The One Safe Place. Kathleen O'Brien

that was strangely comfortable.

      Suddenly the telephone rang. Faith whirled toward it so eagerly Reed thought for a moment she planned to answer it herself. She seemed to remember just in time that this wasn’t her house.

      “Sorry,” she said. She backed away with a sheepish smile and returned to the sudsy water. But her posture was tight and wary. He could tell she was listening intently as he picked up the receiver.

      It was just the Petermans, the overprotective owners of the spoiled lizard. Reed managed to assure them that Spike was quite contented, eating well, but not too much, missing them, but not too much, getting plenty of attention, but not too much.

      Finally he hung up the phone with a chuckle and turned to Faith. “Spike’s owner. Apparently Spike suffers from separation anxiety. If he looks lonely, I’m supposed to give him extra food. Unfortunately, I’m having trouble reading the nuances of his facial expression. It always looks like a cross between superbored and mildly ticked off.”

      She smiled half-heartedly. “Well, maybe lizard nuances are more in their body language.”

      Reed shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe the Petermans are nuts.”

      Truth was, though, Reed did believe in body language, in animals and in people. And right now Faith Constable’s body language screamed tension. She had wanted that telephone call to be someone else. But who?

      He took Theo’s rinsed casserole dish from her hands and began rubbing it with his thickest kitchen towel. “I wondered—the way you went for the telephone. Are you expecting a call from someone?”

      “Not expecting, really.” She tried to smile again, but it clearly was becoming more of a strain every minute. “Just hoping, I guess.”

      He looked at her sad mouth and wondered if there was a boyfriend back in New York City, a guy who was ordinarily in charge of making her smile. “But I thought—I mean, who even knows you’re here?”

      “Detective Bentley. He promised he’d keep me posted. About the investigation. About whether they’re closing in on…on—”

      “On Doug Lambert.”

      “Yes.”

      “But it’s only been one day. Surely it’s too soon?”

      “Yes. I know.” She took a deep breath. “I know it is.”

      They worked in silence another moment, and then she spoke again.

      “It’s just that…they did expect to hear from the florist today. The one who might have sold him the roses.”

      “The roses?” Reed was careful to keep any overly curious quality from his voice. He didn’t want to pry, but he wanted to know everything he could. And it would do her good to talk about it. After her tears last night, she had seemed much more relaxed. She had let him guide her to the bedroom door as limply as an exhausted child.

      “They found three rose petals in my kitchen that day, next to my sister’s body.” She scrubbed at an already clean glass so hard her knuckles turned as white as the suds. “The problem was that these roses hadn’t come from Doug’s regular florist. He sent me roses all the time, but not this kind.”

      Reed wanted to take the glass out of her hand. She was holding it much too tightly. But he didn’t dare break the flow of words.

      “These roses were a much rarer variety. At first the police thought that meant it hadn’t been Doug after all. But Detective Bentley sent the petals to a botanist, who said it was a variety called ‘Faith.’”

      Reed made a noise in spite of himself.

      A shiver seemed to pass through her, and the glass slipped, plopping into the water. She fished it out again with trembling fingers.

      “I think that was when Detective Bentley began to believe me. He finally found the little shop that sold them. It was two blocks from my apartment. We’re waiting for the owner to get back from vacation, to see if he can identify Doug as the man who bought the roses that day.”

      “Of course it was.”

      “Yes.” Her voice was even huskier than usual. “But they need evidence. For a jury. For a conviction.”

      Reed moved closer to the sink. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry that call wasn’t Detective Bentley.”

      “It’s all right.” But her voice cracked, and he knew it wasn’t true.

      She turned to hand him the glass. As he reached out, it fell from her shaking fingers and smashed on the wooden floor, splinters of crystal scattering in all directions.

      He bent quickly, and so did she. As they knelt, their faces were only inches apart, and he could feel waves of stress pulsing from her. Her brown eyes were almost black, and a sharp sliver of glass glinted on her shirt, right over her heart.

      “I’m so sorry,” she said, and he could feel her struggle to hold herself together, to keep her emotions from flying into a hundred different pieces, just like the glass. She gathered shards quickly, filling her palm. “Please. I’ll clean it up.”

      He caught her by the wrist. “It’s all right,” he said.

      “No, it isn’t.” She bit her lower lip hard and inhaled deeply. The pulse in her wrist was like a jackhammer under his thumb.

      “I hate this,” she said. “This isn’t me. I’m not like this.”

      “Like what?”

      She held out her palm full of sparkling bits of glass. “Like this. Clumsy. Incompetent. You probably won’t believe it, but I have my own business. I’m good at what I do. I don’t break everything I touch.”

      “Of course you don’t.”

      “And I’m not weak. I never cry. Never. I don’t know what happened to me last night. I’d hate for you to think that I—”

      A sudden noise in the kitchen doorway stopped her. She looked up and saw Spencer standing there, staring at them curiously. She glanced at Reed, who let go of her hand. She stood up, all the ferocity instantly draining from her expression.

      “Hi,” she said to her nephew. “Don’t come in, honey. I broke a glass, and it’s all over the place.”

      The little boy didn’t protest. He waited in the doorway, holding on to Tigger’s collar to keep the puppy safe, too. They finished cleaning up the shards quickly, and then, at a nod from Faith, Spencer walked in, holding out a large piece of paper.

      She took it with a smile. “What’s this? Oh—how cute! I’ll bet you drew this for Dr. Fairmont, didn’t you?”

      Spencer didn’t answer, of course, but he didn’t snatch the paper back, either, and even Reed could see that the little boy was comfortable with Faith’s deduction. His somber brown gaze transferred to Reed, as if he were waiting for his reaction.

      “Look,” Faith said, handing it over. “It’s the kittens you were talking about at dinner.”

      The kid was pretty good. Reed could clearly see three tiger-striped kittens sleeping inside a large, domed birdcage. Spencer had even added a colorful parrot on top of the cage, staring down, bewildered by what had become of his home.

      Reed chuckled and looked over at Spencer. “Nice job,” he said. “It’s very good, and it’s funny, too.”

      Spencer didn’t smile, exactly. But he worried at his lip, as if he had to work to keep himself from smiling, and that was good enough for Reed. It felt good to see even the tiniest bit of pleasure on that pinched, freckled face. Kids weren’t meant to be so sad.

      “Spencer, what’s that?” Faith bent down and tugged on a bit of leather that stuck out of the little boy’s back pocket. “You brought Tigger’s leash? Why?”

      Spencer darted a quick look