With Child. Janice Johnson Kay

and after a long delay, Mindy appeared, still in her bathrobe.

      “Quinn.” She didn’t sound thrilled to see him on her doorstep at ten in the morning.

      Face it—she probably wasn’t thrilled to see him no matter what time of day it was.

      He studied her puffy, tired eyes and the dark circles beneath them. “Still not sleeping?”

      Mindy let out a puff of air that was half laugh, half exasperation. “So I look like crap. Tell me something I don’t know.”

      “I didn’t mean…”

      “It doesn’t matter.” She could go from animation to lifeless quicker than most of the residents of Seattle who actually died. “Did you need to talk to me about something?”

      “Can I come in?”

      “I suppose.” Still in zombie mode, she stepped back. Looking at the floor, she waited, seemingly unaware that her robe gaped open exposing…

      God. Was that one of Dean’s T-shirts? Yeah, Quinn decided, it was. She’d taken to sleeping in her dead husband’s shirts. And boxer shorts that he hoped like hell weren’t Dean’s. He caught a glimpse of those long, long legs and of her bare feet. Those he’d seen before, as she went barefoot most of the time at home and conceded to necessity by wearing flip-flops when she went out except in the direst weather. She used to paint her toenails, though. Not just pink or red. He’d made a habit of glancing at her feet just to see what she’d done now. Sometimes her nails were turquoise, or silver glitter, or had tiny flowers or eyes of Osiris or peace signs painted on crayon-bright backgrounds.

      Now, he saw a chip or two of red clinging to the cuticles, but she must not have touched them since… He stopped there. Since before.

      Still in the entryway, he faced her. “I might have found someone to buy the business.”

      “Really?” Accentuated by the smudges beneath them, her eyes looked more gray than green when she lifted her gaze to his face.

      “You know Lance Worden? Scarecrow?”

      Her face cleared at the nickname and she nodded.

      “He and a buddy of his were looking to start a security company in south King County. Didn’t want to compete with Dean, and Scarecrow—Worden—thought with Federal Way and that area growing it would be good territory. But depending on price he’d be interested in Fenton Security instead.”

      “Would he keep the name?”

      “We didn’t get that far,” Quinn said with scant patience. He’d expected her to be pleased, maybe even excited, and instead she was worrying about something meaningless.

      Maybe he should share her regret at the loss of one more piece of Dean’s identity, but honest to God he was getting tired of answering the phone five times a day to answer questions for Mulligan, who in the absence of Dean had lost any ability he’d ever had to be decisive.

      “Oh.” Mindy’s mouth twisted. “It’s just…Dean was so proud of the company. Sometimes he’d wash one of the trucks here, in the driveway, you know, and I’d see him stop when he was drying it and give a few extra rubs to the logo. Sort of polishing it.”

      Oh, damn. Quinn had seen Dean do that, too.

      More harshly than he’d intended, he said, “There’s no more Fenton.”

      Her chin came up. “I’m a Fenton.”

      The idea was jarring. “You’re going to keep the name?”

      She was pissed off now. “Of course I’m going to keep the name! Dean and I didn’t get a divorce!”

      “I didn’t mean…”

      “What did you mean?”

      He had no idea. “Just…you haven’t been Mindy Fenton that long. The name must still feel strange to you. I thought…”

      Her eyes narrowed. “I’d want to ditch any memory of Dean as quickly as possible.”

      As so often happened around her, a band of pain began to tighten around his skull. “Can we not argue?”

      “Fine.” She turned her back on him and stalked toward the kitchen.

      Quinn followed.

      Mindy poured herself some juice and didn’t offer him anything. She carried it to the table and sat without inviting him to join her, either.

      “So I just need to come up with a price?”

      Leaning against the breakfast bar, Quinn reminded her, “Probate…”

      “Oh, God.”

      “We might be able to come up with an agreement that makes it a done deal except for the formality of the sale closing,” he suggested. “So Scarecrow and his partner could take over the business as soon as possible, even if we can’t tie the bow until Armstrong says it’s okay.”

      “But I wouldn’t get the money until then?”

      “Maybe not.” He frowned. “Probably not.”

      Her eyes got misty. God almighty. She was going to cry over a check being delayed for a few months.

      “You’re not that broke, are you?” he asked.

      “No. No, I… No.” She sniffed, wiped at her eyes, and said, “Everything makes me cry. I’m sorry.” One more sniff and she squared her shoulders. “How do I set a price?”

      “I’ve already done that.”

      She set down her juice glass. “You’ve…what?”

      “I found out there are formulas. Assets and income minus debts and costs.”

      Voice tight, she said, “I don’t get any input?”

      His jaw muscles spasmed. “What input would you have given?”

      He apparently had a gift for infuriating her. “You don’t know any more about Fenton Security than I do! What makes you…”

      “Who the hell do you think has been running it for the last month? Or didn’t you wonder why Mulligan gave up calling you?”

      “Even Dean took a few days off! I thought the company could run itself for a week or two. I never gave you permi—”

      “I’m the executor,” he interrupted her. “That gives me the right to put a value on assets, and to make damn sure they don’t lose value.”

      She didn’t like that, but couldn’t argue. Finally she said sulkily, “Do I get to know what your formulas say Fenton Security is worth?”

      He told her.

      She blinked, sat in silence for a long moment, gave her head a little shake, and then said, just above a whisper, “That’s less than I thought it would be. Um…quite a lot less.”

      Quinn didn’t want to be doing this. He wanted to be home, the window blinds drawn, stretched out on his bed in his shorts. A couple of aspirin would be dulling his headache and sleep would be dragging him deep.

      But something like pity made him go over and pull out the chair across from Mindy.

      “Yeah. It’s less than I thought it would be, too. But Dean borrowed a lot on the business. There are some big debts.”

      “Oh.” She sounded and looked forlorn. “I wish…”

      “What?”

      “He’d told me.”

      Quinn wished the same. Hadn’t Dean known how shaky the footing was, how far the plunge to the ground would be? Why hadn’t he taken success a little slower? Waited to get a boat, to expand the business, to drive the dream car?

      But Quinn knew the answer. Despite the fact that his