Jesus.
She stashed the Purell back in her bag, feeling guilty. It had been a while since she’d been caught off guard like that. It wasn’t like Simon and the twins were ever far from her mind—she’d fled Nashville to get away from the loneliness she felt, the strange dislocation of losing everything and still waking up every morning, air filling her lungs, even when she was sure she’d never take a breath again. Their memory was what held her back from Xander, from giving all of herself to him. He knew it, understood it deeply, more than anyone else in her life, but at some point, she had to let go and move on.
Yet every time she thought she was there, ready to take a step forward, something like this happened and shot her right back to the person she was for so long after they died—lost, and so very empty. Too empty even to cry.
She slapped her hand on the desk. She needed a drink. Or something. She knew herself well enough; she would be useless the rest of the day. And she hated herself for her weakness.
She packed up her Birkin bag and headed out. The house was only a ten-minute walk, ten minutes that would allow her to wrestle her demons back into their box. Maybe instead of pouring a Scotch, she’d go for a run with Xander and Thor, try to sweat the sorrow out of her. A healthier response. It showed her she wasn’t lost, not all the way.
And then she’d begin again, as she had done so many times before. Handling grief was almost like quitting smoking, or drinking. You do well for so long, then suddenly you slip, and indulge. And in the cold light of morning, you have to start counting the days all over again.
She stepped out into the glorious sunshine, trying to ignore the words that rolled through her mind in time with her steps. The words she used in succor, dampening the horror of her wounds.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four.
Chapter
5
XANDER HAD ALREADY taken off with Thor for parts unknown when she arrived home.
Disappointed, Sam poured herself a finger of Laphroaig, added two ice cubes and went out onto the covered patio that edged the backyard. The previous owners of her town house had redone the place, removing any feature that could be mistaken for traditional and replacing it with modern to the extreme. Everything was sleek and stark, stainless steel, marble, glass—if she were in an unforgiving mood, impersonal—but it suited her new life. Outside, they’d landscaped with fervor as well, putting in a small Japanese garden, which bordered a lap pool with an automatic current, so they could swim in place and still get a workout. The pool was hidden from the neighbors with a large screen of bamboo, and concealed from the street by a tall wooden fence. The illusion of privacy in the heart of the city.
Suddenly hot, Sam set the Scotch on the edge of the pool, shimmied out of her clothes and slid naked into the water. The sweat and grime and craziness of the day washed clean, she set out at a languorous pace, breaststroking the length of the water. The endless current drove her crazy, so she rarely turned it on; it felt like she was expending so much effort, yet never really going anywhere. Xander loved it, put his head down and swam and swam.
Timothy Savage swam with her. A natural death; no autopsy needed. So why would the man write to Sam and ask her to investigate his murder?
The pool was out of the direct sunlight now, and she got chilled. She ducked her head under, swiped her hands along her face to get her hair slicked back then stepped dripping from the water.
She jumped when she saw Xander sitting by the edge of the pool. He’d snuck outside, silent as a cat.
“I like the view.”
Their eyes locked, and she gestured toward the water. “Are you interested in a swim?”
He shook his head and started toward her. She held her breath. The way that man moved, sinuous and graceful, the unconscious warrior in him always alert and ready, drove her wild. He had his shirt off after two steps, his shorts a heartbeat later, and then their skin touched and he put his mouth on hers. She was shocked by his warmth. He was hot, so hot, his skin overheated from his run, slightly sweaty and damp, and his mouth was hotter still, ravenous for her.