The Truth About Comfort Cove

Before he was done, he was going to be so far inside Jack Colton’s skin, the man wouldn’t know where he ended and Ramsey began.

He reached his destination, parked, landed his table, ordered, opened his folder and pulled out his cell. Lucy had texted him. Because his body had responded as soon as he’d seen her name, he’d forced himself to wait to text her back.

You’re closing in, he typed in reply a couple of hours later and added, Call if you need me. He read what he’d written. Deleted the if you need me. Reread it. Then deleting, Call, typed, Good job. Read it one last time. Nodded. And hit Send. Nothing too personal.

She didn’t trust men in a personal sense. She trusted her fellow officers. Of which he was one.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A t ten minutes before midnight on Thursday night, Lucy’s phone chimed “Carol of the Bells”—her favorite Christmas song, and also her year-round ringtone for text messages.

There was only one person who might text her late at night. Everyone else she could think of who would contact her that late—and there were a number of them—would call.

There was really only one person who’d texted her at all since she’d purchased her new smartphone.

She’d set a police-badge icon as Ramsey’s contact ID. It appeared on her screen as she opened her messages.

Lucy set down the phone. She finished pouring the cup of tea she’d been in the process of preparing for herself to take into bed with her.

Other than his brief response to her text, she hadn’t heard from Ramsey in almost forty-eight hours—not since she’d dropped him off at the departures gate at the Cincinnati airport Wednesday morning.

She’d expected at least a text letting her know he’d arrived safely back in Comfort Cove. She’d have sent him one if their situations had been reversed and she’d been the one traveling.

Picking up her cup of newly prepared tea, she blew across the steam. The fact that he hadn’t called Wednesday night hadn’t bothered her. Much. She’d had a few things to share with him, but if he was busy, they could wait. He probably had a desk full of work to catch up on after being away for a few days.

Days he’d partially dedicated to her and her case. Her life.

But tonight, she’d really been hoping to speak with him. What would be in Wakerby’s box of goods?

And what news did Ramsey have on Jack Colton’s bank account? Had he been able to finagle a warrant to have a look at them?

And did he regret not having kissed her? Did he think of her as a woman at all?

Did he know that she was turned on by him? Was he avoiding her because of it?

Picking up her phone in her free hand, she took her cup of tea, intending to make it to her room before looking at the message he’d sent.

Intending to wait until morning to reply.

But she didn’t turn left at the hall to go to her room. She turned right—and ended up in the spare bedroom. The one Ramsey Miller had used. She hadn’t been down this way since he’d left. And shouldn’t be there now. Saturday morning, when she came in to get the used sheets and clean the bathroom would be the time to be in the room.

Standing in the doorway, she looked around, hoping for a trace of him, something he’d inadvertently left behind. When there was nothing readily discernible, she flipped on the light switch and moved farther into the room—peering over the end of the bed to the other side. No stray socks there. Or even so much as a scrap of paper. No dropped pen or lost tie.

He hadn’t left so much as a crease on the bed.

“Carol of the Bells” sounded a second time.

Telling herself that she really was sick, Lucy walked into the bathroom, to see if there was any trash in the small can beside the toilet. Had she imagined Ramsey there? Imagined that they were starting to become friends?

She was a top-notch investigator. She could find evidence of someone’s presence when they didn’t want to be found.

The trash can was empty.

Either the man flushed his dental floss or he took his trash home with him.

Coming back into the bedroom, she meant to turn off the light and head into her own room where her pillows were already fluffed, her blankets turned down and ready to welcome her for the few brief hours she had to rest.

She turned off the light, but she didn’t leave. Sitting on the bed, she smoothed her hands across the covers. She wouldn’t pull down the coverlet. Wouldn’t let herself sink so low as to lie on Ramsey Miller’s sheets.