Free Yours, Mine, and Ours by MaryJanice Davidson Page A

extra syrup.
    “Vomit vomit vomit,” Cathie commented.
    “Do I critique your meals?”
    “All the time. So, hey. Listen.” She rested her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her hands. “Why’d you stand my brother up?”
    That was a strange question, and it must have shown on my face because she added, “I don’t mean just you. I meant all of you. None of you showed up.”
    “Wait. Patrick wasn’t with my body last night?”
    “It really skeeves me out when you put it that way.” She shuddered. “And no. He called last night to see if you were at my place, but no soap.”
    “Oh, fudge nuts! Gah, I can’t believe it!” I ran my hands through my hair. “Oh, boy, that’s—wait. Shiro went out to dinner. I assumed with him. But then who was she hanging around with all night?”
    “What, like I know?” She pulled out some of the Handi Wipes she always had in her purse, picked up the salt shaker, and thoroughly wiped it down. Then the pepper shaker. “Did you have to go nab a serial killer or something?”
    “I wish.” Oh boy, that would have been soooo great. “Huh. That’s … okay, but there was a doggy bag. I doubt they’d hand those out at a crime scene.” (And gross! Imagine if they did.)
    “Those poor kids. How many murders have—you know what? Don’t even tell me; it’ll wreck my whole morning. And isn’t that weird? All those dead boys scattered like dice all over the country … How has it been kept out of the national news?”
    “I have no idea. That’s Michaela’s job.” And she was really, really good at it. It helped that nearly every reporter she ever met was terrified of her. “Mine is to catch that rotten fish-smelling bum.”
    “When? When are you going to learn how to swear properly?”
    “That was proper,” I protested. I could be a badass when I wanted. Well. A bad butt.
    “Proper?” A voice from behind us. I turned and looked. “Must be Cadence, talking about proper.” Yes! Patrick.
    I patted the seat beside me and couldn’t resist: “I know we’ve talked about this before, but you numskulls really need to not wear shorts in December.” Cathie had that in common with him! I figured they had hardy knees immune to frostbite. Was it an Irish thing?
    “Please. It’s almost thirty degrees out there. Tank-top weather.” Patrick slid in next to me. “So where were all of you last night?”
    “I’m really sorry. I assumed Shiro had been out with you, y’know, because of the leftovers from the restaurant, so I didn’t even bother to call. Girlfriend-wise, I suck.”
    “Girlfriend-wise, not hardly. So Shiro ate out? In the middle of a big case like yours?”
    “She was with someone, I just have no idea who. Like I said, I assumed it was you.”
    “And I assumed you were arresting a scumbag, hence your lack of presence on our date. Look how wrong we both were. What a tragedy.”
    “‘Lack of presence’?” Cathie asked, red eyebrows arching. “Who talks like you do? I mean, without medication.”
    If you looked at Cathie and Patrick side by side, you never would have thought they were siblings. Okay, she had coppery hair and his was a much darker, deeper red, but in all other ways they were dissimilar. He was tall; she was teeny. He was muscular, she was slender. He was a baker/entrepreneur, she was an artist.
    There was also a ten-year age gap. Cathie hadn’t seen much of her big brother growing up. They didn’t know each other at all, even after all this time.
    He’d flattered me by insinuating he was moving back to Minnesota to pursue a relationship with me/us, but I’d known that was only part of the reason. (No, Shiro didn’t have to tell me; I figured it out on my own.) He wanted to get to know his sister better. Their parents were in a nursing home, their brains slowly disintegrating from Alzheimer’s. Patrick and Cathie only had each other.
    I could relate.
    “This is none of my business,” Cathie began. That was her code for “I