at the diner, parked in the driveway. Finn must have delivered it sometime during the night. Yawning, Annabelle decided on cereal for breakfast.
She took milk from the fridge—the same GE model that had been here since she was Emmie’s age—and a box from the pantry. All Annabelle could face right now was a cup of strong coffee. With an encouraging smile, she set the cereal bowl in front of Emmie, but as she turned toward the coffee maker, she caught a flash in her peripheral vision of Emmie’s fine blond hair, in tangles this morning. Without warning, Emmie’s arm swung out, and the bowl flew through the air. It landed on the linoleum floor and shattered. Cheerios and milk sprayed everywhere, provoking more tears from Emmie.
They didn’t last long before, to Annabelle’s further shock, Emmie suddenly grinned and her big blue eyes sparkled as if she were proud of what she’d done. Emmie had deliberately spilled the cereal, probably wanting to see Annabelle’s reaction—which was to drop to her knees and wipe up the mess. And count to ten. Twice. This was definitely not her wheelhouse.
She straightened with the soggy sponge in her hand. Okay, no Cheerios then. On her feet, she poured a glass of orange juice, but as she started to put it on the table, she saw Emmie already scowling.
“Don’t like juice,” she said, pouting.
Annabelle yanked the glass out of reach. She didn’t own any plastic ones, and there was no sense in causing another mishap to start the day off worse than it was. “What do you like?” she asked, trying not to grit her teeth.
“Doughnut.”
“That’s not a healthful breakfast,” Annabelle said, which produced another now-familiar wail of protest from Emmie. Why didn’t I bring home yesterday’s leftover blueberry coffee cake? Better than a doughnut, made of organic flour, and with fruit.
“Mama knows!”
“Of course she does.” The morning was threatening to become a full-blown disaster. How to explain? “But your mom didn’t feel well, and um, the doctor is fixing her. She’ll be fine, Emmie,” she added.
Another tiny frown creased Emmie’s forehead. She didn’t mention the accident but asked, “Where the man go?”
Annabelle thought for a second. “You mean Finn?”
She nodded. “Nice man.”
“He’s probably at his office. You may see him later.”
At dawn, Annabelle had punched the answering machine beside her bed and heard a message from Finn who wanted to see her at her convenience. But how, with Emmie in tow? Annabelle was used to going everywhere alone. Obviously, she’d never needed a sitter, and this wasn’t a young-family neighborhood. She ticked off several options, but her closest neighbor was on a cruise through the Panama Canal this week, which Annabelle envied. The elderly woman across the street might be willing to help, but she’d broken her ankle and was on crutches. Annabelle had delivered a lasagna to her only yesterday. Really, neither woman would be able to keep up with Emmie—from Annabelle’s now limited experience. Leave Emmie at the diner then, while she was at the sheriff’s office? Her staff would already have their hands full with the breakfast crowd. What if Emmie wandered off, out the door and into Main Street? Or threw a fit at being left?
Her pulse stumbled. More to the point, Emmie was traumatized—perhaps one reason she hadn’t even brought up the accident, as if her brain had suppressed it. Annabelle wouldn’t leave her alone. For a day or two, in Sierra’s place, Annabelle would be second best. For now, she was all Emmie had.
She would have to take Emmie with her when she went to see Finn.
HIS HAND NOT QUITE touching her back, Finn guided Annabelle into his office. His dog, a rescue mutt, part German shepherd, part Labrador with maybe a touch of golden retriever in the mix, lay sprawled on the wooden floor in a square of sunlight, blocking the chairs in front of Finn’s desk. He gently nudged him with one boot, cutting off the dog’s snore. With a start, Sarge raised his head. “Move over, pal. Give the lady some room.”
“I didn’t know you had a dog.”
Why would she? He and Annabelle barely knew each other. They weren’t even friends, and his awareness of her was Finn’s to ignore. If Annabelle felt drawn to him too, that was her problem. The less she knew about him, the better for Finn.
“Saved him from the pound over in Farrier a month or so ago,” he said. “We’re still in the adjustment period.” They watched Sarge come to life again, blinking, before he managed to stand, rearrange his bones then shuffle closer to the window. “The sun’s better there anyway, bud,” Finn told him and pulled out a chair for Annabelle.
“That was nice of you,” she murmured, “to give him a home.”
“Sarge is kind of the office mascot.” He gestured toward the chair. “Take a seat.”
Finn looked toward the outer room where Emmie had been placed on a desk. She was swinging her feet plowing her way through a doughnut with sprinkles and chatting with Sharon, his deputy, whom she’d taken to last night. “How did it go after I left your house?”
“As well as it could, I suppose. We ended up sharing my bed.” Annabelle told him about an incident with some cereal at breakfast. They shared a brief smile before she said, “I couldn’t leave her at the diner and I didn’t know what else to do but bring her with me.”
“Because all cops like doughnuts?” Finn couldn’t resist teasing her if only to see her blush.
She actually laughed, then sobered. “Why did you want to see me?”
Finn looked away. Annabelle’s pink cheeks made her seem more than appealing, like the innocent look in her eyes as if she didn’t quite get his joke. Never mind, he thought. His solitary life suited him, and with luck would help him forget Chicago, as much as he could. It allowed him to focus on what mattered most—nailing Eduardo Sanchez’s hide to the wall, even from a distance—and he had no room for Annabelle. Or, for that matter, little Emmie. The very thought of holding her last night at the accident scene made him sweat, made him remember...
Finn pulled a form from his desk drawer. “I need your statement. Any information you can supply about Sierra.” He searched for a pen then began to fill in the basic stuff. Time, date, interviewee’s name... “I never understand why people don’t wear their seat belts,” he muttered, half to himself.
Annabelle blinked. “Sierra wasn’t wearing hers?”
“No,” he said.
“She never did like doing things that were good for her—at least in my parents’ opinion. Whenever she spent summers with us, she drove them crazy. To me, she was a hero for daring to challenge them.”
It sounded as if Annabelle herself never had. Finn stopped writing. The few times he’d heard her mention her family, Annabelle got that tight sound in her voice and looked past the person she was talking to. Maybe he wasn’t the only one with issues to avoid. He wouldn’t let himself think about that drawer in his bureau, wouldn’t probe his memories like a sore tooth.
“Sierra was thrown from the car,” he told her. “Ned Sutherland’s life was saved by his seat belt.” Finn frowned. “But his granddaughter was right. He shouldn’t have been behind the wheel of that old pickup. In fact, when he took off last night she tried to stop him. Ned’s not talking yet this morning, but—” He cleared his throat. “Annabelle, how well do you know Sierra?”
She studied her hands in her lap. “As girls we were inseparable into our teens, but as adults we’ve had almost no contact. Why?”
He tapped his pen against the desktop. “Number one, her driver’s license, while still valid in the state of Wyoming, has an address that’s no longer hers and I suspect hasn’t been