to the front of his desk, where she again plopped down in the client chair, almost as opulent as his own, and let her bag fall onto the carpet in a chocolate heap. Boone remained in his seat behind the mahogany monstrosity he called a desk.
She’d blinked first because it was hard to look at the man and not want him to take her in his arms—especially from the instant Boone had said he missed her and traded his distant look for a concerned one. Concerned was good. Good as long as she kept her head over it, got his help and then left him behind.
Because in reality, his concern meant nothing. He’d shown the same emotion for Warren Detry, the wife-murderer she’d arrested who Boone had sworn was innocent. Concern wasn’t love. Not even Boone’s interest in her from the moment they’d met, she’d come to realize, was love. She wasn’t going to fool herself again—she just wasn’t someone anyone could love. Hadn’t her own mother shown her that?
But she was getting lost in the past, and Boone was waiting for her to continue.
She swallowed down a lump in her throat. Cope. “Trouble is, Cliff wasn’t exactly clear about where the evidence was, and I wasn’t able to ask him.” She arced her hands in the air in frustration. “I could only figure he meant some of the message as a puzzle, trying to make sure he didn’t leave behind any information that might get into the wrong hands. He loved word puzzles. It took me a while, but I came up with one idea about the references to digging up evidence long buried and letting the dead rest in peace. It might mean he buried the gun at Detry’s wife’s gravesite.”
“You think?”
“I don’t know. There’s too much about this whole thing I don’t understand. Why he had to kill himself…” She shook her head slowly. “I especially don’t get that. But there’s more.”
“I kind of figured, or you would’ve brought the weapon here gift wrapped with an ‘I told you so.’”
Her smile was spontaneous. She could have shot herself for not holding it back, for as soon as Boone saw her grin, his solemn blue eyes took on that twinkle she remembered all too well. Peachy.
“I like making you smile,” he told her.
“Well, don’t like it too much.”
Instead of being irritated, he just grinned. She pretended not to melt a little, but it was hard. Diversion needed.
“This is where the ‘something happened’ part comes in,” she continued. “Before I came here, I was headed to the Last Stop Cemetery, where Laurie Detry is buried, and I stopped for coffee. When I came out to my car, I found a nasty little death threat under my windshield wiper. It warned me to forget what I think I know about the murder or I’m dead.”
Boone muttered a curse and his face darkened, surprising Angie. She’d never seen him look this angry. Sure, he had a heart for the underdog, and in this particular situation, she was the one barking. But he always hid his emotions from clients. Surely he didn’t see her as anything more than that? He understood it was over between them, didn’t he?
Not wanting to get into that—ever—she regrouped. “I could try to handle finding the evidence on my own, but if the missing evidence is buried there, I thought it might be smart to have someone watch my back while I’m busy digging.”
“Really smart,” Boone agreed.
“So will you help?”
“Of course.”
His instant response was a good sign. She was happy he was so willing to play bodyguard, but niggling little doubts immediately started to chomp away at that happiness. What if he really did have the wrong idea about a future for them?
“No strings attached,” she warned.
“Wasn’t even thinking in that direction,” Boone replied easily.
Too easily. Angie’s eyes narrowed. “Neither was I.” Really. “I only came to you because it’s possible someone at the department might have helped Cliff hide the weapon, and covered up for him. I don’t know that anyone did, but I can’t take the chance. If I hand in the evidence there, it might disappear again.”
“That seems possible,” he agreed. “I know the county sheriff’s chief deputy personally. Once we find it, we can bring the evidence to him.”
That would work. Angie nodded slowly. “I am sorry if I’m taking you away from important work—”
“Angie.” Boone held up his palm. “Please, don’t be nervous where I’m concerned. I can take the time for you. And I understand where things stand between us and am not reading anything into your asking me for backup.”
Good. Because she was over him—over men and the idea of a husband bringing her any kind of peace and security at all. Boone had been strike two. From where she stood, she now expected that if God wanted her to be married, He’d find her a husband, and she would have no doubts about the rightness of His choice. Boone could absolutely, positively, not be the right man, because she had a whole boatload of doubts about him.
Even if he was staring at her with eyes she could dive into.
“You do realize,” Boone said suddenly, “that you should get a search warrant to dig on private property?”
“The judge isn’t going to give me one on total speculation, which is all my theory is. Besides, I had my fill of looking like a fool at the trial, thank you.”
His eyes took on an apologetic look, which she ignored. The possibility a judge might laugh at her theory left her cold inside, and she had Boone to thank for robbing her of not only her reputation, but also her confidence in her ability as a cop. As a Christian, she had tried several times during the last half year to make the leap into forgiveness, but she couldn’t, not when Boone wasn’t the least bit sorry. Too much hurt lingered. And fear that if she stuck around Boone for too long, he could betray her all over again.
“You’ve got something else planned?” he asked.
“Instead of a warrant, I’m stopping in at the cemetery caretaker’s office, telling him important evidence might be buried there, and asking for permission to search.” Begging for permission, if need be.
“That should work, too.” Boone nodded. “Since you don’t want to go to a judge, I take it you don’t want my friend from the sheriff’s department coming as a witness, either, just in case the gun isn’t buried there?”
“You’re finally understanding me,” she told him.
“Only six months too late,” he said. The thought lingered in the air between them as Boone reached for a set of keys on the glass-topped surface near his phone, unlocked a desk drawer, and pulled out a Glock she knew he kept within arm’s reach on purpose. He had a wide reputation for being the best criminal-defense attorney in the county, and sometimes, he’d once told her, desperate people who were guilty came to ask him for help. He never knew how well they would take his refusal to defend them. He’d only drawn it twice, but he would shoot if he had to.
She believed him. He always told her the truth, like when he’d said he’d do anything to keep his client from prison. She just hadn’t thought that “anything” would include ruining her.
She swallowed. She had to stop the self-pity and focus. There was a life riding on it.
She watched Boone stand, pull open his black, designer suit jacket and place his weapon in a leather shoulder holster. Broad-shouldered and tall, he had a way of making her feel safe when in his presence, even when he wasn’t carrying.
Not that she was worried or anything. But if she got shot from behind, who would see justice done? Leaning over, she patted her own backup weapon, a Beretta, that was lodged in an ankle holster under her jeans. “Will I be keeping you from any appointments or court appearances?”
“Not unless we get murdered.”
She couldn’t resist rolling