Free Murder Is Our Mascot by Tracy D. Comstock Page B

they shared an awkward hug. Emily never raised her eyes from his chest, but instead, she turned and darted out the door with a hastily called "thanks again" over her shoulder.
     
    * * *
     
    All the way home, Emily kicked herself for the way she had fumbled the good-bye at Tad's. What was wrong with her? She was a grown woman, not a hormone-addled teenager with a crush. They were working together, and that was it. At least that's what she told herself as she let herself into her duplex, but she knew what an awful liar she was.
    Even though it was late, Emily picked up the phone to spill her guts to Gabby, hoping for some sympathy. Instead, Greg answered, explaining that Gabby was busy rocking one of the girls who had woken up with a cough. Hearing how down she sounded, Greg offered to help, but Emily assured him that it was nothing but a silly girl problem and she would be fine. He reluctantly let her go, reminding her that all she had to do was call.
    She settled for Bunny Tracks ice cream and old Friends reruns as her comfort instead. Yes, she had just had cheesecake, but she had to go to the gym tomorrow anyway, right? A commercial for an online dating service came on, and Emily briefly wondered if she should try something like that. It might be harder to embarrass herself over the Internet. Nah, with her track record, she could still mange it. Emily snuggled in the soft, maroon-and-navy throw blanket her mom had made her during her freshman year of high school, feeling sorry for herself. She changed the channel and came across a late-night marathon of Golden Girls reruns. Emily was chortling along with Dorothy, her favorite character, at one of Rose's silly stories, when it hit her—the Golden Girls were Helen's bedtime ritual. Emily often heard the theme song muffled through their joint walls when she was going to bed at night. The laugh died in her throat, and she stabbed the off button on the remote. Where could Helen be? Was she okay? Was she tied up in this mess of Jim's murder? And if so, how?
    Since she had no answers, she could only pray that the morning would help to shed some light on these questions. Tossing the empty ice cream container in the trash, Emily shuffled down the hall to try and get some sleep. So what if she dragged her throw blanket to bed with her for comfort? No one was there to be the wiser.

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    After a restless night, punctuated by disturbing dreams combining Helen, the Golden Girls , and Jim, Emily finally fell into a sound sleep ten minutes before her alarm was set to go off. Emily slapped the offending clock hard enough to send it crashing to the floor and skittering under her bed. Pulling the covers over her head, Emily contemplated calling in sick to school. Mornings were number one on her list of "most hated things," so add to that the awkwardness she was sure to face with Tad, and the amount of sweets she had consumed last night with the looming dreaded trip to the gym, and she had the perfect recipe for a reason not to go to work. However, her desire to dig further into Jim Layton's past and help clear Helen's name was strong enough to propel her out of bed. Although the bags under her eyes were large enough to carry her papers to school in and dark enough to make her look like she'd gone a round with Mike Tyson, Emily was consoled by the new pair of gray suede ankle boots she finally had a chance to wear today. If there was a reason to get out of bed, for Emily, it was to wear a new pair of shoes.
    Twenty minutes later, Emily stomped down the hallway toward her classroom, her boots making sharp staccato taps on the aged tile. She managed only to unlock her door and flip on the light before Tad stuck his head in the room. Emily immediately felt her face suffuse with heat, but in the quick glance she cast at his face, she was secretly delighted to see that his eyes looked as tired as hers. Not knowing how to break the silence, she merely shuffled papers around,