Beth Andrews - Unraveling the Past

Layne didn’t have to glance down at herself to know she had a streak of dried mud running from her right shoulder to her left hip. Or that her shirt was wrinkled and she had still-damp mud stains on both knees. “Yes, well, searching for human remains is a messy job. Unlike pouring coffee.”

“You have a dead leaf in your hair.”

Layne reached up and…yep…sure enough, found a leaf. She picked it out of her hair and let it float into the trash can. “Well, since you’ve done your good deed for the day and all, I guess you’ll be wanting to get on your way. I’m getting a soda.” She’d kill for some sugar and caffeine and she was afraid Tori would end up being her victim. “You want anything?” she asked Jimmy.

He lifted the last bite of his cinnamon roll. “I’m good.”

She picked out a scone. “Thanks for dropping by,” she said to Tori.

She circled her desk and walked down the short hallway to the break room. She’d no sooner popped the tab on her Coke when Tori came in.

She should’ve known her sister wouldn’t get the hint and go on her merry way. Tori was nothing if not stubborn. One of the few traits they shared.

“Can we expect the pleasure of your company tonight?” Tori asked. “Or are you planning on skipping it like you did last year?”

Crap. Now was probably not the time to admit she’d been so caught up in the investigation and the necklace that she’d forgotten today was Brandon’s twelfth birthday.

“I didn’t skip anything,” she said, adding ice to a plastic cup and pouring in half the soda. Took a long drink. “I was working. Just like I’ll be working tonight.” But she hated missing her nephew’s party. “Tell Brandon we’ll head into Boston sometime next month.” When, hopefully, her life would be settled again. When any and all investigation into the remains would be long completed. “Catch a Red Sox game.”

“I’ll do that. You know,” Tori said, one hand on her cocked hip, the other gesturing to Layne’s hair. “It wouldn’t kill you to use a brush once in a while. Especially since you have a new boss to impress and all.”

She bit into the scone. “I’m not out to impress anyone.”

“Obviously,” Tori drawled, staring pointedly at the crumbs collecting on Layne’s shirt.

Layne brushed them away. “What. Do. You. Want.”

Tori fluttered her eyelashes. “Your black boots.”

Layne slowly set her cup on the table. “You want my black boots? My designer, over-the-knee, cost-me-an-entire-paycheck black boots?”

“Just for tomorrow night. Randy Parker’s taking me out to dinner and your boots would be perfect with this great little black dress I—”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“How about because it’s the middle of summer? Or hey, how about because you shouldn’t be dating already. The ink on your divorce papers is barely dry.”

Tori inhaled sharply. “First of all, I hardly think I’m going to take fashion advice from a woman who hasn’t worn lipstick in over ten years and usually dresses like a man.”

“I don’t dress like a man. I dress like a cop.” As the only woman on the force, she had to work twice as hard to be accepted. To be treated as an equal. To prove herself. And if that meant forgoing makeup and jewelry, then so be it. She’d gladly shove beauty off a steep cliff if it meant she’d be taken seriously at her job.

“Secondly,” Tori continued as if Layne hadn’t spoken—she’d always been good at ignoring things she didn’t want to hear, “my divorce was final six months ago. Six months. And obviously Greg didn’t get your little memo about the proper amount of time between divorcing and dating since he’s been seeing Colleen Gibbs for over a month now.”

“And whose fault is that? You’re the one who let him go.”

Tori edged closer until they were toe-to-toe. “My marriage, my divorce and my decisions, are just that. Mine.”

“Maybe, but you aren’t the only one affected by your decisions. Or did you plan on taking Brandon along on your date?”

“Brandon will be at his father’s house tomorrow night. God! What is your problem?”

“You want to know what my problem is?” Layne asked, her voice rising despite her best effort to keep her rioting emotions under control. She tried to hold back but the words poured out of her, fueled by her anger and resentment. Her fears. “You, Tori. You’re my problem. You and your selfish attitude. All you care about, all you’ve ever cared about is yourself. You were tired of being married so you got a divorce. You want to date so you leave your son with his father so you can go out and have a good time.”

Tori’s eyes, light brown like their mother’s, narrowed dangerously. “I’m not leaving him on the side of the highway sixty miles outside of town. It’s Greg’s weekend to have him. Why shouldn’t I go out and enjoy myself?”

“Because you’re a mother,” Layne cried, tossing her hands into the air. “You need to think about what’s best for Brandon, do what’s right for him.”

“Don’t you ever—” Tori jabbed her finger at Layne, stopping a hairbreadth from drilling a hole into her chest “—ever accuse me of not putting my son first.”

Layne laughed harshly. “You’ve never put anyone first but yourself. Your wants. Your needs. I mean, a prime example is how you were with Evan. Flirting with a kid who’s ten years younger than you, all for what? So you can feel good about yourself? So you can pretend you’re special? The way you dress…how you act… You’re…” She snapped her lips shut and shook her head in disgust.

“I’m what? A tramp? A slut?” Tori’s voice was low. Shaky. But under the tremble, Layne heard the resolve that told her to step carefully.

She heard it. She just chose to ignore it.

She was terrified. Scared of what the next few days would bring and while she and Tori weren’t exactly close in the best of circumstances, their snarky spats rarely took on this edge. She should shut up. Better yet, she needed to apologize. Blame the stress and her going over twenty-four hours without sleep for making her so bitchy.

But she couldn’t. Not when Tori stood there pushing Layne’s buttons simply by wearing her snug, revealing clothes and a bring-it-on smirk.

“Worse,” she said, meeting her sister’s eyes unflinchingly. “You’re just like our mother.”

CHAPTER FOUR

THE ARGUMENT IN THE break room grew louder and, from what Ross could tell as he stormed toward the room, more heated.

Meade stood. “Chief, I don’t think—”

Ross didn’t even slow, just held up a hand. The other man shut his mouth and sat back down.

Smart call.

As he opened the door, Ross heard the unmistakable sound of a splash and a gasp.

Then Sullivan said in her husky voice, “Truth hurts, doesn’t it?”

“Go to hell,” a woman snapped as he stepped inside.

After a beat of stunned silence, Sullivan—wiping liquid from her face with both hands—noticed him. “Perfect,” she snapped. “Just freaking perfect.”

“Ladies.” Behind him, he heard the scrape of chairs and then footsteps as Meade and Campbell maneuvered closer in the hopes of catching part of the upcoming conversation. Ross shut the door and spoke quietly, hoping it would encourage the women to do the same. “Is there a problem here?”

Sullivan used her inner forearm to wipe soda from her chin. Her shoulders were rigid, her face white except for two bright spots of color high on her cheeks. Damp hair clung to the sides of her neck and the front of her shirt was soaked.

“Everything’s dandy,” she said stiffly.

Ross glanced from her to the life-size brunette Barbie, and back to Sullivan again. The resemblance between them was striking. Though Sullivan’s face was clean of any paint and the other woman’s features were made up—smoky eyes, slick red lips—the shade of their dark hair, the shapes of their mouths and the sharp angle of their jaws were the same. They were both tall and had legs that went on forever. And they were both seriously pissed off, with neither showing any sign of backing down.