Free The Missing Ink by Karen E. Olson

ever had with him, and still he’d peppered it with constant reminders that he only ever called me by my last name. Like he was some sort of tough guy.
    I could take him out.
    But there had been something sincere about his voice when he talked about Kelly, and he’d definitely been surprised when he found out she was dead. If I went with my gut, I’d say Jeff Coleman didn’t have anything to do with his ex-wife’s death.
    I didn’t have to debate it too long, though, because when I got to the house, Tim wasn’t there. I remembered he said he might not be home tonight.
    I tugged off my tank top and skirt, changing into plaid pajama bottoms and a short-sleeved oversize T-shirt. It had been a long time since my burger, so I rummaged in the fridge and found some cheese and crackers. I poured a glass of Malbec and went to the sofa, clicking on the TV.
    Hadn’t I started my day here?
    Elise Lyon was all over CNN. And MSNBC. And FOX. She was still missing. Chip Manning had joined his father in Las Vegas, and they were staying in the penthouse suite at Versailles. Elise Lyon’s father had arrived in town; her mother was in Philadelphia not speaking to the press. A local tattoo shop owner had last seen Elise Lyon. See her in her shop in this incredibly unflattering footage.
    They must have bought the film from Leigh Holmes’s station. Great.
    Nowhere was there any mention of Kelly Masters.
    I finished my wine and felt my eyes droop. The day had finally caught up with me, and I had to get up early tomorrow for the TV crew’s little visit. Fun.
    I took the glass and empty plate to the kitchen, placing them in the dishwasher. Neither of us had eaten at home today except for breakfast, and it could be a few days before we had enough dishes in there to warrant using the water.
    One of my biggest issues with Las Vegas is the water situation. By all rights, we shouldn’t have any. We’re in the desert, and the fact that water is in short supply is no mystery. Lake Mead, our water supply source, was down a hundred feet because of the drought, yet every resort and casino used so much water every day that we could probably fill another ocean in no time. Every time I looked at that fake canal that ran parallel to my shop, I tried not to feel guilty.
    I shut the dishwasher, turned out the light, and went to my bedroom, where I fell on top of the covers and went to sleep immediately.
    Regardless, I woke up sometime in the night when I heard Tim come in after all. He tended to have heavy feet, and I followed his footsteps in my head around the house as he got himself a glass of water in the kitchen and then went into his bedroom and shut the door.
    I barely slept again, my nervousness about 20/20 bubbling up in my chest. How could I call it off? Could I do that to my staff?
     
    When I got to the shop the next morning—Tim had managed to sneak out during one of my bits of sleep, thus alleviating my guilt about not telling him about Jeff Coleman—Bitsy and Joel acted like it was Christmas, and even Ace wore a pair of jeans that didn’t have a hole in the knee.
    They all had dressed up like they were going to their First Communion. Bitsy had a new pair of trousers and a cute blue top that accentuated her blond curls. Joel’s massive frame wasn’t quite so overwhelming in a subdued charcoal rayon shirt and cream-colored slacks.
    “What did you people do with my staff?” I asked as I surveyed them over my to-go coffee cup.
    Joel circled me, his head shaking sadly. “Brett, you have to go get yourself something else to wear. I’ll go with you.”
    I didn’t think my print skirt and black tank top were awful. Why should I look different today?
    When I voiced that out loud, Bitsy “tsk-tsked” me. Even Ace made a face.
    I sighed. “Okay, Joel, take me out, dress me up.”
    The smile spread across his face as he clapped his hands. “Goody!”
    “We’re probably only going to be on air for about one minute, you know. No one will