Page 12 of Almost Dead (The Cahills 2)

“I was looking for you. I called several times, but you didn’t answer. I knew you came here on Sunday nights, so I thought I’d surprise you.” For the first time since he’d shown up, there was a bite to his words, something more than just casual conversation.

“What was so all-fired important that you would interrupt my dinner with Gran?”

“Not interrupt,” he corrected. “Join.”

“Join?” She gave him a cool look.

His jaw clenched a little harder, and his intense eyes seemed to drill a hole right through her. “Because I was served today.”

Her stomach lurched. Of course. “The divorce papers.”

“Yeah. The divorce papers,” he said with more than a bit of acrimony. He shoved his damp hair out of his eyes, and a muscle began to work in the side of his jaw, just like it always did when he was angry.

She winced. “And you thought discussing it in front of Eugenia would be a good idea?”

“I don’t think anything about it is a good idea,” he said and reached for the handle of the door again. “I’ll talk to Paterno and see if I can get you out of here.”

“Jack, don’t do anything stupid.”

“Too late,” he muttered and got out of the car, slamming the door behind him and jogging up the path to the front door. She watched him through the windshield. He shouldn’t get involved. She shouldn’t have let him, and she should not be noticing the way his khakis hugged his butt as he ran. Damn it all, she’d always found him attractive, even now, when her grandmother was lying dead in the foyer. Sniffing loudly, she confided in her son, “Your mom’s a basket case.” She reached over and touched his nose. “Don’t tell anyone, okay? It’s our little secret.”

“Secret.” He nodded, then looked through the window. “Where Dad-dee go?”

“On an errand; he’ll be right back.”

“Right back.”

“Um-hmm.” She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the rearview mirror and cringed. The woman staring back at her was a mess. Layered, streaked hair flattened by the rain, the whites of her eyes bloodshot, her nose red, and, along with the streaking mascara, her makeup a mess, lip gloss long gone, skin splotchy from crying, and a damned zit or two. Crap. She looked like hell.

And Gran’s dead.

A lump filled her throat.

She just wanted to go home. And not with either Paterno, and his damned questions and suspicious eyes, or Jack, who had a way of worming himself deep into her heart. “Help me,” she muttered, leaning back against the seat and trying not to be irritated that Jack, true to his nature, had decided he had the right to talk to the police as if he were still a member of her family. Couldn’t he just go away? She’d already suffered one shock tonight and was still dealing with the thought that her grandmother was dead.

Dead!

Her eyes burned again.

So what was Jack doing here, acting as if he were some kind of knight in shining armor, showing up as if he cared one little whit about their family? What a joke! She would love nothing more than to believe for one little second that he actually loved her and that she could draw from his strength. That, of course, was an idle and supremely ridiculous thought.

Jack Holt was a lot of things, a tower of strength not being one. She didn’t dare make the mistake of trying to lean on him again. Cissy sniffed loudly then caught B.J. staring at her, his little face puckering. She forced back her tears. “Hey, little man, gonna eat that?” she asked, opening his fingers and retrieving the squashed piece of pizza. He shook his head, and she scraped the remains of cheese and marinara sauce from his plump fingers. “I don’t know about you, but I’d like to get outta here.”

“Go home!” Beej said as she wiped sauce from his cheeks, leaving a reddish stain around his mouth.

“You bet, big guy. As soon as we can.” She turned on the engine, forcing a little heat into the car. “As soon as we can.”

“The husband. At two o’clock,” Quinn warned, barely moving her lips. She and Paterno were in the foyer of the massive old house, both squatting next to Eugenia’s body. But Quinn had looked up and out the open front door.

Paterno also recognized Jack Holt, editor and owner of City Wise, a slick rag about San Francisco, bearing down on him.

Just what they needed. “What’s he doing here?”

“Who knows? The wife probably called him.”

“I’ll cut him off at the pass.” Straightening, his bad knee popping a bit, Paterno ambled to the door to block the entrance to the house. “Sorry, potential crime scene.”

“I get it. I’m Jack Holt, Cissy Cahill’s husband.”

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