She reached around him and pulled the door open.
He didn’t move.
What was with this guy? He wasn’t taking the hint to leave.
Goose bumps skipped across her arms. She’d bet a hundred bucks he knew something about her past. He was smooth and polished, formal and courteous as he talked to Danny. Still, Trent didn’t take a single step to leave. She didn’t trust him in the least.
“So, what school do you go to?”
“St. Mark’s. I’m in kindergarten.”
“That’s cool. Your school is only a block from the police station.”
“Yeah,” Danny said with a big grin. “I watch the cop cars go in and out of the parking lot.”
Cate could see that Danny’s eyes were filled with admiration. She glanced at the detective and realized that he had picked up on it, too.
“You know, Danny, next weekend is the Sunflower Festival, and our station has a booth to raise money for widows and orphans of other cops. If you stop by, I’ll save a brownie for you.”
“We go to the Sunflower Festival every year.” Danny looked at his mother. “Don’t we, Mom?”
“Uh, yes.” Cate was perplexed as she raised her eyes to Trent.
He pushed on. “Mrs. Beabots makes the brownies for us as her donation. They’re the best in town.” Trent smiled broadly.
“She gave me a brownie tonight at the party,” Danny said.
“Party?” Trent cocked his head toward Cate.
Cate paused, her eyes locked on Trent. “It was a baby shower.”
“Oh,” he said, and turned to Danny. “So, I’ll see you at the Sunflower Festival?”
“Sure,” Danny replied quickly.
Cate noticed that Danny didn’t look to her for approval. He was too busy smiling at the detective.
“I’ll be going,” Trent said as he opened the door fully. “Make sure all the doors are locked, and double-check your windows, too.”
Cate’s eyes widened. “The windows.”
“They are locked, right? You always check them, right?” he asked warily.
“Uh. No.”
“What about the basement windows where someone can crawl in?”
“Those I had boarded up and sealed when we moved in. I try never to go down there if I can help it.”
“Yeah,” Danny chimed in. “It’s spooky.”
She nodded. “It is.”
“Do you want me to check the windows for you?”
“No, I can do it. There aren’t that many,” she said.
“Okay.” Trent stepped out. “Lock up behind me.”
“Goodbye... Detective Davis.” She closed the door and locked it.
Cate felt as if she’d run a gauntlet through swinging knife blades. Police. The last thing she needed in her life right now was a cop. Now or ever.
* * *
TRENT WENT TO his car. As he drove away, he noticed that Cate and Danny were watching him leave from the living-room window.
Purposefully, he drove down two blocks, then doubled back, turning off his headlights so she wouldn’t see him returning. He parked four doors away.
As his eyes tracked over to the house, he noticed as each of the lights was turned off. The last one was at the far right end of the house. Presumably, Cate’s bedroom.
Cate.
He’d never paid much attention to her when he’d seen her around town. Thinking about it, he realized she was the kind of woman who didn’t meet a man’s eyes. She didn’t flirt. Didn’t smile much, either. Now he knew why.
She was pretty enough. Soft peachy skin. Thick brunette hair that hung in a straight cut just past her chin.
Trent flung even the hint of Cate out of his head. With his PTSD, he wasn’t relationship material—for anybody. To save everyone heartache, it was best for him to bury romantic emotions.
Cate was simply part of his investigation. That was all.
Trent’s life worked best with him alone. No one to hear his screams in the night. No one to talk him down from another nightmare. No one to whom he’d have to describe what it was like to have his best buddy blown to pieces right before his eyes. The IED should have been detected. It would have been better if Trent had been the one to die. Trent didn’t have a wife and kids. But Parker had.
The vision of Parker’s bloody body pieces strewed over the sand was burned on his soul. It was part of him. He couldn’t right click and delete it. Shoot it or kill it. It lived deep in his psyche where it haunted him.
Trent dropped his face to his hands. Sweat had sprung out on his forehead and ran down his temples. It was always like this. He’d heat up and then when the memory faded, he’d cool off. His mouth was dry.
It was always the same. Predictable. But the onset was like a rogue wave. He never knew when it was coming. Only that it would be back again and again. That was the hell of it.
Because no treatment worked. Cognitive processing therapy and prolonged exposure therapy didn’t help. He’d tried a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor, but it hadn’t made a dent.
He drank deeply from his water bottle and looked at Cate’s bedroom window.
The light had gone out.
“Time for some shut-eye,” he mumbled as he stared at the house.
Trent sat up in his seat as he remembered Cate’s brown eyes.
That was it. There was something wrong with her eyes. Tonight, in the harsh overhead foyer light, she’d looked straight at him.
That’s when he’d noticed it. She wore colored contacts. The kind that muted the eye. Made it difficult, if not impossible, to read someone’s thoughts. Trent was usually spot-on with deciphering expressions, voice tones, nuances that disclosed valuable information.
He’d frightened her tonight. He’d blundered and hoped he’d smoothed it over. He needed her to trust him. It was a bonus that her son had taken a liking to him. He might need some support in the days to come. Cate was wary and suspicious, as well she should be. He couldn’t imagine what life had been like for her all this time—living this lie.
Looking at the situation from Cate’s side, he imagined that to her, he was just about the worst thing that could happen to her. His investigation would blow her story to pieces.
Cate was right not to trust him.
In order to throw the snare on Le Grande, he might hurt Cate.
CATE THREW BACK the last precious drops of the cappuccino that Maddie Barzonni had made especially for her. Maddie had drawn a little house with a “sold” sign over the door because Cate had a showing with a new buyer today. Maddie was a firm believer in manifesting one’s destiny. So was Cate. In fact, she’d been manifesting and creating her life so expertly and for so many years, she felt she should give fiction writing a shot.
“Maybe a screenplay,” she mumbled to herself as she drove up to 415 Park Street.
She looked at the computer printout she’d brought with her. The house had been on the market for