Free Dark Tort by Diane Mott Davidson

and eventually found my way into the shower. I let steaming water run over my aching face and body and tried not to think. Moments later, I was in bed. Oddly, I slept a profound, dreamless sleep until twenty after six. I dressed quickly, came downstairs, and found Tom lying, eyes half open, on the living-room couch.
    “Is Arch up?” I asked as I sat down next to him.
    “Not yet. Friend of mine brought back your van with your supplies. I unloaded everything.”
    “You’re the best.” I stared at the fire.
    “Did you get any sleep?”
    “Couple of hours. Enough.”
    I hesitated. “I should be doing something. For the Routts, I mean.”
    Tom sat up and ran his large hands through his wavy brown hair. The doorbell startled both of us. Tom sighed, then got up to answer it.
    “Who could that be?” I wondered aloud. “If it’s a reporter, get out your gun and use it.”
    But it was not a reporter, and the commingled voices in our hallway indicated the new arrival was Julian, my assistant. Of course, Julian would have wanted to be here. So despite the wee hour, Tom had undoubtedly called Julian’s apartment in Boulder and asked him to make the drive to Aspen Meadow to be with us. As they exchanged murmured greetings, I wondered if it would be good for Julian to come with me when I finally did go over to check on Sally. Julian had been close to Dusty for a time. Oh God, I thought as I laid my head on the couch cushion. This was all too much.
    Julian’s voice asked: “Goldy? Where are you?”
    I heaved myself up on my elbow and turned around. Julian, compact and muscled, stood not quite six feet. His dark hair was tousled; his jeans, wrinkled oxford-cloth shirt, and secondhand leather jacket clearly had been donned in haste. His handsome face was splotched from crying. He shifted from one foot to the other, waiting for me to answer him. With his awkward stance and clenched fists, he looked more shook up than I’d seen him in a long time. I mumbled, “Thanks for coming.”
    “Dusty?” His voice was incredulous.
    “Who would want to hurt Dusty?” He moved into the living room and sat heavily on one of our chairs. He uttered an expletive and stared at the floor. The three of us were quiet for what seemed like a very long time.
    At length, Julian asked, “Are you going over there?”
    “Tom says we can’t while the cops are still inside the house. Then he’s going to call the department to see if we’re allowed to go over.”
    “You found her?”
    When I nodded, he said, “Was it bad?”
    “I tried to revive her.” I shook my head.
    “Yeah, it was bad.”
    “Do they have any idea who . . .” But he let the question dangle.
    “Not yet,” Tom said.
    “But we will.” Silence filled the living room again. Julian stared at the fire.
    “When we go over, will we be able to take them some food?”
    “Sure,” I said. “I guess ...I guess we’d both feel better if we hit the kitchen.” He was right. I needed to clear my brain, and the way I did that was by cooking. At the moment, that was also the only thing I could do for Sally Routt.
    “Okay,” Tom said, “I’m going to go check on Arch and wake him up in twenty. I’ll make sure he’s got his backpack and, uh, learner’s permit.”
    “Tom,” I said, “don’t even think about—”
    “Just kidding!”
    “Have you got anything going today?” Julian asked as he walked slowly down the hallway toward the kitchen. Once there, he flipped on the espresso machine and began hunting through our cupboards for the sugar. Julian never took fewer than four teaspoons of the sweet stuff in his caffeine jolts. The memory of accidentally sipping a titanically sweet, Julian-fixed demitasse popped me out of my stupor. I didn’t want that to happen again. Opening my eyes wide, I clattered two cups under the machine’s spout.
    “In the catering department, I haven’t got anything until tomorrow,” I told him. “That’s when I cater Donald Ellis’s