18
The dream of leaving for the mountains in four hours turned out as mythical to us as Bigfoot, who preferred to go by Sasquatch, was to humans. The paperwork took forever, so did the repetitive questioning, and I was glad to sign a lengthy statement if it meant returning to my hotel room to check on Colby, who I had been forced to leave alone with the grimoire. Even with exacting Bureau formalities observed, I doubted we had heard the end of this, given our last two cases had involved rogue agents who hadn’t survived to speak for themselves. Those were the reasons we gave for deciding to leave for Samford in the morning.
Rather than the coffee shop down the street, which participated in a local farm-to-table program.
Thick-cut pepper-crusted bacon, free-range eggs, and creamy chèvre were calling my name. All served on flaky croissants baked each morning, with a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice or a mug of hot coffee.
Clay had been in real danger of licking the screen as we skimmed the menu, and I wasn’t far behind him.
That was how we spent our night, just like the good ol’ days, plotting our route home via food stops.
That was after Colby and Asa fell asleep on the couch watching Pacific Rim on the boys’ side of the hall.
Left to our own insomniac devices, Clay and I retreated to the girls’ side to binge his all-time favorite—The French Chef. The last episode was going off when Colby zipped through the door, Asa on her heels.
“Good morning.” Asa slid his fingers through my hair. “I see you two entertained each other last night.”
The way he scratched my scalp with his blunt nails had me ready to purr for him.
“We watched ten hours of Julia Child,” I said, sinking into his touch, “in preparation for breakfast.”
“Oh, oh, oh.” Colby landed on my shoulder. “Can I get a shot of salted caramel syrup when we stop?”
With her looking on, the pleasant warmth pooling low in my belly froze hard enough to skate on.
“Sure thing.” I scratched her back. “Play your cards right, and I might even get you cinnamon sugar too.”
We had a long drive ahead of us, so it wasn’t spoiling her to pick up her version of a to-go meal.
Much.
A sign if there ever was one that I shouldn’t be a parent. I was so happy when we made up after a spat, I had a bad habit of smoothing things over by indulging her more than usual. I know, I know, but that was more reason why I was auntie material.
I was all about the instant gratification. Not the long-term repercussions.
Huh.
Framed like that, the big picture of how I dealt with problems in my life came into focus more than I would have liked to admit. Like blocking calls from a man who would simply appear one day if I didn’t answer him within an allotted amount of time.
Most everything was already packed and ready to go from the night before. All we had left to do was load the SUV, pile in, and head home sweet home. And then hope against hope Nolan wasn’t about to face justice, Black Hat style.
* * *
We rolledinto Samford under the cover of darkness, which worked for what I had planned.
It was late enough I shouldn’t have to worry about Mrs. Gleason until the morning. None of the lights were on in her house, and her rocker sat empty. Since she wasn’t on patrol, our butts ought to be safe.
Asa parked off the main road, and the three of us ghosted up the driveway, as stealthy as possible.
Colby, in hairbow mode, quivered against my scalp. “Do you smell that?”
The guys inhaled but shook their heads. I didn’t bother. If they couldn’t pick it up, I didn’t have a hope.
“What you got, Shorty?” Clay kept his eyes on the trees nearest the house. “And is it dangerous?”
“Sugar,” she breathed. “Lots of it.”
Leave it to a moth to ferret out the sweet stuff.