Sweet Dreams, Irene by Jan Burke Page B

sky cloudy to match. As I stood there, it worked its magic, the rhythm of the waves breaking on the shore easing away my tension.
    By the time I walked back to Frank’s house, I was calm. I had decided not to push him, and not to make too much of what he had said in bed. I had plenty to do between now and whenever he wanted to see me again.
    I went into the house. I could hear Frank washing the dishes. I avoided the kitchen and gathered my things together from his bathroom and bedroom. That left Cody. When I walked out into the living room, Frank was holding him, scratching his ears. “We’d better go,” I said.
    Frank put Cody in his carrier, then picked it up and came over to get my bag. “I can manage,” I said. He looked at me for the first time since the night before. He looked unhappy, more sad than angry, but he said nothing. We walked out to the car in silence.
    The drive to my house was silent as well. He helped me bring Cody in, not trying for the bag this time. As he set the carrier down, he looked at me. I couldn’t stand the thought of him just driving off.
    “Why?”
    He looked away. “It’s not you.”
    “If it’s not me, why are you shutting me out?”
    “Just give me a few days.”
    “Fine.”
    He finally looked at me again. “I don’t want to hurt you, Irene.”
    To avoid shouting “Too late!” into his face, I bent down to let Cody out of his carrier; by the time I stood up, Frank had left.
    I looked out the front window; he was sitting in his car. He hadn’t started the engine. “Please come back,” I whispered.
    He drove off.
     
    I WENT INTO the office taking deep breaths and internally chanting something that went like this: I will not take it out on the people who work with me.
    I met Wrigley on the staircase.
    “Well, good morning, Miss Kelly. Just wanted you to know I took Miss Martin off that ridiculous little assignment you gave her last night. She had more important things to do.”
    … Eight…Nine…Ten. Still pissed. Remembering the chant, I said, “You’re not doing her any favors.”
    He laughed and shoved his way past me. I resisted the strong temptation to kick his double jugs down the stairs.
    Just as I reached the newsroom door, Stacee Martin came flying out. She looked at me and burst into tears, then ran off down the hall.
    For a moment I debated whether to follow her or mind my own sordid business, and decided that maybe John had given her a hard time about not covering the story. As I walked into the newsroom, a group of people were standing around John. Suddenly there was a burst of laughter, the kind of laughter you hear when a joke has been made at someone else’s expense. I decided not to join them, and walked over to my desk.
    “What’s wrong with you, Irene?” one of the reporters called out.
    “Police brutality,” another yelled, and there was more laughter. It was a stupid, worn-out remark, and usually I would have met it with a comeback of my own. I could see from the look of anticipation on most of the faces that they were waiting for just such a repartee, but I was too far out on the edge of my ability to keep my temper to respond. I glanced at John, and saw a worried look on his face. I turned and walked back out of the newsroom. As the door closed behind me I could hear John yelling at everyone to get back to work.
    I went into the morgue, away from prying eyes, and used the computer there to open the file on the Gillespie murder. That was the case Frank was working on. I’m not sure exactly why I reviewed this particular file, except that I knew the case was bothering Frank; maybe I just wanted to try to understand what was going on with him. I realized that as busy as I had been with the election, I hadn’t paid much attention to this case. I did remember that Mark Baker, the reporter who covered the story, had been pretty shaken up by it.
    Megan Gillespie was a beautiful four-year-old girl, the only daughter of Joseph and Elizabeth