Operation Power Play by Justine Davis

the laptop and put it on the table beside him. He went about the business of getting ready for bed mechanically, trying not to think. Let the dog out, waited for him to come back, all the while looking at the night sky, clearing now from the earlier rain. Dried the dog’s feet, added another towel to the pile. Closed and locked the door. Brushed his teeth. Pulled off his clothes and again added to the laundry pile. Ignored the chill of the sheets as he got into bed.
    And lay there for a very long time, staring into the dark.
    Finally, he felt a bounce as Cutter jumped up on the bed. He was startled since the dog had never done it before. Not that he minded, really. Not as if he were displacing anyone, except maybe a sad memory.
    A furry head came to rest on his shoulder, and he heard a quiet doggy sigh. It made him smile, and he lifted his other hand to stroke the dog’s head. It felt oddly soothing, and when he finally slept, the dreams he’d been fearing didn’t come.

Chapter 7
    S loan debated with herself for nearly an hour, all the time wondering when she had lost her usually sharp decision-making skills. She’d picked up and put down her phone at least three times, and the repeated action made her feel beyond foolish.
    It wasn’t that she didn’t have reason to make the call; obviously she did. There was only one reason she hadn’t already done it, and she didn’t understand it. Yes, Brett Dunbar was six feet plus of very attractive male, but she’d run into that before—there was no shortage of those in the world. But too many of them were a lot smaller—and uglier—on the inside.
    None of which mattered, she told herself firmly. This was a business call, in essence. It wasn’t as if she were going to harass or constantly bother him. She just needed the name of the person he’d talked to.
    She nearly laughed aloud at herself. She had called the chief of naval operations with less vacillation. She had called the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, for God’s sake. And the White House. Yet she was worried about calling one sheriff’s detective in a small county almost as far from DC as you could get short of Alaska or Hawaii?
    She picked up the phone and hit the call button before she could change her mind again. Maybe she’d get his voice mail. That would be easier, wouldn’t it? It would—
    “Dunbar.”
    His voice was as deep and resonant as she remembered, but that was no excuse for the little leap her pulse took.
    “Hello, Detective,” she said after a too-long silence, realizing belatedly she should have decided how to address him before she had called. “This is Sloan Burke. I hope you don’t mind that I used this number.”
    “That’s fine, Mrs. Burke. What can I do for you?”
    She supposed she had the formal tone coming after using his job title instead of his name. But then it hit her that he had said “Mrs.,” not “Ms.” as he had before. She frowned. She knew it had never come up in their conversations. But he was a cop. Maybe he checked on people as a matter of routine. It wasn’t as if it were a secret; her story was out there for anyone to find. It was part of the price she’d paid. Unlike whatever nightmare put those shadows in Brett’s eyes, hers were out there in public.
    She pulled herself together. Distraction wasn’t her norm, and it was starting to irritate her. “I wondered if I could have the name of the person you spoke to at the county,” she said. “My aunt’s application now seems to be among the missing.”
    There was a pause. Too long. That wasn’t good—she’d learned that the hard way. Was it that hard for him to decide if he could trust her with a simple name? What was it about people in authority? Why did they always have to—?
    “Sorry. I was driving. Missing?”
    She was glad he couldn’t see her, because she felt her cheeks heat. She’d made an assumption about his silence, that he was like all the others who had tried to fend her off,