Chapter 2

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Chapter Two

It was five on Tuesday evening when Jake leaned back in his chair and tried to clear the paperwork from his desk. He spotted the pad where he’d written down Ellie Chandler’s info. It had been a whole day, and so far he hadn’t done a thing with it. Yes, he’d told her she needed to go to Homicide, but his gut told him she hadn’t done it. He supposed he should follow up.

He grabbed his cell phone and dialed. Ripping off the sheet of paper, he tossed it in the trash. He wouldn’t learn anything, but for his conscience’s sake he’d do it. Then he could forget the whole incident.

“Sergeant Anders,” his buddy in Homicide answered.

“Stan, it’s Jake. Look, I had this girl come in yesterday . . .” He gave Stan the short version, about arresting Tanks and adding a bit of male color commentary, including, “Gorgeous. Stacked. But the voice!”

Stan laughed. “I don’t see a problem. Keep your tongue in her mouth or keep her mouth busy.”

Jake grinned, finished his story, and asked if they’d had any headless corpses show up.

“Didn’t you hear about the John Doe case?” Stan asked, the earlier humor missing from his tone.

“Don’t yank my chain.” Jake leaned against his desk.

“No chain yanking here. The body washed up in the Houston Ship Channel about six months ago. Clear Lake’s handling things. They still haven’t ID’d the guy. The body was in bad shape.”

“Great.” Jake snatched the crumpled notepaper out of the trash can. It looked as if he and Miss Squeaky Voice were destined to meet again. Damn if he probably didn’t owe her an apology, too. Sons of Baptist preachers always apologized when they made mistakes.

“Baldwin!” Donaldson barged into his office, his posture rigid.

“I’ll call you back, Stan,” Jake said, and disconnected. He turned to his coworker. “What’s up?”

“There’s been a prison break. A guard and an inmate were shot. Doesn’t look good for either one. Three other inmates escaped. Captain said you know one of them—David Tanks.”

Jake sighed. Oh yeah. He’d definitely be seeing Miss Squeaky Voice again.

* * *

Leaving the library, Macy realized her day was about to get worse. She’d forgotten her cash bag, so she had to swing home to pick it up. The stop would make her five minutes late for work, which meant the assistant manager, Mr. Prack—the employees referred to him as something funnier, if a bit obvious—was going to give her hell. Ever since she’d turned him down for beers and a night in the sack, he’d been particularly hard on her. Yeah, she could slap a sexual harassment charge on him, but it would mean losing a job—a job close to home and with perfect hours. As long as the pervert kept his hands to himself, the verbal hell wasn’t enough to make her jump ship.

Of course, he was the least of her worries. Macy’s heart and mind were stuck on Billy. Stuck on her inability to change his circumstances.

Unlocking the door to her house, she stepped inside. A thump sounded. She paused and listened to the eerie hum of the old home. “Elvis?” Her voice vibrated in a strange silence. “Here, kitty, kitty.” She stepped farther into her living room, but the silence still felt too loud. Then she saw him. “Elvis?”

Her long-haired gray tabby stood beside the sofa, near the coffee table. A candy dish and a few peppermints lay on the floor beside him. Macy had a big desire to fall on the couch, hug her cat, and have herself a good cry. And a peppermint.

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