Closer Than Blood. Gregg Olsen

Jason or any of it.

      Heading out the door, she played her message from Adam.

      “Kendall, you’ve got to find out what’s up with Tori. Don’t you have a friend over there in Tacoma? Someone you can call with some kind of police referral? I don’t know anyone, or I would. See you at the meeting. Only seven days to go and we get our freedom back.”

      Kendall didn’t need a nudge to find out what was up in Tacoma with their old classmate. She’d already decided she’d do so as a professional courtesy.

      After all, she thought, they probably have no idea who they’re dealing with. Tori was always pretty good at fooling people.

      She had written down the name of the lead detective on the case: Eddie Kaminski.

      A guilty conscience can be akin to a thermos of black coffee at midnight. Eyes cannot stay shuttered. Muscles cannot relax. Sleep is a quest beyond the grasp of those who wrestle with the wrongs they’ve done. The clock is a snare drum.

      Darius Fulton couldn’t sleep. He’d tossed and turned the entire night. A loose bedsheet nearly encircled his neck and choked him. He’d wished that it had. Every time he almost drifted off to sleep, he saw the smear of red on Tori Connelly’s nightgown. It had pooled above her thighs in a swirling pattern that he was certain was caused by her hurried run across the street to his house. Her skin was white. Paler than he’d ever seen. She wasn’t a serial tanner like so many of the younger women he’d dated after his wife had dumped him. She had seemed classier, kinder.

      And while her charms were more than just her physical attributes, those were unquestionably the reason why he’d slept with her.

      It was only one time. It was a mistake and he knew it. She was married.

      Yet it felt so good.

      They’d come across each other at a lecture at the Washington State History Museum in downtown Tacoma. The museum was in a completely refurbished 1911 train depot and was considered—along with a new museum dedicated to glass arts—a cornerstone of the city’s rebirth. They’d noticed each other going inside.

      “We’re neighbors,” she said, walking toward him, “at least I think so.”

      “Welcome to the City of Destiny,” he said. “I guess I should have brought over a pie or something.”

      “Oh, does your wife bake?” she asked, looking at the pale band of white skin where his wedding ring had once been.

      “I’m separated. That’s why I’m here alone.”

      “My husband is a workaholic,” she said. “That’s my excuse. And I’m sticking with it.”

      Two days later, he was over at her house ostensibly because she was having problems with the alarm system.

      Tori put her hand on his shoulder, letting it loiter as he peered into the wiring with a flashlight. She let her hand slide down his back, landing at the leather of his belt.

      He turned around and looked at her.

      Her touch was an unexpected invitation and Darius took it. He leaned closer and kissed her.

      “I’m so lonely,” she said.

      “I am, too.”

      They kissed again.

      “Tori, this isn’t right.”

      “It seems right to me,” she said.

      Ten minutes later, they were sprawled out naked under the canopy of a big bed in the guest room. She was, without question, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. It was as if he’d been captured by some kind of superior being from another world. Her touch was electric. Her voice, her breath, all of it made his body throb with pleasure.

      “Tori,” he said, “you are an amazing woman.”

      “Let’s not get carried away,” she said.

      The next day, her husband out of town, Darius showed up with a bottle of wine. She met him at the door, but she didn’t invite him inside.

      “Darius,” she said, “I think you might have the wrong idea here.”