Page 22 of Walking the Edge

She opened and closed her mouth before shrugging. “I wouldn’t want to presume.”

“Take a guess.” He unrolled the woven mats, accidentally brushing his burn, and flinched. Did he have a blister now?

She caught him looking at the heel of his hand. “Did you burn yourself?”

Her blue eyes softened. For a split second, Mitch slipped into free fall. The earth spiraled away as if sucked into a black hole. He floated in that direction, too, rescued from annihilation only when she dropped her gaze to his hand. “Let me get some ice.”

“It’s too late. It happened hours ago. As you well know.” The skin hadn’t blistered, and his hand would survive.

“You never know.” She dumped a tray of ice cubes in a bowl and wrapped some in a clean towel. “You should at least try. Unless you live for pain?”

“Not the last time I checked.” He took the ice-filled towel. The cool sensation instantly quenched the burning. “This is good. Thanks. Go look around and see what’s missing from the house. I’ll watch the stove.”

“Why?” She refilled the ice tray from the faucet. “We don’t even have a description of the burglar.”

“I can give one.”

She slid the tray inside the freezer and closed the door. “How would you describe him?”

“Stocky, about five feet ten or six feet. Muscled, but quick.”

She made a picture frame with her fingers. “That police sketch is going to be a bit hazy without a face.”

“I couldn’t see his face. It was too dark.”

“I rest my case.”

Because she’d won. He pursed his lips. They had little to go on, but why did she protest so much? He cupped a hand under the ice pack to keep from dripping on the floor. “Not many burglars carry guns.”

“You’d be surprised who carries a gun in this city.” She stirred the pasta.

“Why do you?”

She shrugged. “I have my reasons.”

Why couldn’t she give him a straight answer? He should leave, spaghetti dinner be damned. Except a gut instinct told him she knew something important. If she were involved in anything illegal with her brother, she would want a gun, for sure. Was that the reason she lugged one around? “You need a license to carry.”

“You’re assuming I don’t have one?”

Time to call her bluff. “Do you?”

“You want to see it?” She took a step toward the beaded curtain.

What difference did it make if she possessed the gun legally? She could still be up to her eyeballs in her brother’s crimes. “I’ll take your word for it. How’s the spaghetti doing? Should we make a taste test?”

She clunked a second ice tray on the counter and filled a dry towel, twisting the long ends closed and holding out the bundle. “Leave the leaking towel. Take this one and go sit on the couch while I finish. Dinner will be ready shortly.”

She didn’t demand he leave this instant. That counted as progress. He exchanged ice packs and left, moving behind the coffee table to the couch. A survey of the room turned up nothing new. He needed to find something to inform his investigation or send him in a new direction.

His boot crunched something into the rug. He inspected a shattered clay pipe and set the ice pack on the glass-topped table. One of the throw pillows belched stuffing. He set that on the table and removed the seat cushions. Nothing under them but lint. He tossed the second pillow back onto the couch.

The rattle of the colander in the metal sink came from the kitchen, and his pulse jumped. Keep searching. There’s got to be something.

He set the floor lamp upright. Something bright flickered between the couch and the wall. He squatted and pulled out a black backpack with shiny zipper tabs.

Laptop. Three textbooks. A class schedule. An energy bar and a small metal container nestled inside a side pocket. He dropped the pack and unscrewed the cannister.

Beads clinked in the doorway. Cath’s lovely alto broke into his conscious. “You want water or beer?”

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