tomorrow night and meet her mom then."

"I can take you? How about 'Please, Dad? And don't roll your eyes at me," he snapped when she did just that. He sighed. He hadn't come to fight with her, but it seemed to be happening a lot more lately. "I'll meet her tomorrow."

Beth's frown softened. "Thanks, Dad." She closed the door with a soft click and he stood staring for a long moment before going on to his own room.

Where he stopped and sighed. Muddy paw prints still ran across his sheets. He remade the bed, then sat on the mattress and picked up Christine's picture. Christine had been… the one. He missed her. But I like my life just the way it is. The way he'd made it. Although, sometimes he did wish there was someone to talk to in the quiet hours. And there were, he admitted, the physical aspects as well. It had been a long time since he'd been with a woman. Lauren hadn't needed to remind him of that.

He'd never sought anyone to replace Christine. What woman could? She'd brought beauty to his world, nourished his soul. But his body had needs. He'd thought, in the early years after Christine's death, that he could… vent his need discreetly with women who weren't interested in long-term relationships. He'd quickly found there were no such creatures on the planet. Every woman who'd promised no strings, had ended up needing them. And each one had been hurt because Reed was a man of his word.

Unfortunately no strings plus no hurt equaled no sex. So he'd gone without. Not pleasant, but not the end of the world everyone made it out to be. There was discipline after all. The lessons he'd learned in the military had stood him in good stead. He liked his life. His quiet life. But tonight the quiet seemed more intense than it usually did.

He set Christine's picture down and pulled open the night-stand drawer where he'd kept the book hidden for eleven years, nestled under the stack of birthday and father's day cards. Carefully he pulled it from its place of safekeeping and caressed the cover with the pad of his thumb. It was no bigger than the palm of his hand. But so full of her. He let the hook fall open to the page that was most worn She'd called it simply "Us."

Pale shoot of golden green, supple stem and tentative leaves too new to be certain.

Held tight in a fist of craggy rock that shadows shelters.

holds the angel hair roots firm, beating back the wind, softening the drops of rain to a kiss.

Huddled against the rock's stubbly face, she unfurls her fronds, drinking in morning light.

Nourished by his mineral core, she grows lush in the life he offers her until it is unclear who saved whom.

Her canopy, now the roof above his head.

His stony crevice, her very foundation.

A light knock on his door had his pulse rocketing. He put the book away under the cards, feeling foolish. It was just a book. No cause to hide it like a guilty secret.

No. It wasn't just a book. It was a memory. Mine. "Come in."

Lauren stuck her head in, looking unhappy. "I'm sorry, Reed. I pushed too far."

"It's okay. Let's just leave it alone."

"Well… Good night." She closed the door and Reed sighed.

Then chuckled, because from out of nowhere came the mental picture of Mia Mitchell on her toes in the face of that arrogant little lawyer-boy. "Bully named Bubba who wants to be your best buddy," he murmured. Somehow he suspected a poetry reading wouldn't be her ideal first date. Mia Mitchell would want to go somewhere physical. Football, hockey. If I asked her out, we'd go to a game, he thought, then shook his head at his own meandering. He would never ask her out.

There would be no first date with Mia Mitchell. She was definitely not his type. He took a long look at Christines picture. She was his type. His wife had been grace and elegance with a sparkle in her eye when she felt mischievous or fun. Mitchell was brash and bold, every movement packed with pent-up energy, every word laid bare of nuance.

His gaze rested on the drawer where the book lay hiding. The words there had been Christine's heart. And his own. He couldn't see a woman like Mia Mitchell appreciating the delicate balance of words and emotions. Not that it made Mia a bad person. Not at all. Just not his kind of woman.

Not that it mattered. Theirs was a temporary business relationship. When he found Caitlin Burnette's murderer he would be back to normal. Which was just the way he liked things. He gathered the dirty sheets. He had time to do a load of laundry during halftime. Football, leftover pizza from the weekend, and a beer. It was a good life.

Monday, November 27, 8:00 p.m.

Beth Solliday took off the bathrobe she"d hastily donned at her father's knock and stepped in front of her full-length mirror. Her eyes critically analyzed the balance of color and style in the outfit she'd chosen for the weekend. Jenny Q had ordered it for her online. There was no way her father could know she'd bought it. She'd skipped lunch for two months to pay for this outfit, but it would be worth it.

She dialed Jenny. "It's Beth." She grinned. "I mean Liz."

"Are we on?"

"Laid the foundation. I told him he'd met your mother already last fall."

"Fine. I'll tell my mother that she met him. She never remembers anything."

"Good. See you tomorrow night."

"Bring the goods."

"Oh, I will." Beth hung up, did one last twirl. Then she changed into her pajamas and hid the outfit. Soon she'd step out. Experience life. She wasn't a little girl anymore.

Monday, November 27, 8:00 p.m.

Mia flashed her badge at the nurse. "I'm here to see Abe Reagan."

"Visiting hours are over, ma'am."

"I'm here to discuss Detective Reagan's gunshot wound. We have a lead."

The nurse sucked in one cheek. "Uh-huh. What's in the bag, Detective?"

Mia looked down at the brown paper sack that contained baklava, one of Abe's favorites. She looked back up and, with a straight face said, "Mugshots."

The nurse nodded, playing along. "He's the third door from the end. Tell him if his blood pressure goes up from eating those mugshots, my needle is extra large tonight."

"Man, you guys are evil," Mia muttered, hearing the nurse chuckle behind her. Slowly she approached Abe's room, her stomach in a knot. She stopped outside the door and nearly turned around. But she'd given her word. Lightly she knocked.

"Go away. I don't want any more Jell-O or applesauce or whatever you have," came the cranky reply and despite her trepidation Mia had to grin.

"What about this?" she asked, holding the bag out as she walked in.

Abe was sitting up in bed, the game on the TV. He muted the sound and turned to her with a guarded look that wiped the smile from her face. "Depends. What is it?"

He peeked in the bag, then looked up, his expression inscrutable. "You can stay."

Awkward, Mia stuck her hands in her pockets while she searched his face. He was thinner. Gaunt. Her heart skipped a beat as new guilt piled high. He said nothing, just sat looking at her, waiting. She puffed her cheeks and blew out a breath. "I'm sorry."