Free Cold Midnight by Joyce Lamb

inside and down the cool hallway to his office without speaking. While she sat in the lone, metal-framed visitor’s chair, he popped open the mini fridge in the corner and retrieved a bottle of water. After twisting off the cap, he handed her the bottle, glad when she drank without being prodded.
    He hated that he had no idea what to say. He hadn’t known what to say for years and berated himself for not dogging her more. But she’d been so far away, physically and emotionally, that he hadn’t known where to start. Letting her work it out on her own had been easier. He’d had his own issues to focus on, after all.
    “You might want to think about replacing this chair,” she said. “It feels rickety.”
    His throat closed. Leave it to Kylie to focus on something that had nothing to do with the blue aluminum symbol for her shattered sense of identity.
    “Funny word,” she murmured. “Rickety.”
    “Kylie—”
    “Unless that’s the idea. Most of the people who use this chair are probably employees in trouble. You wouldn’t want them to be too comfortable while you rip into them.”
    “Kylie, come on. Don’t you want—”
    “Can we just sit here and not say anything? Just for a few minutes?”
    Quinn sighed. Agreeing to be quiet, for her sake, was easy. It always had been.

13
    WHILE FORENSICS EXPERT SYLVIA JENSEN FINISHED cataloging the evidence, Chase went looking for Kylie. He hadn’t been to the fitness center before, but he’d heard about its state-of-the-art equipment and Olympic-size swimming pool. He would have joined if the monthly fee had been slightly less than astronomical, but the place clearly targeted rich retirees and the Fortune 500 executives whose vacation homes dotted Kendall Falls’ beaches.
    Not for the first time, he felt a nudge of admiration for Kylie’s choice of location for her own facility. She planned to cater to the less-well-to-do portion of the population on the other side of town, something few entrepreneurs in the area ever did.
    Chase stopped a young woman wearing the health club’s uniform of white polo shirt and navy shorts. “Can you tell me where I might find Kylie McKay?”
    She gave him a big, flirtatious smile as she gestured down the hall. “Just saw her in Quinn’s office, on the left.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Hey,” she called after him. “I’m a personal trainer. If, you know, you ever want a one-on-one workout.”
    He waved over his shoulder without acknowledging her wink. “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”
    A few strides later, he spotted an office door bearing a plaque that read QUINN MCKAY, MANAGER. Through the half-open door, he saw Kylie sitting with her unbraced leg crossed over the other, her focus intense as she peeled the label off an empty water bottle. The flush that had stained her cheeks while they’d argued was gone, and she’d tidied up the curls that had earlier escaped her ponytail. The Tennis Pony, she’d called it way back when, because that’s how she wore her hair when she played.
    With concentration creasing her forehead, she looked older. And tired. Jesus, she looked tired.
    He lightly rapped on the door before stepping into the tiny office that held a simple desk and the two occupied chairs.
    “Are you done already?” Quinn asked, elbows on the desk, hands clasped tightly in front of him.
    “Just about. Sylvia’s bagging up the last of the evidence.”
    He glanced at Kylie and found her watching him with the calm, quiet look of someone who’d popped a Xanax. If he hadn’t known her so well, he would have assumed she had. But Kylie McKay didn’t do tranquilizers. She chanted shit in her head, like “eye on the ball” and “breathe.” Mind over matter, that was her motto.
    Looking away, he leaned against the wall to wait for Sam. He’d asked her everything he could about the incident, and the bat through the windshield sounded like a scare tactic. The perp had had the perfect chance to harm her—defenseless