Colton's Secret Investigation. Justine Davis

interest, that there were no messages she hadn’t already gotten. They were turning to go to the office assigned solely to this case when the door behind them opened and Sheriff Trey Colton stepped through.

      Trey was about Stefan’s own height and had a no-nonsense air about him that Stefan liked. He was also, as far as Stefan could see, a fine sheriff. By the book and honorable and, up until this Avalanche Killer mess, nothing had happened to mar his stellar record. As the first African American to be elected sheriff, not to mention one of the youngest people ever to hold the office, he was clearly determined to keep it that way. And Stefan was glad to help. He’d had his own dragons to slay on his way to where he was now, so he could relate.

      They gave him an update, not that there was much to report. Trey restated his complete faith in them, which made Stefan even more determined, and with a barely concealed grimace the sheriff went off to deal with today’s round of media chaos.

       Better him than me.

      “He’s actually much happier lately,” Daria murmured as they said goodbye and headed down the hall.

      “No thanks to us,” Stefan muttered.

      “I know. Or the election campaign,” she added.

      “I registered just so I could vote for him.” He’d only been in Colorado for a couple of years, so there hadn’t been a major election since his arrival.

      “That’s good of you,” she said, sounding like she meant it.

      “He’s a good guy. I admire and respect him and the job he’s done. And I’m glad if he’s happier.”

      “Thank Aisha for that,” Daria confided as they went into what they’d begun to call the Avalanche office. “Now that’s a true love match.”

      “Not something I’d know much about,” he grumbled, then regretted letting the words out.

      “It’s pretty obvious with them, isn’t it? Besides, I happen to know she’s loved him for years.”

      “She has?”

      “Since they were kids in grade school.”

      Stefan’s brow furrowed. “But they’re only getting together now?” The couple had become engaged about the time he and Daria had begun to work together on this case.

      “She didn’t think he loved her, and she wasn’t going to settle for less. So she made him prove he meant it. He had to make the first move.”

      She said it so approvingly even he couldn’t miss it. “Obviously you agree with that.”

      “Yes. Completely. She had to be sure he felt the same.”

      He studied her for a moment. Told himself it not only wasn’t his business, he didn’t want to know. Because knowing more about this woman had so far only drawn him in deeper, and that spelled trouble. But the next thing he knew he was asking, anyway.

      “Personal experience?” She gave him a sharp look. He put up his hands and remembered his earlier thought that this was not a woman to be crossed. “You just sounded so…positive.”

      Her expression changed to something more…he wasn’t sure what. Damn, Daria was hard to figure out. “You really want to open those doors, mine and yours?”

      Well, that was plain enough; if she talked about her past, she was going to ask about his. Fine with him—the bare bones of his situation were common enough, and he had it down to a sound bite. “Mine’s easy. Married, she couldn’t handle my job, divorced.”

      “I notice you left out the most important part.”

      He grimaced, wishing he’d never started this. “Love? I thought so. Not sure about her.”

      She studied him for a long moment before she said softly, “I meant your son.”

      He was glad his skin was dark enough she couldn’t see what would be, judging from the heat he felt, a flaming blush. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d blushed. Maybe in the academy over a decade ago, when he’d missed a clue so obvious he’d felt humiliated.

      “Yeah,” he muttered. “Never mind. You’re right. Don’t open those doors.”

       Chapter 2

      Unlike at the shooting range, there was only one reason Daria was having trouble focusing on the matter at hand right now, and his name was Stefan Roberts. He’d clammed up completely the moment she’d mentioned his son. And that bothered her.

      She knew Stefan’s son had just recently come to live with him full-time, but other than that he never spoke of young Samuel other than to say they’d had very little contact since the divorce and what there had been hadn’t gone well. Most parents she knew were happy to talk endlessly about their kids. Her friend Fiona, with three boys, could go on forever. Yet Stefan never mentioned doing anything with the boy, or his interests, or even his existence. So she sensed things were not going well on that front.

       As if this case isn’t enough of a distraction, imagine trying to deal with it with a five-year-old at home.

      She resolved to cut him some slack as they dived back into the case.

      “This room,” he said rather sourly as they closed the door on the office, “is starting to look like the lair of a lunatic.”

      She looked around at the whiteboards they’d wheeled in, covered now with photographs and names and locations and details, with a single, long timeline spanning them all. Those had been Stefan’s idea—he said he’d always been able to work better with as much of the case as possible right in front of him all the time. She’d found it worked well for her, too.

      “I can’t argue that,” she agreed. Nor could she argue the fact that his deep, rumbly voice did crazy things to her insides. Which made no sense at all.

      “Worked a serial killer case in Rockford once. He had a room in his house that looked a lot like this. Only thing missing is the spiderweb of string he had pinned up, making up his elaborate conspiracy connections.”

      “Hmm,” she said, looking from board to board.

      “What?”

      “Just wondering if a ball of yarn might help.”

      He laughed. He really did have a nice laugh to go with that deep, rumbly, sexy voice. And the rare grin that flashed with it was…well, breathtaking. “You got one around?”

      “Not here,” she said. “I have a stash at home.”

      He lifted a brow at her. “You hoard yarn?”

      She put on her best snooty voice. “It’s not hoarding, Agent Roberts. It’s therapy.”

      He gave another chuckle. “What do you do with it?”

      “Knit.” He blinked. “And before you say anything derogatory, keep in mind knitting involves two very pointy tools.”

      “I just…never pictured you as the knitting type.”

      “What you don’t want to picture is me without it. Other people count to ten to hold on to their temper. I count stitches.”

      “Point taken. Er, no pun intended.”

      “Too bad,” she retorted. “It would have been a good one.”

      And suddenly they were both laughing. And it was the most amazing feeling she’d had in a long time. That they could laugh amid what was going on was probably a bit macabre, but she couldn’t deny it felt good.

      “Thanks,” he said. “I needed that.”

      “Me, too. So, shall we get back on the merry-go-round?”

      As