Page 44 of Colton's Last Resort

He tried not to squirm. “Fine. One question.” Damn it, he could handleone question.

She took a minute to consider. Then she asked, “Tell me a secret.”

“A secret?”

“Something about you no one else knows,” she added.

He shook his head. “I don’t have any.”

“None?”

“No,” he said.

She looked pointedly at his tattoos. “Do you really expect me to believe that?”

“Sure.” He glanced at her. “How about you? What’re your secrets?”

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” she offered.

“This match is a draw,” he concluded. He pointed to the end of the street. “Turn left there. My condo’s on the right.”

She made the turn, then swung into the inclined drive. She leaned over the wheel to get a look at the white two-story. “This is you?”

He popped the handle and pushed the passenger door open. Dropping to the ground, he dug his keys from his pocket. “You don’t have to come in.”

Laura was already out of the vehicle. She walked around the hood, zipping the silver puffer to ward off the dropping temperature. “You don’t want me to come in?”

He’d been in her place, he thought. What did it matter if she saw the inside of his? “It won’t take but a moment.”

“I think I can handle that,” she said, on his heels as he followed the path to the front door. He’d dumped rocks into the garden beds so that only the heartiest of desert plants jutted up through them.

There were two dead bolts on the door. He unlocked them both and the knob before pushing it open. After scooping up the mail on the welcome mat, he tossed the keys on the entry table. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said, eyeing the return addresses. He set aside the bills for later and tossed the junk mail into the kitchen trash on the way to the bedroom.

He took down his old duffel from the top of the closet. Then he opened and closed the dresser drawers, selecting what he would need for a few days at the resort. He tossed his toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo and beard trimmer into a toiletry bag. It fit inside the duffel.

On his bedside table, he exchanged his everyday watch for his good one, flipping his wrist to fasten it. In a small ceramic dish, he saw the leather bracelet Allison had given him when he’d left for the navy to match her own.

The evil eye in the center of the braided cord stared at him, wide-eyed. It was blue—like Laura’s eyes.

He frowned as he scooped it up. Shoving it in his pocket, he knelt on the floor and opened the door on the front of the nightstand. His gun safe was built in. He spun the lock once to the left, then the right, left again. It released and he turned the handle to open the lead-lined door.

Inside, he palmed his off-duty pistol. It was smaller than his service weapon. Since his work at Mariposa was off the books, he couldn’t carry his city-issue.

He tucked the pistol in its holster before strapping it in place underneath his leather jacket. He picked the duffel up by the handle. Through the open closet door, he could see the black bag that held his suit.

Steinbeck hadn’t released Allison’s body. But that time would come. There would be a funeral.

Noah had to bury her. He drew his shoulders up tight, already hating the moment he would have to unzip that bag, don the godforsaken suit she’d helped him pick out for a fellow cop’s funeral years ago and stand over her coffin.

He pushed his fist against the closet door, closing it with a hard rap. Then he switched off the overhead light and walked out of the bedroom.

Laura stood in the center of the living room.

He followed her gaze to the large painting above the couch. Looking back at her, he raised his brow. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

She lifted her hand to the painting. “It’s Georgia O’Keeffe.”

“Is it?”

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