Take Me Home for Christmas. Brenda Novak

didn’t follow up on it. “And have you remained sober since then?”

      She remembered the long days of rehab, the hours spent in group therapy, the journaling, the reading. She’d missed Lexi terribly during those weeks, and yet she’d felt protected at New Beginnings. Skip was unlikely to bother her there for fear she wouldn’t complete her stay. “I haven’t had a drink since.”

      He seemed disappointed by her answer. “Are you sure?”

      “You don’t believe me?”

      “I spoke to a checker at Nature’s Way.”

      Agent Freeman was nothing if not thorough. “And she told you that I came in the other night and bought several bottles of wine.”

      “Yes.”

      She’d almost broken down so many times. It was hard to walk the floors at night, worrying about what she was going to do without a drink to ease the anxiety. But every time she’d been about to uncork that first bottle, she’d thought of Lexi. “I dumped them out this morning. You can check the cupboards in the kitchen if you don’t believe me.”

      He slid toward her until their knees almost touched, as if he wanted to make sure he had her full attention. “I hope that’s true. I have no respect for a liar.”

      “I’m not lying,” she said. “I wanted to drink them, but...”

      “But?” he echoed.

      “My daughter needs me.”

      “Yes, she does.”

      She wiped the sweat beading on her upper lip. Skip would’ve found that so unattractive. She was supposed to be perfect at all times. “If you think I had anything to do with Skip’s business, you should talk to his employees instead of the townspeople,” she said.

      “I’ve done that, too.”

      “And?”

      “I’ve taken notes.”

      “They told you I was rarely at the offices, didn’t they? That I never gave an opinion or helped make a decision? I am exactly what I appear to be, Agent Freeman.”

      “And that is...”

      She spread her arms with a dramatic flourish. “A trophy wife.”

      “Yet you claim you were happy.”

      “It doesn’t matter now that he’s gone.”

      He glanced around once again. “Mrs. DeBussi, would you be willing to allow me to search the house?”

      Her mind flitted through what he might come across. She couldn’t think of a single thing that would be incriminating. But she didn’t know how he might interpret what he found. What if Skip had planted some papers in his home office designed to implicate her? He wouldn’t like the idea of her moving on without him regardless of whether he was sunning himself on a beach halfway around the world with someone else.

      “Do you have a warrant?” she asked.

      “Do you have something to hide?” he replied.

      “No, but since you could misconstrue what you find, I’m not taking that risk unless I have to. As I said, my daughter needs me. I can’t go to prison.”

      “I see.” He stood. “That will be all, then.”

      She hadn’t expected him to accept her answer quite so easily. “Will you be coming back with a warrant?”

      “Not unless there’s some indication I need to go that far. For now, my business here is finished.”

      “You’re leaving?” she asked in surprise.

      “I am.”

      “Just my house or...Whiskey Creek?”

      “I believe I’ve learned all I can in this town.”

      Could she finally be catching a break? She wasn’t sure whether she could rely on that as she followed him to the door. “May I ask you one more question?”

      He nodded.

      “Is it reasonable to suppose I’m in the clear?”

      “That’ll depend on what turns up,” he said. “But if you’re as innocent as you say, you can relax. So far, I’ve seen nothing that leads me to think you played a significant role in your husband’s illegal activities.”

      She sagged in relief. “I’ve made my share of mistakes in life, Agent Freeman. But I had nothing to do with what Skip did. I swear it. I was as blindsided as anyone.”

      “I hope that’s true.” He gave her another long, assessing look. “Thank you for giving me a few minutes of your time.”

      She held the door while he stepped outside, but then he turned back.

      “Mrs. DeBussi?”

      Her heart beat a little faster. Was this when the blow would come? “Yes?”

      “Although it’s none of my business, you need to be aware of a certain reality.”

      She tensed. “What is it?”

      He softened his voice when he saw that she’d clenched her hands, bracing for the worst. “You have to stay off the booze.”

      Drawing a deep breath, she nodded rigorously to show she understood that. “Yes, yes, of course. I will. I came close a couple of times, like I said, but...I made it. I poured it all out.”

      “You can’t buy more. You can’t slip up even once.”

      Why was he making such a point of this? What concern was it of his? Whether or not she had a drink now, after the fact, couldn’t relate to the case. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

      “That daughter you love so much?”

      “Alexa.”

      “If you end up back in rehab, your in-laws will sue for custody.”

      The air rushed out of her. “They—they told you that?”

      “They tried to convince me you weren’t a good wife, and you’re no better as a mother.”

      She felt her jaw drop open.

      “Be careful of them.”

      “But...I do have a drinking problem. I told you as much. So...why...” She choked up, finding it impossible to finish.

      “Why did I warn you? From what I’ve seen, you’re the one who loves Alexa best.”

      She blinked rapidly to stem the tears. “How can you tell?”

      “I have a kid of my own,” he said with a reassuring smile. “Just hang in there. If you really didn’t know what your husband was doing, you’re the biggest victim of all. What happened isn’t fair, but you have to stay sober or you’ll lose the only thing you’ve got left and the one thing that matters most to you.”

      “Thanks.” She watched him stride to his car, feeling shocked that he’d try to help her—and hurt that a complete stranger would show more compassion than her in-laws.

      7

      Ted sat in front of his computer and read what he’d just written, then proceeded to edit it. Nothing he wrote seemed any good today; he couldn’t concentrate.

      Shifting restlessly in his chair, he tried to devise a more believable method of getting his protagonist out of the building that contained the bomb. But every idea he came up with seemed so...contrived. It’d all been done before and, in his current frame of mind, he was pretty sure it had been done better. Hot Pursuit was turning out to be his weakest book—and yet he’d loved the premise when he first started the story a month ago.

      What was wrong with