The Widow's Secret by Sara Mitchell Page B

horizon. Operative MacKenzie was somewhere in the Midwest—St. Louis? Chicago?—chasing after counterfeiters while Jocelyn struggled to believe his parting words.
    â€œI’ll be back,” he promised. “Don’t think you’ve seen the last of me, Mrs. Tremayne.”
    â€œYou’re like the wind, Operative MacKenzie,” she retorted, disguising desolation with flippancy. “Blowing here and there, and nobody can hold it in one place, or capture it inside a basket. I plan to go back to living my life as though none of the past week ever happened.”
    â€œMmm. I gave up playing pretend games when I was, oh, about six years old.” Then he touched the brim of his hat. “But for now, I’ll leave you to yours. Be careful, please. The police are keeping an eye out, but—”
    She wondered now what words he’d swallowed back, but refused to invest much effort in an exercise that would only trigger a plethora of memories.
    Tonight she was attending a musicale at the Westhampton Club with friends—an enjoyable diversion that might allow her to forget, if only for a few hours, Micah MacKenzie and the Secret Service. During the days she filled the hours with mindless activities, while the nights taunted her with their emptiness as she searched in vain for peace of mind.
    There is no peace, saith the Lord, unto the wicked.
    The poisonous verse slapped at her like a vindictive hand.
    â€œI’m not wicked!” Jocelyn announced aloud, anger and pain twining her in thorny vines. “I’m not….” When her voice broke, she bit her lip until she tasted blood. Throat aching, she snatched up her gloves and evening cloak and swept out of the room, firmly shutting the door behind her.
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    The night was warm, more like summer than late fall. Air thick with humidity clung to trees and buildings. Despite his considerable bulk, a man walked in soundless stealth along the city’s back streets until bank buildings and stores gave way to lumber and tobacco warehouses. For a block or two he followed the railroad tracks. Eventually, he reached a neighborhood where, in daylight hours, he could never risk showing his face.
    He wasn’t stupid. He knew this task was both reprimand, and restitution. Still, it gave him the shivers. He was a professional, but he had a few standards; he’d never snuffed a woman. He’d stolen from ’em plenty, he’d cut a few as warnings, but he’d made it plain that he wasn’t after anything worse.
    But a job had to be done, and he had to do it. His reputation after the last botched assignment was hanging over his head, a noose about to drop around his size 19 neck. He’d explained. Unfamiliar city, poor directions—no time to study patterns, so the old man’s death wasn’t his fault.
    In the end, it didn’t matter. Orders were orders, and money was money. And his own life was on the line.
    â€œFind these items, and you’ll be rewarded accordingly. Fail, and your usefulness might come to an end.”
    There. White porch, two columns. Getaway alleys on either side. At last, luck was running his way.
    He slid one hand inside to make sure the knife was within easy reach. Next he fit his brass knuckles over the fingerless gloves. Ten minutes later he slipped over the windowsill and into the house’s parlor.
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    â€œI refuse to stay inside this place another day!” Jocelyn stabbed hat pins in place while she glared at her obduratemaid. “It’s been three days. We’ve cleaned everything up, nothing is missing. The police assure me they’re doing everything they can to—What?”
    Katya wrote with a furious speed that mirrored Jocelyn’s frustration, her double chin quivering like calf’s-foot jelly. Need to wait for —she hurriedly searched the list of correctly spelled words she kept inside her apron pocket— Mr. MacKenzie.
    Sergeant