Page 6 of A Very Happy Easter

“And it eats you up inside when you can’t help.”

“I’m here at a party; Jazzi could be lying crumpled in a heap somewhere. How is that fair?”

“Don’t think of it as yin and yang. And don’t beat yourself up—you shouldn’t have to suffer to make Jazzi happy. You should both be happy.”

I cracked a sad smile. “Be more yang?”

Heath smiled back at me, and my heart skipped in a way I hadn’t felt for years. Thirteen years, to be precise.

“Be more yang.”

He studied me for a long moment, but not in a skeevy way. He wasn’t undressing me with those soft brown eyes. No, it felt more as if he was sizing me up, trying to get inside my head. The effect was unsettling.

Finally, he asked, “What information do you keep on your callers?”

“As much as they want to give us. For some, only their phone numbers. For others who we’re assisting in practical ways, such as finding them accommodation, we might have their name, address, phone number, details of their income and family, available transport options, that sort of thing.”

“How much do you know about Jazzi?”

“Almost nothing. Just her name and phone number, and the fact that she has a southern accent.”

“If you’re concerned for her safety, I could try pinging her phone.”

“You could? Is that even legal?”

“Not entirely.”

“So that’s a no?”

“We sometimes bend a few rules when unsavoury characters are involved.”

Jazzi wasn’t an unsavoury character, but her husband undoubtedly was. Even so, an invasion of privacy didn’t sit well with me. While I could see how pinging a phone might be a valid option with criminals, I’d sworn to protect these women, not stalk them.

“I’m not sure I can cross that line.”

“Understandable. Not easy, that job of yours.”

“But unfortunately, it’s oh-so necessary.”

Once again, Heath moved towards the marquee. “Want me to tell your mum you’re out here?”

“Hell no.”

“Want me to make up a story so she doesn’t call out search and rescue?”

“What story would you use?”

“I could tell her you felt unwell and went to lie down in the house.”

“You don’t know my mama very well at all. If she thought I was sick, she’d be there in a heartbeat with a variety of over-the-counter medications and possibly a doctor.”

“What if I told her you were just tired?”

“That might work, but then I’d get a lecture on burning the candle at both ends and a reminder to take my vitamins. You know what? I’ll just come back inside. Would you do me a favour?”

“Sure.”

“You’re not even going to ask me what it is first?”

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