The Mccaffertys: Slade. Lisa Jackson

way, kiddo. It was my idea to bring him into the investigation.”

      “And it was a bad one. We don’t need him.” She was adamant. “We’ve got the sheriff’s department. Detective Espinoza seems to be doing a decent enough job. Kelly should never have quit the department to work with Striker.”

      Something was going on here; something Randi wasn’t admitting. “Is it Striker you don’t like? Or P.I.s in general?”

      “Both. Aren’t the police enough?”

      “No.”

      “But—”

      “Kurt’s just trying to help us find the bastard who wants you dead. You might be a little more helpful, you know. It’s like you’re hiding something.”

      “What?”

      “You tell me.”

      “I would if I could,” she snapped. “But that’s just not possible right now. However, if I remember anything, anything at all, you’ll be the first to know.”

      “Yeah, right. Then try concentrating on something besides people I dated fifteen years ago.”

      Randi’s eyes narrowed. “It bothers you, doesn’t it? What happened with Jamie?”

      “I haven’t thought about it much.”

      “Until now.” His sister’s smile was nearly wicked. “What are you going to do about it?”

      “Nothing,” he said, knowing as the word passed his teeth it was a lie. Jamie had gotten to him. Already. And he felt an unlikely need to explain himself, to set the record straight about the Sue Ellen thing.

       Or is that just an excuse to see her again? Face it McCafferty, you haven’t been interested in a woman since Rebecca, but one look at the lady attorney and you’ve barely thought of anything else.

      “So what’re you working on?” He pointed at the computer and shoved his nagging thoughts aside.

      “Catching up on a billion e-mails,” she said. “I’ve been out of the loop awhile. It’ll take days to go through all of these and I’ve got to get my own laptop back. This one is Thorne’s and I don’t think he appreciates me monopolizing it as it’s his main link to his office in Denver.”

      “He’s got a desktop ordered. It should be here any day.”

      “That’ll solve some problems.”

      “Where’s your laptop?”

      She bit her lip. “I don’t know…I can’t remember…but…why don’t you ask Kurt Striker. I hear both he and the police have been in my apartment. Damn.” She raked her fingers through her short, uneven hair, and when she looked up at Slade, her expression was troubled. “I’m really not trying to be a pain, Slade. I know everyone’s trying to help me, but it’s so frustrating. I feel like it’s really important for me to get back home, to look through my stuff, to write on my own computer, but I can’t remember what’s on the damned thing, probably just ideas and research for future columns, but I feel like it could help—that it might be the reason some psycho is after me.”

      “Maybe it is,” he said. “Juanita said you were working on a book.”

      “So I’ve heard. But…” She sighed loudly. “I can’t remember what it’s about.”

      “Then I guess we’ll just have to find the damned laptop, won’t we? Striker’s still working on it.”

      “Striker. Oh, great,” she muttered as Slade left her.

      In the kitchen, he yanked his jacket from a hook near the back door and walked outside. The late-afternoon sky was already dark, the air brisk.

      Overhead, clouds threatened to dump more snow. Not that he cared. He climbed into his pickup, started the engine and cranked on the wheel. He’d drive into town, have a drink and…and what?

      See Jamie again ran through his mind.

      “Damn it all to hell.” He threw the truck into first and reached for his pack of smokes. He’d always gotten himself into trouble where women were concerned and he knew, as the tires slid on a slick patch of packed snow, that he hadn’t changed over the years.

      He could deny it to himself up one side and down the other, but the truth of the matter was, he intended to see Jamie again and he intended to do it tonight.

      * * *

      SHIVERING, JAMIE CHANGED INTO soft jeans and her favorite old sweatshirt before she clamored down to the kitchen where she found a pan, washed it, heated the soup and crushed oyster crackers into the beef and vegetable broth. She imagined Nana sitting across the table from her, insisting they say grace, watching her over the top of her glasses until Jamie obediently bowed her head and mouthed a prayer.

      It wasn’t that Jamie hadn’t believed in God in those days, she just hadn’t had a lot of extra time to spend on her spiritual growth—not when there were boys to date, cars to carouse in and cigarettes to smoke. It was a wonder she’d graduated from high school, much less had been accepted into college.

      “God bless the SATs,” she said, smiling at her own prayer. “And you, Nana, wherever you are. God bless you.” She left the dishes in the sink, then started cleaning, room by room, as the ancient furnace rumbled and heat slowly seeped into the house. She’d considered hiring a cleaning service, but figured the scrubbing was cathartic for her and somehow—wherever she was—Nana would approve. “A little hard work never hurt anyone,” she’d lectured when Jamie had tried to weasel out of her chores.

      Nita Parsons had realized her granddaughter was a troubled girl who had one foot headed to nowhere good. And she had decided she wouldn’t make the same mistakes with Jamie as she had with Jamie’s father, an alcoholic who had abandoned his wife and daughter two days after Jamie’s eighth birthday. Barely nine years later, Jamie’s single mother had gotten fed up with a rebellious teenage daughter who seemed hell-bent on ruining both their lives.

      That’s when Nana had stepped in.

      And how had Jamie repaid her? By giving her grandmother more gray hairs than she’d already had.

      “Sorry,” Jamie whispered now as she rubbed polish into the base of a brass lamp. She intended to scrub Nana’s hardwood and tile floors until they gleamed, paint the rooms in the soft yellows Nana had loved and repair what she could afford.

      And then sell the place?

      Inwardly Jamie cringed. She could almost hear the disappointment in her grandmother’s voice. How many times had she heard Nana say, “This will be yours one day, Jamie, and don’t you ever sell it. I own it free and clear and it’s been a godsend, believe me. When times are lean, I can grow my own food. Twenty acres is more than enough to support you, if you’re smart and work hard. I don’t have to worry about a rent payment or a landlord who might not take a shine to me.” She’d wagged a finger in front of Jamie’s nose on more than one occasion. “I’ve lived through wars and bad times, let me tell you, and I was one of the lucky ones. The people who had farms and held on to them, they did okay. They might have had patches on their sleeves and holes in their shoes but they had full bellies and a roof over their heads.”

      Jamie had thought it all very dull at the time and now as she wiped at a network of cobwebs behind the living room blinds, she felt incredible guilt. Could she really sell this place, the only real home she’d had growing up? And what about Caesar? Could she offer up the roan to some stranger for a few hundred dollars? Biting her lip, she looked at the rocker where Nita had knitted and watched television, the coffee table that was cluttered with crossword puzzle books and gardening magazines and the bookshelf that held her grandfather’s pipes, the family Bible and the photo albums. In the corner was Nana’s old upright piano, and the bench, smooth from years of sitting with students.

      Nostalgic, Jamie glanced out the window.

      A