Free In Search of Eden by Linda Nichols

the trigger does not need to be pulled back to fire. However, the sound the daring investigative reporter might hear is the release of the safety catch. Would that work? Keep me posted. Uncle Joe.
    She was a bright spot in his life, which was funny, since he had been determined not to love her.
    From the time she was small, David and Sarah had let her come every summer to visit his mother. He had managed to avoid her for the first five years of her life except for pats on the head and brief drooly encounters. He remembered the day that had all changed. Eden had been five years old.
    â€œYou’re baby-sitting,” his mother had announced, leading his niece into his office. “I have a hair appointment I can’t miss, and this is just plain silly.” She gave him a glare that said, “Don’t you dare ask what I’m talking about.” With that, she had left.
    Joseph had sighed and sized up his adversary. About forty-two inches tall, with no tattoos or visible markings except the brown freckles dusting her nose. Dark hair cut in a bowl shape with crooked bangs. “She won’t hold still! It’s like wrestling an alligator!” Maisy at the Beehive had complained to his mother. She was small and quick—too quick, it had been alleged. She was prone to running off. She had small hands with chipping red fingernailpolish, at that moment planted on her hips. She was wearing rolled-up jeans, the cuffs showing the red plaid lining. A red plaid flannel shirt, a gun belt complete with two western pistols, and a cowboy hat.
    â€œThese shoes ain’t right,” she’d said, looking with disgust at her pink tennis shoes.
    â€œNo. I can see that,” he had agreed.
    In the end he had taken the small hand and led her down the block to Larry’s Western Shop. There just happened to be a pair of size ten Tony Lama boots, black with black stitching, just like his. They had been fast friends ever since.
    She had come to the office every day after that. She drank Dr. Pepper out of a chipped white coffee mug on which he wrote her name with black permanent marker. He put her to work separating Wanted posters from crime reports and shrugged off his mother’s objections.
    â€œShe can’t read the gruesome stuff,” he said. “Besides, it keeps her busy.”
    They had lunch together every day at the Hasty Taste. Elna knew to bring Eden a grilled cheese sandwich and chocolate milk, and after that she spent the afternoon at the office. He returned her to his mother’s for supper. They had done it every summer for six years now. The visits had gotten longer, too, from a few weeks to a month or two.
    He got a kick out of her.
    Now, at eleven, she was still feisty and funny and not afraid of anything. Her hair was still short with crooked bangs. She had a cowlick that never lay straight. She still had the freckles and so far had disdained covering them up with makeup. She was still prone to running off.
    She sent her stories off to True Crime and Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. They always came back with printed rejections, which she cheerfully threw away. She seemed immune to discouragement.
    He barely remembered whose child she was, and when hedid, he put it out of his mind. She was his buddy. That was all. Besides, you couldn’t blame the child for the sins of the father. Or the mother.
    The doorbell rang. He started guiltily. The door opened and he saw Eden, followed by a woman and another girl. She ran for him and threw her arms around his waist. He smoothed her hair, nearly covering her head with his hand. He realized again how very small she was. Introductions were brief. He barely listened. Murmurs of condolence were made, and the friends left.
    When the door closed behind them, Eden pushed herself away and glared at him with a defiant expression, a poor cover for the fear he could see in her eyes.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” she said. “Nobody will