Page 8 of Claimed by Him

Adare Burkart was nearly fifty but looked closer to forty. She kept her jet-black hair pulled back in a simple ponytail and didn’t even try to hide the streaks of silver. Of Middle Eastern ancestry, she had toffee-colored skin that never came close to burning in this high-altitude environment, unlike my own fair complexion.

My first assignment with her had been at the end of August, and I’d been tailing a man whose wife suspected was having an affair. Adare had warned me to use sunscreen, but I hadn’t listened. I’d had on a hat, so my face hadn’t been too bad, but by the end of the day, my arms had been painfully burned.

“You look tired,” she said as she studied me over the rim of her mug. “I know you’re not out partying until all hours, so what’s keeping you from getting a good night’s sleep?”

Adare lived in the apartment above the office, which meant she was my neighbor, but the buildings weren’t quite close enough for her to hear me if I woke myself up screaming. I considered that a good thing. She’d been really good about not asking questions, especially for a private investigator, but she didn’t let my desire for privacy keep her from checking on how I was doing.

“I haven’t slept well the past couple nights,” I admitted but didn’t comment on the dark circles under her eyes and how sleep must be evading her too.

“Anything you want to talk about?”

Usually, when she asked that question, I said no, and we moved on, but today, I had something I could share. It wasn’t the reason for last night’s nightmare, but I knew it was the reason I’d been run-down in general the past few days. Besides, she deserved to know something about my past that went deeper than the surface.

“Three years ago, this past Friday, my uncle was murdered.”

Adare’s eyes widened, and I saw horror mixing with the sympathy in her eyes. She didn’t say anything though, letting me get through it at my own pace, revealing only what I wanted.

“Anton was an environmental lawyer in New York City, and we were close. October of my sophomore year at Columbia, a former client who wasn’t happy with the way his case turned out showed up outside the courthouse. Gunshot to the heart. He bled out on the courthouse steps. The guy tried to kill himself too, but a cop stopped him. They got a full confession, and he’s serving a life sentence, but it didn’t change the fact that my uncle is gone.”

After a moment of silence, Adare spoke, “I had a cousin who was killed in a hit and run when we were kids. They caught the woman the next street over when she ran her car up onto the sidewalk and into a lamppost. Her blood alcohol was three times the legal limit, and she’d lost her license for drunk driving three weeks before. She was convicted and sent to jail, but it didn’t bring back my cousin.”

She didn’t explain why she shared the story, but I didn’t need her to. I understood it completely. Just because we’d gotten justice, closure even, didn’t make the hurt or anger any less. In a way that we wouldn’t have wished on anyone, we understood each other.

Another few seconds passed before she broke the silence again, this time bringing attention back to work. “I’ve got an assignment for you.”

I managed a partial smile. A distraction sounded good right about now.

---