Page 14 of The Witness

“That smells amazing.” Quinn’s cheery voice had Michael and me jumping apart like the middle school principal had caught us necking.

I’d met the Smith Agency’s office manager earlier this morning when I stumbled out of my guest room looking for coffee. She’d been so freaking bubbly that pre-coffee me had almost punched her. She’d led me to the coffeemaker and introduced herself after my first sip of black gold.

“Michael brought me my knives.” It was a perfectly rational explanation for the hug. I was grateful. Nothing to blush about. Shit. I pressed a palm to my cheek. It felt maybe medium rare.Wow, this was embarrassing. Hopefully, they would assume the heat from the stove had caused the flush.

Quinn smiled at me and Michael like we were adorable. I bit my tongue to stop from explaining how my knives were like an extension of my hands. It would only make it worse. I’d come off as a full-on Edward Scissorhands type weirdo.

“You should see her house. It’s cute. And she has plants, live ones in pots. It’s amazing.” Michael told Quinn, glossing over the too long hug.

“Steel and I are serial plant murderers.” Quinn put a cell phone on the table and started getting out plates and silverware for four people.

“It’s purely selfish. I only keep mine alive so I can have fresh herbs.” I wanted to tell them it was Hailey that had the green thumb, but casually bringing up my dead daughter to near strangers freaked them out. They didn’t know how to act or what to say. I loved sharing stories and thoughts of her with others, but unfortunately, it often ended with everyone feeling uncomfortable, so I’d stopped. Hailey would hate me feeling awkward as part of her legacy.

Once she knew her diagnosis was terminal, her legacy became something we talked about often. Thus, I worked hard to preserve it the best way I could—living my life while not forgetting her.

The toast popped up, pulling me from my thoughts. “Butter or jam?”

Both answered butter, and the next few minutes were taken up with me serving the frittata I’d cobbled together from the leftover charcuterie board and crudité platter. The only interruption was the arrival and introduction of Simon. He was apparently the computer nerd for the company.

And for a guy that was skin and bones, Simon could put the food away. He ate more than Michael. I loved feeding people likehim. Ones that ate with gusto and appreciation. It was like his whole body was involved, his focus only on the plate and each perfect morsel he’d select and devour.

“Good?” I asked Simon when he pushed away his empty plate.

“Awesome. Can we have it again tomorrow?” Simon answered.

I chuckled. “Well, I used up most of the leftov—”

“What do you need? I’ll get a Publix delivery?” Simon had his thumbs poised over his phone to type a grocery list.

I looked from Michael to Quinn. “Is he serious?”

“Simon never jokes about food or the size of a CPU.” Quinn stood and started cleaning up as I gave Simon a list. Tomorrow, I’d change it up: gourmet breakfast sandwiches.

“Thanks for breakfast. I’ve got to get back to my computer.” Simon ducked his head, hunched his shoulders, and retreated from the break room, the nerd part of computer nerd on full display.

Steel picked up the phone Quinn had brought with her. “Is this the burner I asked you for?”

“Yep, nice and untraceable.” Quinn popped a dishwasher tab in the machine.

“Perfect,” Michael said.

I cocked my head to study him and the “burner phone.” I’d heard the phrase in movies, but I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen such a thing. It looked like any cheap cell phone to me. Seriously, this was a whole new world I was in.

Steel put the phone on the table in front of me. I looked at it askance.

“You need to call your brother and mom. We’ve got to fill them in.”

So this was the serious issue Michael had on his mind when he showed up in the break room. Breakfast only delayed the assignment.

“My mom, sure, she’s local, but Gary is kind of, um, a pain in the ass and lives in Tampa.” I loved my brother, but he wears on my last nerve. And this situation was one where he, as a police officer, would want to explain, in his professional opinion, the best course of action. He was the kind of cop that liked to give commuters speeding tickets during Monday morning rush hour.

“I hate to say it, but I don’t think you have many options.” Steel pointed to the muted TV where a PR photo of me from the Food Truck Fabulous website was on the screen. The label under it said, “Sabrina Dalton, reality TV show chef, a person of interest in the Oceanfront Diner shooting.”

“Shit. If Mom sees that, she’ll have a stroke.” I reached for the phone; Steel’s hand closed over mine before I could lift it off the table.

“I need to ask about one other thing first.” He pulled a framed photo from my duffle and put it on the table. “Who is she?”

I jerked back and stared at the picture of Hailey from my bookshelf. The silence grew in the room until it was uncomfortable. Quinn, feeling its weight, beat a hasty retreat with barely a backward glance, leaving me and Michael alone with the photo. So much for keeping Hailey’s legacy free of awkwardness.

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