Free Dead Lies by Cybele Loening Page B

flash of regret about issuing the invitation. She didn’t want him to think she was interested. He was way too young for her. Then she shook the thought away, scolding herself for thinking that. What would Paul want with her? She was damaged goods. He knew that. Still, she could use a night out. Just because her life was a mess didn’t mean she had to live like a hermit.
    “We can set it up later in the week,” she said finally. “See ya.” She slipped the key into the ignition.
    Paul waved before disappearing into his car.
    Allowing her ten-year-old Subaru to warm up for a full minute—the secret to the car’s longevity—Anna rubbed her eyes, trying to wipe away the sand. She needed sleep. She’d been up for more than twenty-four hours. Yet she felt too keyed up to rest. After the discovery at Nickel’s, Kreeger had pulled her aside and asked if she’d like to remain on the case. His office was short-staffed at Christmas holidays and they could use her help, he said. She agreed, of course—downplaying her excitement, so she wouldn’t look green—and then he’d called Chief March to get the official okay.
    Now she was going home to catch a few hours of sleep. The plan was to meet Kreeger at ten tomorrow. They’d go over what they’d learned so far then drive together to the Marino house to interview the family again.
    The streets were empty so early on a holiday, so Anna’s ride home took her about half the usual fifteen minutes. Tired as she was, she was glad when her little house came into view. She’d been lucky to get this rental. The place wasn’t in great shape. The hot water took forever to run from the bathroom faucets and the brown shag carpeting throughout the house had to be a 1967 original. But it was in a safe neighborhood, and she could afford it.
    Pulling her car into the garage was one of those singularly suburban acts she still hadn’t quite gotten used to. The door closed behind her with a push of the remote. She entered the kitchen and was greeted by meows of hunger coming from her orange-and-white tabby, Scarlet, whom she’d adopted from a shelter the year she was married. She filled the cat’s bowl and cooed apologies for leaving her alone for so long without food. Actually, she’d completely forgotten about her. What a horrible cat mother I am, she thought, as she fixed herself a ham sandwich—dry because she’d forgotten to buy mayonnaise when she went to the supermarket. She took a large bite, and while she chewed she went to the fridge and pulled out a carton of orange juice. She poured a glass then put the carton back, carrying the juice and the plate through the living room toward the bedroom hall and pausing at the front door to check the bolt, just as she did every night.
    She headed for the bathroom next. Her bunions were throbbing, and she needed to soak her sore feet in the tub. She could do it while she ate. But something compelled Anna to enter her son’s bedroom instead. She walked to the bed in the far corner and placed her plate and glass on the painted bedside table. She removed her equipment belt and set it down next to the food.
    Settling onto the bed, she picked up a stuffed white rabbit and held it to her chest, thinking achingly of Max, who, an hour or so from now would be waking up in her ex-husband’s parents’ house in Brooklyn. The Judge had granted her sole custody of Max, but when Jack had pleaded with her to let their son spend Christmas with him, she’d given in. In spite of everything that had happened, she wanted her son and his father to have a relationship.
    Hugging the stuffed animal made her feel connected to Max, but it didn’t do anything to ease a still-deeper anguish within her. She could hardly bear to think about the loss, even now over a year later. A year ago, Max’s identical twin brother—the child Anna had named Nicholas after her grandfather—had died when he was struck by a car in front of their Brooklyn home. Her