Page 143 of Deep Tide

“For keeping me in the loop.”

“I wish I had better news,” Sean said. “And I’m sorry that after all your work on this thing, your perp will never see the inside of a prison cell.”

“Well... if he was a cop working for Saledo, then in my book he got what he deserved.”

CHAPTER

TWENTY-NINE

Three weeks later

As hard as she’d expected it to be after Sean left, it was worse.

Leyla threw herself into work, partly to keep from dwelling on the shock of what had happened. And partly to distract herself from the bleak emptiness she felt now that Sean was back to his job and his life in D.C.

Working helped—at least as far as being a distraction. She immersed herself in the chaos of her busy kitchen. But nothing would dull the pain she felt every time she thought about him. Each night, as the minutes crawled by and she found herself tossing and turning and unable to sleep, her thoughts would inevitably slide backward, and she would relive every hour they’d spent together, every touch and every conversation, in vivid detail. She’d even relived their arguments—that was how much she missed him. And morning after morning, she’d drag herself out of bed feeling tired and emotionally depleted. And then she’d face another day of work, wondering—obsessing—over whether tonight would be a night they would exchange text messages or maybe even a phone call.

The past three weeks had been miserable. But Leyla was dealing.

Except for days like today, when nothing went right, and she hadn’t had so much as a text from Sean in more than forty-eight hours.

Leyla pulled a baking sheet from the oven and dropped it on the counter.

“Crap!”

Rogelio stepped into the kitchen. Setting a tray of focaccia bread on the counter, he looked at her failed macarons and lifted an eyebrow. “It’s raining, chiquita. What’d you expect?”

She surveyed the cracked pink shells as he walked out of the room. Tears burned her eyes. Which was so stupid! Since when did she cry over pastries? But it had been one thing after another today. First, she’d overslept and been late to work. Then she’d somehow lost an order for a kid’s birthday and had to scramble to substitute two dozen dino-themed cupcakes with two dozen mix-and-match. And then, just when she’d finished comping the order and apologizing to the huffy mom, her own mom had walked into the store. Ostensibly, her mother was there for a panini, but her real mission was to encourage Leyla to make an appointment with a therapist to deal with the PTSD that Leyla was supposedly in denial about.

Leyla had made the appointment, mostly to placate her mother. But now she had a therapy session looming on her calendar, and just the thought of talking about everything she was feeling right now made her stomach hurt.

She opened the oven and yanked out another tray of cracked macaron shells.

“Fuck!”

“Leyla?”

She glanced up to see Miranda standing in the doorway. Her sister-in-law’s hair was damp, and she wore a wet blue windbreaker.

“Oh, damn. We were supposed to meet, weren’t we?”

Miranda smiled. “It’s three-ten, so I figured you forgot.” She held up a lemonade. “I got a drink already.”

“I’m so sorry.” Leyla set the baking sheet on the counter. “It’s been one of those insane days.”

“No problem.” Miranda leaned back against the counter and glanced at the two trays of pink shells. “Wow, those are...” She seemed to be struggling for something nice to say.

“Hideous. I know. Fucking weatherman.”

Miranda looked at her. “What does the weatherman have to do with it?”

“This storm front was supposed to come tomorrow, not today.” She tossed her oven mitt onto the counter and sighed. “The moisture in the air makes them crack.”

“Oh.” Miranda frowned at the trays. “It there any way to salvage them?”

“No.” Leyla glanced at the oven timer. “Maybe my lemon ones will turn out. Who knows? It all depends on the fickle pastry gods.” She looked at Miranda and forced a smile. “So. How have you been?”

“Great.” Miranda sipped her drink, watching Leyla over the top of her cup. “How about you?”

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