Tasting Fear by Shannon McKenna

And no wonder, for the love of God. After finding her mother there dead, just a week before.
    Nancy’s small, battered black Volkswagen Jetta pulled in behind his truck. His heart rate kicked way up. She’d driven. Stubborn female.
    She didn’t spare him so much as a glance when she got out. The wind fluttered her white blouse, but did not budge a wisp of her smooth hair. Her body was so graceful. Her profile stark and pure as she stared at the house. Her face was terribly pale. She looked like she might faint.
    He got out of his truck and folded his arms over the heavy thud in his rib cage, as if she might hear it. As if the woman didn’t have more serious things to worry about than his horn-dog crush. She turned at the sound of the car door. Her chin went right up.
    He went for it. “So you drove.”
    “Of course,” was her cool retort. “I can’t afford a cab.”
    He let his silence criticize that decision, and a flush of anger bloomed on her cheeks. “Did you call your sisters?” he demanded.
    “Not that it’s any of your business, but no. Not yet. Nell’s teaching and doesn’t have a cell anyway, and Vivi’s upstate doing a crafts fair. I’ll tell them about it later, when I know exactly what happened.”
    He grunted. “Hmph. Just wondering why it always seems to be you who has to take care of the messy details.”
    “It’s not their fault!” she snapped. “They’re perfectly willing to help! They’re just busy! And you had my number, not theirs.”
    Her head was high, her eyes snapping. Excellent. She looked much better. Nothing like putting a man in his place to perk a woman up.
    “Uh, yeah. Of course,” he murmured, suitably subdued.
    She trotted up the stairs with a spring in her step that she hadn’t had before. He caught up with her, looked at the marks under her eyes that the makeup did not hide. He wanted to take her hand, offer her his arm. But her hands were clenched, knuckles white. Bracing herself.
    He followed her in. She looked around. The place had been brutally trashed. Every piece of furniture had been upended, every sofa cushion and pillow slashed, every breakable thing crushed. The tiles he and Eoin had hauled in were everywhere. Lengths of lumber were scattered around like huge matchsticks. There were jagged holes in the walls. Every picture had been flung down and lay shattered on the floor. A photograph of Lucia and her three daughters smiled up from the floor, covered with shards of glass.
    Nancy bent down and reached for the pieces. Her hand shook.
    “Please don’t touch anything yet, ma’am,” said the evidence tech working the scene, a middle-aged woman. “It might be better if you waited outside. Until we’ve finished.”
    “Oh. Um, let me just take a look,” Nancy said. “I’ll be quick.” She took a step farther into the room and let out a low cry of distress when she saw what lay at her feet. It was impossible to identify, a formless tangle of wire and chunks of broken glass and stone.
    “Oh, no,” Nancy whispered. Her voice shook. “This is…this is a sculpture that Vivi did for Lucia, years ago. ‘The Three Sisters,’ she called it. It was one of Lucia’s prize possessions.” Then she turned and saw the intaglio writing table. Her hand flew up over her mouth. “Oh, my God.”
    The plastic cover she’d bought had been tossed aside, and the plane of the table itself smashed in. The two pieces lay collapsed in upon themselves, splintered edges ragged. The four-by-four that had been used to break it lay in the midst of the broken pieces. The jade plant was in pieces on the floor, dirt and leaves scattered everywhere.
    Better judgment, common sense clamored at him, but he ignored them. He reached out and took her hand.
    Nancy’s fingers curled gratefully around his. A rush of sustaining energy flooded into her body through his hand. He was so solid. An oak that would never bend or break. The romantic metaphor almost made her smile. It was lifted