from
I love you, I love you
to
Later, babe, I'm moving to Maine,
practically overnight.
And
that
fiasco was after the world's most embarrassing one-night stand ever, with Navy SEAL Irving Zanella, who'd immediately left for six months of punishment duty because he'd gone UA—the Navy's version of AWOL—to save Tracy from a psycho-killer who'd wanted to use her corpse for an art project.
Which was something she absolutely could
not
think about while walking alone down a dimly lit city street.
Tracy picked up her pace, her shoulders screaming, the handles of the plastic bags cutting into her hands as she hurried the last few blocks. And then she was turning the corner onto her street, in sight of her building where—oh, good!—Tess and Jimmy were home, light streaming from their open living room window. They would surely hear her if she screamed loudly, and if there was one thing she was good at, it was being loud and…
Shoot.
She slowed her pace, looking up at that brightly lit window, at the ceiling fan she could see spinning, at Tess's once jungle-worthy collection of house plants, now brown from neglect.
Tess and Jimmy weren't home.
Tess and Jimmy would never be home again, because Jimmy Nash was dead.
Really.
For weeks, Tracy had held her breath, waiting for someone in the office—Jimmy's good friend Lawrence Decker, or maybe even the boss, Tom Paoletti—to give her a wink and a nod, letting her in on The Big Secret. Which was, of course, that Jimmy was only pretending to be dead.
For a while, she'd found clues and hints in nearly everything.
The coffee mug in the office, for example.
For as long as Tracy had worked at Troubleshooters Incorporated, Jimmy and Deck had had an ongoing competition for the coffee mug with the smiley face. It had nothing to do with the silly artwork, and everything to do with its super size. It held more coffee—ergo, they would steal it from each other's desks.
It had been sitting on Jimmy's desk, half full with cold coffee, the morning Tracy had come in to the office after word had gone out that he'd died.
The sight of it had made her cry, but she'd washed it out and carefully set it back on his desk. It seemed somehow wrong to put it in the cabinet with the other mugs. And there it had sat, in an office that no one used, that everyone walked a little bit faster to get past, because Jimmy was gone.
But on Decker's first day back, some weeks after the memorial service, he'd headed for the coffee station, which was out in the waiting area near Tracy's reception desk. And as he poured himself a cup, she'd realized that he'd swiped that smiley face mug off Jimmy's old desk.
It seemed weird that he would have done that—as if seeing that mug sitting there should have made him cry, too. Inwardly, of course, because he
was
an alpha male.
But he hadn't even looked upset—he hadn't look
any
thing—and Tracy had found herself holding her breath again, waiting for Decker to glance at her, toast her with that mug, and give her a
we both know Nash isn't really dead
nod.
But he hadn't.
And okay, it wasn't just stupid things like coffee mug usage that fed Tracy's fantasy.
She'd asked both Lindsey and Troubleshooters XO Alyssa Locke if didn't they think it was strange that Decker had delivered Tim Ebersole, leader of the neo-Nazi group called the Freedom Network, to the authorities in close to one healthy piece?
Neither of the two women had understood her question, so she'd clarified. Decker could just as easily have delivered Ebersole's lifeless body to the FBI. He absolutely could have killed the murderous SOB—claiming self-defense and ridding the world of Ebersole's evil—and no one would have questioned him.
Tim Ebersole was directly,
absolutely
responsible for Jimmy Nash's death. No one doubted that.
And yet Decker had let the man live.
Lindsey had agreed that it was a little weird, but Alyssa had told Tracy, “That's what makes Decker Decker,” which made a certain
I love you, I love you
to
Later, babe, I'm moving to Maine,
practically overnight.
And
that
fiasco was after the world's most embarrassing one-night stand ever, with Navy SEAL Irving Zanella, who'd immediately left for six months of punishment duty because he'd gone UA—the Navy's version of AWOL—to save Tracy from a psycho-killer who'd wanted to use her corpse for an art project.
Which was something she absolutely could
not
think about while walking alone down a dimly lit city street.
Tracy picked up her pace, her shoulders screaming, the handles of the plastic bags cutting into her hands as she hurried the last few blocks. And then she was turning the corner onto her street, in sight of her building where—oh, good!—Tess and Jimmy were home, light streaming from their open living room window. They would surely hear her if she screamed loudly, and if there was one thing she was good at, it was being loud and…
Shoot.
She slowed her pace, looking up at that brightly lit window, at the ceiling fan she could see spinning, at Tess's once jungle-worthy collection of house plants, now brown from neglect.
Tess and Jimmy weren't home.
Tess and Jimmy would never be home again, because Jimmy Nash was dead.
Really.
For weeks, Tracy had held her breath, waiting for someone in the office—Jimmy's good friend Lawrence Decker, or maybe even the boss, Tom Paoletti—to give her a wink and a nod, letting her in on The Big Secret. Which was, of course, that Jimmy was only pretending to be dead.
For a while, she'd found clues and hints in nearly everything.
The coffee mug in the office, for example.
For as long as Tracy had worked at Troubleshooters Incorporated, Jimmy and Deck had had an ongoing competition for the coffee mug with the smiley face. It had nothing to do with the silly artwork, and everything to do with its super size. It held more coffee—ergo, they would steal it from each other's desks.
It had been sitting on Jimmy's desk, half full with cold coffee, the morning Tracy had come in to the office after word had gone out that he'd died.
The sight of it had made her cry, but she'd washed it out and carefully set it back on his desk. It seemed somehow wrong to put it in the cabinet with the other mugs. And there it had sat, in an office that no one used, that everyone walked a little bit faster to get past, because Jimmy was gone.
But on Decker's first day back, some weeks after the memorial service, he'd headed for the coffee station, which was out in the waiting area near Tracy's reception desk. And as he poured himself a cup, she'd realized that he'd swiped that smiley face mug off Jimmy's old desk.
It seemed weird that he would have done that—as if seeing that mug sitting there should have made him cry, too. Inwardly, of course, because he
was
an alpha male.
But he hadn't even looked upset—he hadn't look
any
thing—and Tracy had found herself holding her breath again, waiting for Decker to glance at her, toast her with that mug, and give her a
we both know Nash isn't really dead
nod.
But he hadn't.
And okay, it wasn't just stupid things like coffee mug usage that fed Tracy's fantasy.
She'd asked both Lindsey and Troubleshooters XO Alyssa Locke if didn't they think it was strange that Decker had delivered Tim Ebersole, leader of the neo-Nazi group called the Freedom Network, to the authorities in close to one healthy piece?
Neither of the two women had understood her question, so she'd clarified. Decker could just as easily have delivered Ebersole's lifeless body to the FBI. He absolutely could have killed the murderous SOB—claiming self-defense and ridding the world of Ebersole's evil—and no one would have questioned him.
Tim Ebersole was directly,
absolutely
responsible for Jimmy Nash's death. No one doubted that.
And yet Decker had let the man live.
Lindsey had agreed that it was a little weird, but Alyssa had told Tracy, “That's what makes Decker Decker,” which made a certain
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