Page 37 of The Grumpy Defenseman

The parking lot was bright. The car was hot. I got in, closed the door, and sat there.

One breath.

Two.

On the third breath, something behind my sternum cracked.

He had taken the nickname I gave him, a small affectionate thing, and used it to push me away in front of everyone.

I recognized the shape of it: something offered freely, turned public in a room full of witnesses. Different weapon. Same architecture.

For letting him past the perimeter I had built after Case Whitfield. Only to watch him choose the nearest target when he needed somewhere to put the hurt.

The nearest target had been me.

I started the engine and pulled out without checking my mirrors.

I made it three blocks before I reached for my phone.

Me: Coffee tomorrow?

Bella responded before the next red light.

Bella: That depends. Am I being summoned as counsel, witness, or emotional damage control?

I stared at the screen. My eyes burned, which was just the sun.

Me: Yes.

Bella: What happened?

Me: Tomorrow.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Bella: Usual place. I’ll be there.

No prying. No demand for a full statement before I was ready to give one. Just the steady availability of a woman who knew when to cross-examine and when to simply show up.

I drove home through San Antonio traffic that moved too slowly and a sunset that had the audacity to be beautiful. Inside my condo, I set my camera bag by the door, sat on the kitchen floor with my back against the cabinets, and pressed my palms flat against the cool tile.

Tomorrow I would be professional. Precise. I would walk into that rink with my camera and none of the warmth that had gotten me here. I would do my job. I would be excellent at my job. I would give no one, not Sandra, not Brick, and certainly not Evan McKinney, any reason to question my professionalism.

I would be human Switzerland. Composed. Above the fray.

And if the man with the four-second kiss wanted to know why the temperature had dropped, he could figure it out himself. I was done walking toward people who were not ready to be met.

I pulled my phone out and typed one more message.

Me: Bella, does your offer to send a detective still stand?

Three dots. Then:

Bella: Always. What do you need?

Me: Just checking.

I set the phone on the tile, leaned my head back against the cabinet, and closed my eyes.