wouldnât be as noticeable from the street.
He walked down the steps and down a small gravel pathway that curved around the house. There. There was something. He crouched, shining the beam of his flashlight into the flower garden between the walkway and the house. The light gleamed off the print of what looked like a manâs work boot in the mud, as if someone had misstepped off the pathway.
It wasnât much to go on. It hadnât rained hard that day, so for all he knew, it could have been left earlier by a meter reader or Bob Jimenez, her landlord. But it was all he could see in the dark.
A careful look around the small house revealed little else, other than the interesting tidbit that Sarah McKenzie appeared to be an avid gardener, judging by all the upturned earth around the house.
She must spend every spare second she wasnât teaching outside with her hands in the dirt. The thought of the quiet, skittish schoolteacher pouring her heart and soul into creating beauty around her touched him in ways he couldnât explain.
He didnât know too many renters who would put such care and effort into beautifying a house they didnât own. Hell, he could barely manage to keep the grass mowed in the summertime around the place heâd bought after he made chief.
But Sarah was a nurturer. Plants, children, whatever.
Would she go for neat, ordered gardens, he wondered, where no flower would dare touch the next andall were arranged in some precise pattern according to shade, color or height?
Or would she prefer wild jumbles of color? Frenzied splotches of yellows and reds and purples growing every which way?
It seemed logical to assume a quiet schoolteacher would prefer a prim and proper garden. But some instinct told him that in a month or so the yard around her house would burst with lush, unrestrained beauty.
He had a feeling that for all her subdued reticence, there were hidden depths to Sarah that fairly begged to be discovered.
But not by him. Heâd leave any exploring of Sarah McKenzieâs deeper passions to some other man.
Some better man.
A guy who could give her happily-ever-after, a white picket fence and all the flowers and children she could ask for.
Why should that thought depress him so much?
It was none of his business. She was none of his business, other than one of the citizens of Salt River he was sworn to protect.
Keeping that firmly in mind, he forced his attention back to the investigation and finished walking the perimeter of her house. When he finished, he rapped hard on her door. She opened immediately, almost as if sheâd been standing just inside watching and waiting for him.
She could tell instantly by the regretful look in his eyes that he hadnât found anything substantial.
Had she imagined the whole thing? Had she been having another of those damn flashbacks again and somehow merged nightmare with reality?
She must have been. What other explanation could there be? She had been seeing things.
Anger at herself and an awful, painful embarrassment warred within her. After this and the way sheâd freaked out the other day on her back porch, he probably thought she was the most ridiculous, paranoid schoolmarm who ever lived.
She had a fierce, painfully futile wish that Jesse Harte could have known her Before.
When she had been fun and adventurous and whole. When she drew people to her just like an ice-cream shop does on a warm summer day.
When she never saw strangers lurking in the shadows or panicked if a man touched her or had bouts where she stood in the shower for hours, scrubbing and scrubbing but somehow never coming clean.
âYou didnât find anything,â she said, a statement not a question.
âA bootprint in the mud. Other than that, nothing.â
âIâm sorry.â She clasped her hands together tightly, wishing sheâd never called the police, wishing a different officer had responded, wishing she could
He walked down the steps and down a small gravel pathway that curved around the house. There. There was something. He crouched, shining the beam of his flashlight into the flower garden between the walkway and the house. The light gleamed off the print of what looked like a manâs work boot in the mud, as if someone had misstepped off the pathway.
It wasnât much to go on. It hadnât rained hard that day, so for all he knew, it could have been left earlier by a meter reader or Bob Jimenez, her landlord. But it was all he could see in the dark.
A careful look around the small house revealed little else, other than the interesting tidbit that Sarah McKenzie appeared to be an avid gardener, judging by all the upturned earth around the house.
She must spend every spare second she wasnât teaching outside with her hands in the dirt. The thought of the quiet, skittish schoolteacher pouring her heart and soul into creating beauty around her touched him in ways he couldnât explain.
He didnât know too many renters who would put such care and effort into beautifying a house they didnât own. Hell, he could barely manage to keep the grass mowed in the summertime around the place heâd bought after he made chief.
But Sarah was a nurturer. Plants, children, whatever.
Would she go for neat, ordered gardens, he wondered, where no flower would dare touch the next andall were arranged in some precise pattern according to shade, color or height?
Or would she prefer wild jumbles of color? Frenzied splotches of yellows and reds and purples growing every which way?
It seemed logical to assume a quiet schoolteacher would prefer a prim and proper garden. But some instinct told him that in a month or so the yard around her house would burst with lush, unrestrained beauty.
He had a feeling that for all her subdued reticence, there were hidden depths to Sarah that fairly begged to be discovered.
But not by him. Heâd leave any exploring of Sarah McKenzieâs deeper passions to some other man.
Some better man.
A guy who could give her happily-ever-after, a white picket fence and all the flowers and children she could ask for.
Why should that thought depress him so much?
It was none of his business. She was none of his business, other than one of the citizens of Salt River he was sworn to protect.
Keeping that firmly in mind, he forced his attention back to the investigation and finished walking the perimeter of her house. When he finished, he rapped hard on her door. She opened immediately, almost as if sheâd been standing just inside watching and waiting for him.
She could tell instantly by the regretful look in his eyes that he hadnât found anything substantial.
Had she imagined the whole thing? Had she been having another of those damn flashbacks again and somehow merged nightmare with reality?
She must have been. What other explanation could there be? She had been seeing things.
Anger at herself and an awful, painful embarrassment warred within her. After this and the way sheâd freaked out the other day on her back porch, he probably thought she was the most ridiculous, paranoid schoolmarm who ever lived.
She had a fierce, painfully futile wish that Jesse Harte could have known her Before.
When she had been fun and adventurous and whole. When she drew people to her just like an ice-cream shop does on a warm summer day.
When she never saw strangers lurking in the shadows or panicked if a man touched her or had bouts where she stood in the shower for hours, scrubbing and scrubbing but somehow never coming clean.
âYou didnât find anything,â she said, a statement not a question.
âA bootprint in the mud. Other than that, nothing.â
âIâm sorry.â She clasped her hands together tightly, wishing sheâd never called the police, wishing a different officer had responded, wishing she could
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