Part 5 (1/2)

He choked out the name. ”Natasha.” He grabbed her hand and she pulled away. With nothing to hold onto, Tim collapsed to the floor, sobbing.

Jamie looked down at her darkened hands. Devlin's blood. Natasha Devlin's blood was on her hands.

She gasped for air.

Natasha Devlin was dead.

Chapter 8.

Hailey Wyatt stood at the perimeter of her children's room and watched them sleep. Camilla was almost five, a head full of brown curls and the untamed personality to match. Ali was three, straight dark hair, an even temper, and a smile as bright and as quick as a bolt of lightning. Both had their mother's brown eyes. Camilla lay sideways in her bed, facedown. Curls covered her face. Ali was on her back, arms straight beside her. So different. Hailey leaned into the doorjamb, gripped her coffee cup. G.o.d, she loved them. Felt her heart expand like a balloon when she watched them. Especially asleep. No bickering, no whining. Just her sweet beauties.

It was nearly seven fifteen. She had woken at five. They'd be up soon. Thankfully for them, they had their father's sleeping genes. Hailey turned, walked into her bedroom. She pa.s.sed her husband still asleep in bed. A larger version of Ali. Calm, sweet, peaceful. She was the restless one.

In the bathroom, she swallowed the last of her coffee and set the cup on the white tile. She started the shower, glanced in the mirror. Let the robe slip off her shoulders and stepped into the steaming water. She could never pick one. No one would ever suggest it. She could love them both. Different but equal. Camilla for her cunning, Ali for her sensitivity.

Mothers weren't supposed to admit a preference for one child over the other but, of course, they felt them. For her, it depended on the day. How much energy she had to expend, how much time she needed for herself.

Camilla was more helpful, better at doing what was required of her. Typical of the first child. Planning for a family dinner or working around the house, Camilla trailed her like a shadow, asking how she could help. She would sit and fold clothes or set the table, wash lettuce for a salad, any little task Hailey asked. As long as she could sit beside her mother and talk. But she expected the attention in return. Demanded it. On days when Hailey wanted the world to float along peacefully, unruffled like a feather falling in gentle wind, Ali was easier. Frustratingly carefree at times when there were tasks to be done, Ali never demanded.

She let the water run down her back. Hoped the steam would clear her head. Shampooed, soaped. No one ever said you could love only one child. In moments, one might be easier than the other. So why did they say you could love only one man? Because Hailey Wyatt loved two.

Just then, the shower door clicked open. John stepped in, naked. He wrapped his arms around her waist. Kissed her neck. Groaned.

”You're up,” she said.

”Not by choice. Your phone rang.”

”Sorry.”

He tucked his face into her neck, held her from behind.

”The dinner go okay last night?”

He groaned again. Sounded like a yes.

”You answer my call?”

”Uh-uh.”

She turned around, kissed his cheek. ”I'd better go find out what's up.”

He pulled her close, held her, ran his palms across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Coddled them. ”How about a sick day?”

She smiled, relaxed against him. The water sprayed over their shoulders. ”Rain check?”

”It's not raining.”

She kissed his lips, softly. ”How about an early night tonight?”

He pressed back. ”Deal.”

She stepped out of the shower, toweled off, and put her robe back on. Her phone was on the bedside stand. It started to ring again before she reached it.

”Wyatt.”

Captain David Marshall's voice was as groggy as John's had been. ”Homicide at 850 Bryant.” The award ceremonies had gone long last night. She'd left long before they were over and when she left, Marshall had been holding a drink in his hand. Collar loosened, eyes a little narrow, the drink was brown liquor-Dewar's if she had to guess-on ice. It hadn't been his first and she was guessing from his voice that it wasn't his last either.

”Homicide at the station?” she repeated. ”Did dispatch call you?”

He didn't answer her question. ”They need you ASAP. Crime guys are already there.”

She glanced at the clock. ”It'll take an hour.” At least the CSU would secure the scene.

”As soon as you can.”

The line broke and Hailey frowned. Homicide worked in rotation. If her name was next, she got the next call, whatever it was. Normally, though, the call came from dispatch, not her captain. A homicide at the department. If it was an officer, he would have told her... wouldn't he?

She dressed quickly and when John emerged from the shower, she was nearly ready.

”You got one?”

She nodded.

He frowned but didn't speak. John didn't understand her job. She'd never wanted to do anything else. He'd known that when they dated. When they married. When they decided to have kids. It was reasonable that the job didn't make sense to him. Sometimes it didn't even make sense to her. Doing it just felt right. It wasn't reasonable for him to ask her to stop doing it. He rarely said anything that directly. Raised by a career politician, John was great at saying things that he could insist were innocent comments even when they both knew better. He had never suggested she quit her job but more and more, it felt like that was exactly what he was asking.

He crossed the room, stopped in front of her. He fingered a lock of hair, tucking it behind her ear. ”Early night, right?”

”Promise. Have the girls call when they're up.” She pocketed her phone and unlocked her holster and gun from the safe in their bedroom closet. She peeked in the girls' room one last time and was in the car by 7:40.

Traffic coming in on Highway 80 was already bad, so she used her lights to warn people aside. By the time she reached the bridge, she had a caravan on her tail, like racing cars trying to take advantage of the leader's tail wind.

Her phone rang again as she was crossing over Treasure Island.

”Wyatt.”

”Hey.” The voice she heard now had been up for hours.

”You already at the station?” she asked.

”Not much to do at my house alone.”

That was clearly a dig. ”Buck-”

”I know. Asked and answered.”

Buck never said anything he didn't mean. She switched lanes, pa.s.sed a slow-moving Mercedes.