came off the couch and wrapped an arm around the old woman’s shoulders. “Your Jimmy loved you and the kids. With everything he had.”
“Yes.” She closed her eyes, nodded. “Yes, he did. And because of a couple of fool kids, he’s lost to us. But not forgotten. And now we can put him to rest.”
Myra sighed and looked around her home. “Even without him, we had a good life—I was determined to see to that, determined to show our children a good life. But there wasn’t a day that went by that I didn’t think of him, not a day that went by that I didn’t miss him, long for him…people told me to move on, you know. Move on, find somebody else—they said I deserved that. But he was all I wanted.” She looked at Dez and whispered, “Does that make me a fool?”
“It makes you a woman who loved her man, I think.” The knot in her throat wasn’t going to fade anytime soon, not sitting here confronted with this woman’s strength—her determination and her unfading, unfailing love. Forty years after her husband’s disappearance and she still loved him.
Now, Myra could put him to rest. Now, she could finally let go and move on.
Looking down, Dez stared at the check she held and nausea churned her gut.
“Stop it, Ms. Lincoln.”
She looked up and saw Myra watching her.
She had a silver brow cocked and was watching her with a knowing smile. “You didn’t ask for it—I offered it, and I do it happily. Now go on. I imagine you’ve got more souls to help rest.”
* * *
THERE was a grim-eyed detective leaning against her car.
“How much did you take her for?”
Dez didn’t flicker a lash. She still hadn’t looked at the check.
“There wasn’t a business arrangement, Detective Morris.”
The blond snorted and drew a cigarette from behind his ear, tucked it between his lips. He didn’t light it. As a matter of fact, Dez was sure she’d seen that same cigarette between his lips the day before. It looked kind of worn and ragged.
“That wasn’t precisely my question, Miz Lincoln,” he drawled. “I asked how much you took her for.”
He waited a beat and then said, “Maybe what I should ask is this: Did she pay you any money?”
“She did.” Dez wasn’t going to lie about it. Standing on the bottom step, hands hanging loose at her sides, she met his blue eyes levelly.
It wasn’t easy to look at him. He bore a disconcerting resemblance to one rat bastard she’d hoped to forget about over the past year or so. Of course, it hadn’t happened.
Tate Morris continued to watch her, his eyes narrowed and thoughtful. Finally, he sighed and shifted his attention to the scar on her neck. It wasn’t an ugly scar, not as far as scars went, at least. The surgeon had done a damn neat job, she had to give him that. But it was still a scar, a pale slash against her darker skin, and it stood out.
“How’d you get that scar?”
“Cut myself shaving,” she said without blinking an eye.
He grinned and shook his head. “You’re a smart-ass. If it wasn’t for the psychic bullshit, I’d find you ridiculously appealing, Miz Lincoln.”
“My heart breaks over the fact that you don’t, I assure you.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” He shoved away from the car. As he headed toward her, his gait loose and easy, he tugged the unlit cigarette out from between his lips and tucked it behind his ear again. “I’ve done some checking up on you ever since you called in and reported that body. Appears you’ve got a habit of being around bodies, Miz Lincoln. Especially dead ones.”
“I wouldn’t call it a habit. More like an occupational requirement.”
“If you were a coroner or funeral director, even a cop, I could understand that.” He stopped less than two feet away, much too close.
Dez didn’t back away. He was doing it on purpose—trying to throw her off, trying to intimidate her. She’d dealt with far, far worse on a regular basis. She didn’t give a damn. Smirking at him, she
“Yes.” She closed her eyes, nodded. “Yes, he did. And because of a couple of fool kids, he’s lost to us. But not forgotten. And now we can put him to rest.”
Myra sighed and looked around her home. “Even without him, we had a good life—I was determined to see to that, determined to show our children a good life. But there wasn’t a day that went by that I didn’t think of him, not a day that went by that I didn’t miss him, long for him…people told me to move on, you know. Move on, find somebody else—they said I deserved that. But he was all I wanted.” She looked at Dez and whispered, “Does that make me a fool?”
“It makes you a woman who loved her man, I think.” The knot in her throat wasn’t going to fade anytime soon, not sitting here confronted with this woman’s strength—her determination and her unfading, unfailing love. Forty years after her husband’s disappearance and she still loved him.
Now, Myra could put him to rest. Now, she could finally let go and move on.
Looking down, Dez stared at the check she held and nausea churned her gut.
“Stop it, Ms. Lincoln.”
She looked up and saw Myra watching her.
She had a silver brow cocked and was watching her with a knowing smile. “You didn’t ask for it—I offered it, and I do it happily. Now go on. I imagine you’ve got more souls to help rest.”
* * *
THERE was a grim-eyed detective leaning against her car.
“How much did you take her for?”
Dez didn’t flicker a lash. She still hadn’t looked at the check.
“There wasn’t a business arrangement, Detective Morris.”
The blond snorted and drew a cigarette from behind his ear, tucked it between his lips. He didn’t light it. As a matter of fact, Dez was sure she’d seen that same cigarette between his lips the day before. It looked kind of worn and ragged.
“That wasn’t precisely my question, Miz Lincoln,” he drawled. “I asked how much you took her for.”
He waited a beat and then said, “Maybe what I should ask is this: Did she pay you any money?”
“She did.” Dez wasn’t going to lie about it. Standing on the bottom step, hands hanging loose at her sides, she met his blue eyes levelly.
It wasn’t easy to look at him. He bore a disconcerting resemblance to one rat bastard she’d hoped to forget about over the past year or so. Of course, it hadn’t happened.
Tate Morris continued to watch her, his eyes narrowed and thoughtful. Finally, he sighed and shifted his attention to the scar on her neck. It wasn’t an ugly scar, not as far as scars went, at least. The surgeon had done a damn neat job, she had to give him that. But it was still a scar, a pale slash against her darker skin, and it stood out.
“How’d you get that scar?”
“Cut myself shaving,” she said without blinking an eye.
He grinned and shook his head. “You’re a smart-ass. If it wasn’t for the psychic bullshit, I’d find you ridiculously appealing, Miz Lincoln.”
“My heart breaks over the fact that you don’t, I assure you.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” He shoved away from the car. As he headed toward her, his gait loose and easy, he tugged the unlit cigarette out from between his lips and tucked it behind his ear again. “I’ve done some checking up on you ever since you called in and reported that body. Appears you’ve got a habit of being around bodies, Miz Lincoln. Especially dead ones.”
“I wouldn’t call it a habit. More like an occupational requirement.”
“If you were a coroner or funeral director, even a cop, I could understand that.” He stopped less than two feet away, much too close.
Dez didn’t back away. He was doing it on purpose—trying to throw her off, trying to intimidate her. She’d dealt with far, far worse on a regular basis. She didn’t give a damn. Smirking at him, she
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