Cast the First Stone (The True Lies of Rembrandt Stone 1)

I look away, but she touches my face. “I love you, Rem.”

Then she flicks off the light and leads me back up the stairs.

And in the silk of the night, she does her best to convince the past to set me free.

Chapter 3

I work from home. This is not the same as being a stay-at-home dad, although it can feel the same sometimes when I’m the only one around to bring Ashley’s forgotten lunch to school or show up in the carpool line to drive her home. I’ll even take her to the park, but I bring my iPad with me and spend some time catching up on my Star-Trib reading, (and maybe a little solitaire).

The mothers talk about me, sitting across the sandy pit at a picnic table, waving occasionally. I can’t hear them, but I know their words.

Poor man, doesn’t he have a job?

I do. I will. I refuse to be sucked into the temptation to drop into their laps one of my many garage-storage copies of The Last Year.

However, I admit to keeping a box in the trunk of my car. Just, in case.

They invite me over sometimes, and I’m nice, because, like I said, Eve doesn’t burn bridges.

I do. With a flourish, and plenty of gasoline and explosives.

Eve’s way might be better.

I’m not on playground—or even school drop off—duty today. Eve and Ashley are gone by the time I finish my run, 3.2 miles around Lake Calhoun. I brace my hands against the shower tile, letting the cool water sluice between my shoulder blades, trying to work it out.

He gave you his watch, Rem. When did you ever know John Booker to do anything by accident?

Eve’s right, I know it in my bones, and the question is a burr under my skin. Forgiveness? Maybe. But like I said, I’m not the one who needed forgiving.

So, something else then. While John had a little bit of cowboy in him, the kind of guy who, in earlier days might have shot first and asked questions later, he wasn’t vindictive.

Just, immovable.

One might say, stalwart.

I wish there was someone to ask—Burke, maybe, but he left shortly after we cut the cake yesterday, and it’s not like he’s going to disagree with Eve. He probably considers himself on that list of people I need to apologize to, except he knows me, so he’s not holding his breath.

We’ve managed to find a tenable peace, dodging the what-ifs in our weekly workouts and occasional go-arounds in the ring. We’re a fair match, but I see the satisfaction in his eye when he lands the occasionally bell-ringing shot. I look up at him from the mat and he’s fighting a smile.

Enjoy it, pal, because that’s all the apology you’re ever going to get.

The windows are open, the day bright and cheery as I go downstairs, neatly avoiding the office, for now, and head into the kitchen.

Eve has left me coffee and I fill my cup, grab a piece of cold bacon, soggy on a paper towel near the stove and am mentally checking off my to-do list on the re-staining of the baseboard in the dining room when my gaze lands on a scrap of paper on the counter.

A torn out yellow page. I walk over and see it’s the watch repair listings. Across the top, Eve has scribbled one word in a black sharpie. Go.

Maybe I’ll never know why John left me his watch, but something about the word etched in the back, along with Eve’s nudge has me latching onto the idea that this is my chance to find out, maybe lance the festering.

Not ask for forgiveness, let’s make that clear. But just to seal up the dark ache inside.

Besides, I can almost hear her. You’re an Inspector, Rem. Figure it out.

Was. Was an Inspector.

I pull up a Google map of the first place. It’s just a couple miles away in Uptown, so how long can it take?

Folding the listing, I shove the paper into my jeans pocket, stop by the office to grab the watch off the desk and head outside.