“That also sounds very official.” She glanced around at the emptying tables. “If you aren’t going to order anything, I’d appreciate you leaving. The manager is particular about wait staff fraternizing with the customers. He particularly hates it.”
“Oh, I’m ordering. I’m starved. I’d like a basket of ranch habanero wings, side salad, fries and sweet tea.”
“This is a real order. You’re not expecting it on the house or anything? If you want the cop discount, I have to get the manager or it comes out of my check.”
“Real order. Real tip. Especially if the tea glass never runs dry.” He handed her the menu. “I’m Slate, by the way.”
“I’ll be right back with your tea.”
A week before Victor’s trial and a Texas Ranger shows up saying it’s unofficial business? Hope. A slim chance of it bubbled into her heart. Just as quickly, her rational mind took out a needle and popped it.
It had been over a year with no hope. A year of visiting her brother and faking a positive attitude so he didn’t lose all hope. She wouldn’t allow this one man who was here in an unofficial capacity to rattle her heart.
All the emotional strength she had left was reserved for her brother. Period.
Tea and salad to the table. Menus to another. Sneak a look at the ranger who’s watching something on his phone. Clear and wipe down a booth. Salt shakers filled for the next shift. Order up. Wings for the ranger.
“Need anything else?” she asked, sliding the basket in front of him.
He performed an ordinary shake of his head just like many customers had before him.
“Why should I talk to you without Victor’s lawyer present? Not like he’d know what to do if I wrote it all out for him. Why should I listen to you?”
“I just have a question.”
“For me?” She stuck her thumb in her chest, realizing too late that it drew his eyes to the bulging cleavage her waitress outfit emphasized. “Not Victor?”
The ranger dropped his hands in his lap and looked at her. Really looked at her, like very few people had in the past year.
“I can’t make any promises, Vivian. I just picked up your brother’s file this morning, but I have a question that I hope you can answer. Maybe it’ll lead to another question. That’s all I’ve got at the moment.”
Honesty. Clarity.
And a trickle of hope.
“I...uh...I get off at two.” She was about to cry because of that one snippet of misplaced emotion.
“Can I meet you—”
“I no longer own a car, officer.”
“Slate’s fine. There’s a coffee shop three doors down. That okay?”
“Sure. I’ll get your check.”
She turned quickly and used the corner of the bar towel to wipe the moisture from her face. Maybe he hadn’t seen it. Who was she trying to fool? Looking at her—really looking and connecting with her eyes—that’s why she was crying.
He’d seen it.
She punched in his ticket number and waited for the printout. No one else noticed her shaking hands or her racing heart. No one noticed anything except her hurrying through the rest of her shift.
Slate finished his wings with half a pitcher of tea still on his table. She’d dropped it off so he wouldn’t run out. He paid and was gone forty-five minutes before she finished up.
She grabbed her jacket and wished she’d brought a change of clothes. Having a serious, even unofficial conversation in the short, revealing T-shirt would be hard. She could keep her jacket on.
Sure. Coffee. That’s all this was. One Frappuccino and one question.
With the stupid hope that it would be another...and then another...
And then the reopening of her brother’s investigation and surely proving that he was innocent. No trial. They could go home.
Oh, my gosh. That was why she hadn’t let herself hope during the past year. One small peek at the possibility and she was back to leading a normal life in Florida. She couldn’t do this to herself and certainly couldn’t do it to her brother.
She hated...hope.
Meeting Vivian Watts at work seemed like a smart thing to do, until Slate remembered the waitress uniforms at the restaurant. But that was after he’d walked through the door and asked for her section. Immediately noticing how smoking hot she was stopped coherent thought.
And then she’d cried.
Mercy. He was just like any man wanting to do the right thing. He wanted her to stop crying.
He knew he could help make that happen. All he had to do was find a murderer.
Choosing a table in the far back corner of the coffee shop, he opened a file no one in the room should see. The chicken wings sat like a lump in his gut. Maybe the acid from the strong brew would help with the digestion. Good thing he didn’t have a weak stomach or he’d be losing it all by studying the murder scene pictures.
He wanted to help Vivian and Victor Watts. But it did all boil down to one question that no one had ever asked her brother.
“Officer.”
He flipped the file shut and stood, pushing back his chair. “You want something?”
“No. I’m fine.” Vivian sat and pulled her coat tighter.
It was sweltering hot inside the shop despite the November chill that hung outside. Well, she was wearing hot pants and half a T-shirt.
“It’s Slate. Lieutenant if this was official, but again, I can’t make any promises.”
“I stopped believing in promises about the time my brother was arrested for murder. Every promise that was made to us by the Dallas police was broken. And then there’s been the three court-appointed attorneys who promised they’d find the real murderer.”
“I’m sorry you’ve had to go through this experience. It doesn’t feel fair, but the evidence does point to your brother.”
“Spare me, Lieutenant. Until you’ve lost everything you’ve had and are about to see your only family convicted of murder in a state that has the death penalty... Please, just ask your question so I can go home.”
“Sure.” He opened the file to a copy of the murder victim’s journal entry. “Can you tell me if your brother ever participated in a study performed by Dr. Roberts?”
“The answer is already in your file. He was seeing her for a sleep disorder. Night terrors. Yes, he knew the victim. Yes, he had an appointment with her the day she was murdered. No, he’d never mentioned that he had a problem to me. No, he never mentioned wanting to kill anyone. No, he hasn’t been the same since he was discharged from the army.” She pushed away from the table. “Thank you for taking a look at Victor’s case. But I really have to get home—”
“Subject Nineteen. Was that your brother’s number?”
“What are you talking about?” She sank back onto the metal chair.
“No one’s ever mentioned how your brother was linked to the murder before?”
“All I know is that my