Free Dead Spaces: The Big Uneasy 2.0 by Pauline Baird Jones Page B

bled through into their now. For so long they’d kept it at bay by not talking or thinking about it. By simply living. But perhaps it was time to face their past. Deal with it. Even as the thought formed, her heart rebelled. Just a little more time. Just keep the world at bay a tiny bit longer.
    Thirty years was not long enough.
    She studied his face, noting faint signs of lingering worry. “So tell me about this ghost.”
----
    T he brick was where it had been left, sitting on the window ledge. Such an ordinary thing to cause such a stir. Sometimes the universe delivered to those who were ready to receive.
    Not visible were the two rings and—bonus—the papers. Two rings down. One to go. Was the last old man afraid? He should be.
    What was that saying about some being great and some having greatness thrust upon them? And then there were those—those select few—who were great and clever enough to take it from those who didn’t deserve it.
    Speaking of which…
    The list was not in the open, but secured in a drawer with a lock. Harold might not understand it, so she hid it, but now she extracted it.
    Such a pleasure to put a line through Bettino Calvino’s name.
    The question mark next to Nell Whitby’s name would remain, clarity still elusive as to her status as useful or not.
    A new name was added to the bottom, though really, it encompassed a family.
    Baker. Would they be a problem? The enemy of my enemy should be a friend, but the Bakers were loyal to the law first, and then each other. Could that be used? Further reflection required, before stirring things up.
    A sigh slid out breaking the silence.
    This could be done. It would be done. But it was annoying. Why make the timeline so tight? It felt like she’d been setup to fail. Again. Her lips tightened as she remembered all the years, all the women’s clubs, the slow rise through the leadership dealing with all those bitter, clueless cats and witches, and then—well, they hadn’t appreciated her. Hadn’t deserved her time and attention. She was meant to lead. To be on top. But she did hate the rushing. It was so messy.
    A stray beam of light highlighted some dust that must be rubbed away from the sill. A metaphor perhaps? That order—the order of her life as it was meant to be—could be restored? Would be restored. Must be restored.
    A final swipe and the sill gleamed. All clean. Just like that.
----
    “ I t’s frustrating ,” Hannah said.
    Ferris glanced at her across the top of her car. He arched his brows because he didn’t know which particular part of the huge ball of frustrating she meant.
    She hit the unlock and waited until they were both inside—and the car turned on so that the A/C could begin trying to cool stifling to bearable. She stared straight ahead for several seconds, then looked at him.
    “Do you ever get a sense of pace when you’re working a case? Like a clock ticking in your head?”
    “All the time.” He considered this one, letting the facts—few as they were—slide into the background. A cop did many things by instinct, followed clues, questioned suspects, asked questions. But yeah, the pace had been fast for one short day—and for such an old, cold case. Just a few hours really, since the coffins had been opened. He glanced at his watch. Three, maybe four. His thoughts jumped over lunch and the kiss. Couldn’t afford the distraction. Needed mental clarity around Hannah, which was ironic because she tended to shut that down.
    It was interesting that she felt the clock ticking, considering that she worked with the dead. The not moving. He didn’t mention it though. The part of a crime puzzle that concerned her did have urgency, so that his side would have the facts they needed for the hunt. They were a team, even if a disconnected one at times.
    “What are you,” he hesitated, “sensing?”
    She made a face. “I’m not sure.” She rubbed her face, fiddled with the temperature knob, even though it was maxed out.