Free Her Final Breath (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 2) by Robert Dugoni Page B

call, but you didn’t have to do this.”
    As she took the plant, Roger shot past her. Tracy lunged to stop him, but too late. He bolted into the courtyard and around the side of the house.
    “I’m sorry,” Pryor said. “Do you want me to help you get him back inside?”
    “Easier said than done,” Tracy said. “I’ll get him in a bit. He doesn’t like the cold for long, and he’s a sucker for a can of food. Are you heading to work?”
    Pryor shook her head. “Finishing up, actually. We live over by the school. I didn’t realize you were this close.”
    Tracy had no idea what school Pryor was referring to. “You want to come in for a minute?”
    Pryor surprised Tracy when she accepted. “Maybe for a minute,” she said.
    Tracy shut the door, and they stepped inside.
    “I interrupted your dinner,” Pryor said, eyeing the cartons of Chinese food.
    “Have you eaten?”
    “I don’t want to impose.”
    “No imposition. I have more than I can eat, and I’d enjoy the company.”
    Tracy went to the kitchen and returned with two plates, another set of chopsticks, two glasses, and a bottle of wine. She poured Pryor a glass, and they sat scooping out rice and exchanging the cartons of orange chicken and garlic beef.
    “Do you always work at night?” Pryor said, looking at the laptop.
    “We’ve had a couple homicides.”
    “The two dancers over in North Seattle? Those are your cases?”
    “They’re mine.”
    “Is it the same guy?”
    Tracy sipped her wine. “Appears to be.”
    Pryor worked a piece of beef into her mouth. “Thanks for this.”
    “How’s your husband?”
    Pryor smiled. “Surprisingly okay. I’ve been to the range twice since we met.”
    “How are you shooting?”
    “Really well.” Pryor set down her chopsticks. She looked to have something on her mind. “Can I ask you something?”
    “Sure?”
    “It’s just you here?”
    “Me and the escape artist.”
    “Is it the job? I mean, is that why you’re not married? Working late? If this is too personal . . .”
    Tracy raised a hand. “It’s fine. I understand what you’re asking. My situation is a lot more complicated than that. I was married, briefly, and a long time ago, before I became a cop.” Tracy set down her chopsticks. “Look, I’m not a good role model, Katie. Twenty years ago if you’d asked me where I saw my life in five years, I would have said I would be married with two kids, living in a small town and teaching at the high school.”
    “What happened?”
    “Someone murdered my sister.”
    “I’m sorry,” Pryor said.
    “The thing is, her murder was why I became a cop. It isn’t why I’ve remained one.”
    “Why have you?”
    “I love what I do. I love the mental and the physical challenge, and I love to shoot, always have. The thing is, you can make all kinds of plans for your future and then stumble ass-backward into what you were meant to do. Do you like being a cop?”
    Pryor smiled. “I was a criminal justice major. I thought I’d become a prosecutor or a defense attorney.”
    “So what happened?”
    “I got married young, got pregnant, the housing market went in the toilet, and we needed the income.”
    “And now?”
    “I enjoy it. I do.”
    “But . . .”
    “I worry about the strain on my marriage and being away from my daughters at night. I’ve met a lot of divorced cops.”
    “How old are your daughters?”
    Pryor pulled out a photograph from her shirt pocket and handed it to her. “Four and two. This is how I take them to work with me every day.”
    The little girls, wearing matching floral dresses and black Mary Janes, had their arms around each other’s necks in a loving embrace. Tracy had a dozen photographs just like it, of herself and Sarah as young girls. The framed pictures had once adorned their family home in Cedar Grove but were now packed in one of the boxes in the garage. She handed back the photograph. “They’re beautiful.”
    “You have any advice?” Pryor