The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection by Frost, J (great novels .txt) 📕

parties. Viagra, sometimes. Oxy when he overdid it on the golf course. Pot to relax, things like that.”

That’s a lot, at least in my book. No wonder her lawyer advised her against this interview. I’m not a lawyer, but I’m pretty sure she just scuttled her whole case against the cruise line by admitting her husband used drugs.

“How often?” I ask with a shrug, keeping it light and casual.

“Not often. He didn’t have a problem or anything.”

Not sure I agree. “So, once a week? Once a month?”

“A couple of times a month maybe. Weed more often if he was having a tough week.”

I nod as though what she’s said is inconsequential. “Did he ever have an adverse reaction to anything?”

“No. He got the munchies from weed. Peanut butter was his thing.” She smiles sadly. “He’d go through a whole jar of peanut butter after a joint.”

Taking advantage of this woman’s grief twists the knots in my guts tighter; I give her a minute before I ask, “Did he have someone he bought from regularly?”

“A dealer?” She glares at me. “No, of course not. He got the prescriptions from his doctor. Everything else was casual.”

Which tells me Mr. Black was not adverse to buying illegal drugs from a stranger. Something I’m very sure Mrs. Black’s lawyers would not want her telling me. Something she wouldn’t tell me if she was thinking instead of mourning. Enough. I’ve gotten what I need.

“Mrs. Black, this has been very helpful. Thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me.”

She sits back and works her mouth for a moment, as though she’s just realized the things coming out of it were not what she intended to say. Her eyes harden and I have to ball my hands into fists to keep from grabbing her and putting her over my knee.

This is the moment, the moment of wounded defiance, the moment right before tears, that brings all my instincts rushing to the fore. Now, right now, is when she needs discipline the most. Just like my little sister, with her crazed headlong rush into adulthood. I wanted to grab her, pin her down, and spank her until everything held still. I needed to hold her in the moment until she gained enough perspective to see all the things she was doing wrong. All the things that threatened her safety. I need to hold Mrs. Black in that moment, too. To break through the wall she’s putting up and let her grief pour out.

Instead, I have to let her erect that wall, plate it with steel, while my balls twitch and my palms sweat. She’ll never be vulnerable around me again. Maybe not around any man again. And I have to sit, and watch, and when she rises with a sneer of derision, let her go.

After I close the door behind her, I check my watch. Emily will be on the way to the airport by now. Maybe even there, if the traffic isn’t bad. She’ll be checking her bags, starting the plod through security. I don’t want to distract her from the important business of making her flight, but I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to talk to my bottom more. All I need is to hear her voice for five minutes.

But that’s a selfish-bastard thing to do, particularly when she’s going through the inconvenience and irritation of a trans-continental flight for me. If her phone goes off in security, they might confiscate it.

Instead, I dial my sister, Lizbeth, and when it goes to voicemail, Miranda. It’s evening her time. She should be up no matter what shift she’s on.

She picks up on the second ring. “Darling, how are you?”

I squeeze my eyes closed. I hate when she calls me that. I didn’t like it when we were together, and I hate it now that we aren’t.

“Tough day,” I tell her, opening my eyes and pacing to the suite’s huge picture window. I take in the panoramic view of the city. There’s so much twisting inside me, it’s hard to take any pleasure in the scenery, but it gives me something to look at. “I had to interview a widow.”

“Oh, my poor darling. I know how much those upset you.”

“Yeah.” This was stupid. Her sympathy feels false and sickly. I should make an excuse and hang up.

“Tell me all about it,” Mir coos.

“There’s nothing to tell.” There’s a lot to tell, but none of it is going to be to her. “It just reminded me that life’s short. Carpe diem, you know. How’s everything? How’s the baby?”

“She’s wonderful. Did you get the ultrasound I emailed you?”

I didn’t see the ultrasound, because I’ve stopped opening Mir’s emails. This call’s reminding me why. “That’s great. Have you decided on a name yet? Jennifer still the top contender?”

“No, silly darling. That was last month. Now it’s Augustine.”

I hate that name. Mir has her fucking pretentious moments, and this is one of them. “I’m still rooting for Trudy. That’s a name you don’t hear much anymore.”

Mir gives a delicate snort of derision. It tightens my gut almost as much as Reggie Black’s parting sneer. “I’m very fond of Augustine. Such a classic name. But we’ll see. I’ll probably go through a dozen more before September.”

“Sure, okay, well—”

“Logan, don’t be glib,” she says quietly. I know that tone. She’s about to cut my balls out from under me. “You called because you’re hurting. I know how much you open yourself up when you interview victims. You make yourself vulnerable to take in their pain. You’ve told me so. Talk to me.”

“It’s nothing.” A lie, when I promised not to lie to her. But she broke that promise long before I did. “I just hadn’t checked up on you in a while. I had a quiet hour, so I thought I’d call.”

“You had a quiet hour? You never have a quiet hour. Where are you? Are you in Europe? Can I meet you somewhere? I can still fly.”

“No.” I’m almost as far