Stolen Daughters (Detective Amanda Steele)

“One day. Just trust me, Amanda.” His use of her first name was reassuring and comforting.

“I do, and I appreciate the heads-up on her plans. Thank you.” She stood, and her phone chimed notice of a new email. She opened it, saw the attachment, and read the subject: 911 Recording—532 Bill Drive, House Fire. She held up her phone. “Got the recording.”

“Good. Keep me posted on the case.”

“Will do.”

Amanda headed back to her desk, no longer interested in what was left of her coffee, and tossed it into the first garbage can she passed. All she was in the mood for was to strangle the life out of the lieutenant. Who the hell did that woman think she was, and did she really expect that Amanda would go down without a fight? Her mind catapulted her to a future in which she knocked Hill from the position of police chief. Just imagining that day brought a smile to Amanda’s face. Maybe Hill’s promotion was exactly the motivation that Amanda needed to pursue the appointment for herself.

Six

It had taken a while for his heart to calm down. Detective Amanda Steele had been right there. He’d held the door for her! He’d seen her briefly at the scene of the fire, but he had left before anyone had a chance to question him.

He knew about her accomplishments in cleaning up the county. She would understand him. She worked with a badge, he on his own terms. But still. Kindred spirits.

He tapped his foot under the table. Jittery from the two coffees he’d downed in the last half hour or because of the murder? He was terrified by how quickly the fire had been put out and wondered if the body had been sufficiently destroyed. He’d seen it hauled out of the house but hadn’t gotten a good look. He tried to set his doubts aside and bask in what he’d done.

He lifted his cup, now topped up with a third refill, and his hand shook the entire way to his mouth.

“Can I get ya something to eat, love?”

Coffee sloshed over the rim and onto the table. He set his mug down with a thud and looked into the eyes of the older woman. She was far too generous in dishing out sentiments such as sweetheart, dearie, and love to everyone who came into the place. She also kept coming around and checking on him, and it was driving him crazy.

“I’m good.” He glanced away from her. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation, and she was standing there like her legs were anchored t

o the floor. He raised his cup again, his hand shaking.

“Maybe I should cut you off.” She smiled at him, but it chafed.

He took a sip and hissed, “I’m fine.”

She narrowed her eyes and pointed a finger toward the table, drawing his eyes down to the pool of coffee. “You sure don’t look like you are.”

“Just leave me alone.” He looked away from her now, placing his gaze across the diner, his focus on nothing. He needed her to go away, or he couldn’t be to blame for what he might do. The rage was building inside of him to a boil.

“You got a problem with me, you leave. This is my diner.” She crossed her arms, and the motion hoisted her bosom.

He made eye contact and attempted to soften his expression. “No problem, ma’am.” He wanted to flash a smile, but his lips wouldn’t move. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want to be calling the cops.” Her eyes narrowed as she seemed to study him, trying to place him, but she wouldn’t recognize him after all this time. He hadn’t been into this place for many years.

Someone came in the door, and she padded off to see to them.

Finally, some peace and quiet!

He grabbed his phone off the table—thankfully, it was outside the spill zone—and brought up the internet app to see if any news of the fire had hit the worldwide web.

And… Nothing?

Not one word about the fire. Not even on the wagging tongues of the townspeople entering the diner. It was like the fire had never happened.

Again, he was invisible. He and the girl, but he didn’t feel sorry for her. She didn’t deserve the attention like he did.

She had lived her life oblivious to others and their feelings. A selfish heart who deserved no better than to be punished. Yet, in the final moments, he had shown mercy. Why, he still wasn’t sure. A testament to his character, The Merciful?

She had begged for life, release, redemption—all three? He had delivered them all.

He pinched his eyes shut and felt the warmth of a tear on his cheek. He swiped it away and looked at his wet fingertips. After all these years, he finally felt complete and on track, making a difference, no longer flitting about meaninglessly.