Linda Robertson - Wicked Circle

“You all right?” Hector asked.

“Yeah. I’m a little shaken up, but . . . I’m fine.”

Beau hurried around the end of the Hummer. “How’s William?”

“He’s fully wolf—”

Beau hugged me and danced me around in a circle in the small space between cars. “I knew you could do it! I knew you would!”

“Beau.” I pulled away, too sore for such antics. “He’s still on the roof, he’s still unconscious and . . . Johnny’s with him.”

“Watching over him! What a fine Domn Lup.”

“Yeah, but you should be cautious approaching him. He’s jumpy, okay?”

“We will be.” Beau walked away. One of the others had pushed the button to bring the elevator down, and everyone was assembling near the gates.

I grabbed Hector’s arm. “Seriously. Be careful. You understand?”

He caught the worry I was conveying to him. “We’re wære too.”

“Still.”

With concern darkening his features, he nodded.

In Saranac Lake, New York, SSTIX Investigator Kurt Miller eased his Ford Crown Victoria into the garage and cut the engine. He hit the button to lower the garage door and sat checking the emails that had rung in on his Droid phone during the drive home.

He entered his home via the laundry room, greeted by the mingling scents of “sunshine fresh” dryer sheets, pot roast, and the bread machine. If she keeps using the bread machine, I’ll never again run a mile in under eight minutes.

At forty-three, though, do I need to run a mile in under eight minutes?

He plopped his briefcase onto the folding table by the dryer and hooked his coat on a peg. He smoothed his hair, trying not to think about how thin it felt.

“Brenda,” he called as he continued on to the kitchen. “Something smells wonderful.”

A woman wearing tan khakis, a tight-fitting periwinkle sweater and pot-holder gloves came into view. She was placing a large pan on the stove. The curly brown hair that draped down her back had few grays in it.

“Hello, beautiful.”

She used her foot to shut the oven door and flashed a perky smile at him as she tossed the pot holders to the counter. “You have a good day?” she asked as she wrapped her arms around him and kissed his cheek.

God, I’m a lucky man. “As always,” he said. “You?”

“Mmmm-hmmm. Diane and I went to the furniture store. They have this gorgeous bedroom set. I want you to see it this weekend, okay?”

“Sure,” he said. He sorted the mail on the built-in desk. Phone. Cable. Ah . . . Premier Interior Designs. P.I.D. had just finished remodeling their kitchen two weeks ago. He glanced around the updated and expensive environment and sighed. It made Brenda happy and helped compensate for the time his job often took him away from her.

“But I do have some bad news. We have a change in plans for tomorrow night.” Brenda’s chipper demeanor dimmed considerably.

“Oh?” Kurt kept his expression blank while he wondered what they were supposed to have planned on doing.

“We aren’t going out with George and Diane tomorrow.”

Kurt hadn’t remembered, but he was as disappointed as his wife. Brenda and Diane had been best friends since high school. Similarly, he and George had been pals. “Why? George didn’t put his back out at the gym again, did he?”

“No. Diane is babysitting for Toni this weekend.” There had been another couple who had always run around with them, Antonia and Andy. A heart attack had killed Andy about ten years before. The two women had made sure Toni still felt welcomed and included her in their socializing, then tragedy had struck again a few years back. Toni’s daughter had died and she’d been left raising a grandson, Evan, on her own. They’d all remained friends, but Toni no longer went out much. To need a babysitter for an entire weekend was unusual.

“Why?”

“Toni’s going out of town. She’s leaving tonight.”

“Why?”

“Hey, Mr. Specialized Squadron Tactical Investigator, my kitchen is not an interrogation room.”

He laughed softly at Brenda’s often used phrase: My kitchen is not . . . “And what a beautiful kitchen it is.” Kurt coerced her away from the stove and into an embrace.

“Indeed.” Brenda kissed him, then gently departed from his arms.

He could understand her being saddened by a change in plans, but this was a little much. “We’ll reschedule.”

She said nothing as she collected the plates and flatware and set the table.

It wasn’t like Toni to do something that impacted other people’s plans. She’d known they were all going out. Kurt hoped the three women hadn’t had a falling-out. “Bren, what is it?”

“Toni won’t give me a straight answer about why she’s leaving and where to.”

“Maybe she’s going to Vegas. You know, what happens in Vegas . . .”

“Kurt.”

“What?” he asked. “Andy’s been gone ten years and things have only gotten worse since. She’s allowed to go to Vegas. Maybe she’s embarrassed.” Poor woman. Toni’s parents had been killed in a car crash her senior year in high school. Pregnant shortly after, she and Andy had gotten married the day before graduation. They’d done well for themselves and their daughter. Little Francine had everything a girl could want until her dad died when she was fourteen. After Andy’s death. Toni couldn’t afford the big house and downsized to something more modest.

Brenda opened the bread machine and removed a round loaf. “She’s not going to Vegas.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. She’s going to Cleveland.” She set the bread on a cutting board. “Of all places, she picks there. There! And on a bus, no less. She’ll be riding more hours than she’ll get to stay in the city. For all that trouble, if I were her, I’d be going someplace warm .”

“Does she have family there?”

“I don’t think she has any family at all, Kurt. Just Evan.”

“Damn. Whatever she’s doing must be important if she’s willing to ride a bus.”

Brenda placed the serrated knife by the loaf with more force than was necessary. “Quit it. This isn’t funny.”

Kurt pulled her into his arms again. “I just want to see you smile.”

Brenda laid her head on his shoulder. “Kurt, have you seen her lately?”

“No,” he admitted.

“She looks awful. She doesn’t get her nails done anymore, and half the time she doesn’t even bother with makeup. She always used to fuss over the details, and now . . . she doesn’t. It’s not like her. She needs to go somewhere and relax. Diane and I have been telling her that for months.”

Maybe a long, arduous bus ride would be relaxing after taking care of that kid. “Maybe that’s what she’s doing.”

“Yeah. That’s what she said.”

“So why aren’t you happy?”

“I pressed her and she gave me the name of the spa she was going to. It doesn’t exist.”

It wasn’t like Toni to lie. “So, we’re back to Vegas and embarrassment.”

“No, Kurt.”

He rubbed his wife’s shoulders. “She’ll tell you when she’s ready.” She arched into the impromptu back rub. “If you and Diane have been telling her she needs a vacation, why is Diane the one who gets to look after the boy?” Babysitting would do her good. Maybe it will get that mothering need worked out.

“Because George actually likes kids. Unlike someone I know . . .”

Kurt realized he had given her an opening to lead this into another conversation about adoption. Kids weren’t Kurt’s favorite portion of the population. Loud, spoiled, tantrum-machines. He and Brenda couldn’t have kids. For him, that was the end of the story. Not for her.