The District. Carol Ericson

now?” The waiter’s eyes flicked back and forth between him and Christina.

      “I’ll have a Caesar salad and the steak, medium rare.”

      Christina ordered the salmon, and the waiter backed away from the table as if afraid to turn his back on them.

      She pleated the napkin on the table. “If Noah’s case hadn’t come to its tragic end at the same time you found my notes, I know you would’ve given me a chance to explain, Eric.”

      He slumped against the banquette and rolled his glass between his palms. “Maybe you’re right. The book never did come out, and you never married Lopez.”

      Her eyes popped open. “Marry Lopez? What gave you that crazy idea?”

      “Lopez.”

      “And you believed him?” She grabbed the glass from his hand and took a gulp. Coughing, she slammed the glass back down on the table.

      “It made sense at the time.”

      “At the time, you were in crazy town.” She sniffed and dabbed a corner of the napkin under her bottom lashes.

      She was right. He’d been out of his mind with grief and anger after losing Noah. When he’d turned to his fiancée for comfort and support, he’d found her notes about his father and his family and a nosy reporter feeding him lies.

      Over the past few years, he’d had time to think about it all. It did seem pretty far-fetched that Christina would get into a relationship with him, agree to marry him, sleep with him—all to get the goods on his family tragedy to write a killer book.

      She stuck out her hand, wiggling her fingers. “Can we call a truce while we’re working on this case together?”

      “Sure.” He clasped her fingers, still chilly from mopping up the ice water. “I think I can even manage an apology. I overreacted to seeing those notes—bad timing all around.”

      She squeezed his hand. “Me, too. I should’ve never kept...that from you. I figured if I told you I had been researching your father’s case, you’d think I was a creepy stalker.”

      “Truce.” He dropped her hand and held up his own.

      “So you’re done with the well-aimed barbs?”

      Truth was, he’d forgiven her a while back when he’d been on his leave of absence and was able to think clearly about the situation. It helped that no book had come out, and he hadn’t heard anything linking her to Lopez.

      And the barbs? Self-preservation against her charms. Just because he’d forgiven her didn’t mean they should resume their engagement. She’d kept things from him, and he didn’t like secrets—had grown up with too many of them.

      “No barbs, well-aimed or otherwise.” He pushed the rest of his drink aside and tore into a roll. The tension he’d been holding in his shoulders all day had slipped away. She’d been right about that, too—get everything out in the open.

      They had a job to do.

      Their food arrived and between bites, they discussed her cases and his task force in South America.

      If someone had told him two years ago that he’d be sitting across the table from Christina laughing and sharing stories, he never would’ve believed it. The time off had done him good. Talking with his brothers had done him good.

      As he signed the credit card receipt, Christina pinged his glass of scotch, sending ripples through the amber liquid. “Are you leaving this? By my calculations, that’s about eight bucks sitting in that glass, eight bucks the Bureau isn’t paying for.”

      “I’m good. Do you want the rest?”

      She wrinkled her nose. “Only if you toss it in with some sweet liqueurs and mixers and stick a colorful umbrella in it.”

      “Uh, no.” He folded the receipt and stuck it in his pocket. “Are you ready?”

      “Kindred Spirits is around the corner.” She picked up her phone and tipped it back and forth. “Open until midnight on Friday night.”

      “Let’s go inhale some incense.”

      He placed his hand on the small of her back and steered her out of the crowded restaurant.

      As they passed their car on the street, Eric fed a few more quarters into the meter. “You don’t want to stick the Bureau with a parking ticket.”

      She rolled her eyes. “Do you really think they’d pay for my parking ticket?”

      “Even more reason not to get one.” He slipped another quarter into the slot.

      They turned the corner and he dipped his head against the sharp wind that whipped around the building. Even during the summer, the San Francisco Bay kept the city cool. “Is it on this block or the next one?”

      Holding up her phone, she answered, “It’s actually in an alley off this street.”

      They walked about halfway down the sidewalk, and Christina jerked her thumb to the right. “Down here.”

      The alley dropped two steps and the ground beneath their feet changed to cobblestones. Music wafted or blared from the storefronts, depending on the wares inside. A wooden sign with Kindred Spirits printed in red along with a bubbling cauldron creaked in front of one of the stores.

      He tugged on a wayward lock of Christina’s long hair. “That’s our store.”

      “Cute logo.” She tapped the edge of the sign as they ducked into the store.

      The top of his head brushed a tassel of bells hanging from the doorway and their light tinkle announced their arrival.

      Soft New Age music played in the background and Eric’s nose twitched at the smell of sandalwood incense. He sniffed. “Told you so.”

      “Smells nice.”

      A woman emerged from the back of the store, throwing one impossibly long gray braid over her shoulder. “Welcome, kindred spirits. Can I help you with something, or are you here to browse?”

      Eric pressed his twitching lips into a hard line. “We’re actually here to ask you a couple of questions about a former employee, Nora Sterling. We’re with the FBI. I’m Agent Brody, and this is Agent Sandoval.”

      Shaking her head, the woman placed her hands together as if in prayer. She mumbled a few words between barely moving lips.

      He took a quick glance at Christina, but she refused to meet his eyes. “Excuse me?”

      “A very sad situation.” The woman lowered her hands. “But the police already came in here asking questions.”

      “We’re not the police.” Christina took a few steps through the crowded store toward the woman and thrust out her hand. “And you are?”

      “Libby Rivers. I’m the owner of the...” She had taken Christina’s hand and then jerked, almost flinging Christina’s hand away.

      Christina took a step back. “A-are you okay?”

      “I’m sorry. A little static electricity.” She smoothed her hand along the length of her braid. “As I was saying, I’m the owner of the store and Nora worked for me.”

      Eric drew his brows together. Christina was staring at the woman, rubbing her palm against the thigh of her jeans.

      “I’d shake your hand, too, but I don’t want to shock you.” He plucked a green marble from a glass bowl and rolled it in his palm. “Can you tell us anything about Nora? Did she have visitors to the store? Complain about anyone stalking her? Have any unusual interactions with a customer?”

      Libby flicked her fingers. “The police already asked me all of that.”

      “It’s different talking to someone in person and reading someone else’s