Free Dying to Know by T. J. O'Connor Page A

Everything.”
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    No it wasn’t. “Ah, Bear, what about my file at home? The one
    you hid?”
    “Including everything at the house?”
    He nodded.
    “Okay then, get it all logged in and cataloged tomorrow.
    Every damn page.”
    “Right, Cap.” Bear stuffed the files from his desk into the fil-
    ing cabinet and slammed the drawer closed. As he disappeared
    through the squad room doors, Captain Sutter was in her office
    doorway on her cell phone.
    “He just left. My bet is he’s heading to get drunk. There’s
    something just not right with him. Find out what it is.”
    There were several “somethings” that were not right with
    Bear. There was the hidden file, my house key, and a secret gar-
    gantuan informant. Now, he was stuffing evidence in his pockets.
    Since from my death, Bear’s secrets unnerved me and sent a
    chilling question through me. Were his secrets because of my
    murder or the reasons for it?
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    fourteen
    “I’m sorry. I drank too much to drive.” Bear sat back in the
    kitchen chair and drained his second cup of coffee. When his cup
    hit the wood tabletop, Angel refilled it.
    “Stop it,” she said. “I’m glad you didn’t drive. You should have
    called me. I would have picked you up.”
    When he arrived an hour ago, he startled Angel with his
    ragged and red-faced appearance. He walked five blocks from
    Old Town Winchester to our front gate, muttering and fuming
    the entire way. Several times, I’d swear he was talking to me, but unlike his reaction at the office, he didn’t respond when I spoke.
    The walk was laden with angry outbursts of self-deprecation and
    unintelligible comments, several times stopping and turning
    back toward town. Each time, he returned to the path to our
    front door.
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    “Walking helped.” Bear gulped his coffee. “Damnedest thing,
    honey. I swear someone was following me, too. Maybe it’s the
    booze—maybe I’m getting paranoid.”
    “Or …” Angel sat down at the end of the table. “Maybe it was
    him.”
    “Him?”
    “Tuck.”
    He snorted and sipped at his coffee.
    I leaned over and touched her hand. With every ounce of
    emotion I could muster, I glided a finger across hers. I’d done
    this a million times and I knew now that I’d taken that feeling for granted. The thought punched into me. As I caressed her hand, a
    warm tickle etched down my fingers until it disappeared into
    hers. Her eyes closed and her breathing slowed—almost stop-
    ping. She began to smile as moisture glistened from her eyes and
    she sighed.
    “Angela? What is it?” Bear’s eyes fixed on her.
    She jolted up, blushed, and swiped a strand of hair from her
    eyes. “I’m sorry.”
    “What’s wrong, Angela?”
    “You won’t understand. You think I imagined what happened
    at Ernie’s. You’ll never believe this.”
    “I always have an open mind.”
    “It’s Tuck.” She stood up and went to the sink. “He’s here—
    with us now. I can feel him.”
    “Oh, shit. Don’t start that.”
    “Yes, listen. I can feel him. Don’t you?”
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    “No.” He went to her, put his arm around her, and kissed her
    forehead. “Angela, I know you want to believe he’s here. But, he’s not. Sometimes I get this buzzing sound—even hear things—and
    I want to believe it’s him. It’s not. It’s just guilt.”
    Guilt? “Ah, partner, what does that mean?”
    Angel lowered her eyes. “No, Bear. No guilt. You promised
    me. Let it go.”
    “It’s my fault. I never should have let this happen.”
    This? What “this?”
    “Bear,” she slipped from his arm. “I can feel him. I’m tel ing
    you the truth.”
    He looked down at the floor, shaking his head. “Angela, I can’t
    do this. He’s dead. I’m going for a walk. I have to get away from
    it.”
    “Bear, wait …”
    It was too late. He disappeared into the hal . The front door
    opened and closed.
    “Damn you, Bear.” Angel dropped back down onto her chair
    and buried her face in her hands. “Damn you.”
    I