illusions that Sykes would waste time investigating anyone else. She was the only person, with the possible exception of Lucy, who was in a dicey position, who wouldn't readily accept that Gary was guilty. So the responsibility lay with her to prove them all wrong, Chapman and the police.
She needed a plan, and fast. Planning was her forte—she'd built an entire career around her organizational skills. It was time to put those talents to good use outside the corporate boardroom.
She sighed, turning away from the window and heading for the bathroom. Getting the smell of smoke out of her hair and off her skin would be a first step toward feeling up to facing the day. The quick shower she'd taken last night before falling into bed hadn't even made a dent. So first, a long, hot shower. Then caffeine. She definitely needed lots of caffeine.
#
A half hour later, Kaz stood in her cheery turn-of-the-century kitchen, watching the coffee drip with excruciating slowness into a glass carafe while she listened to the sounds of the house waking up around her—the ancient furnace in the basement kicking on with a thump , the whoosh of air through the cast iron heating grates, the creak of the walls and floors as the wooden structure warmed up.
She'd missed the old place. It represented home to her in a way that her condo in Stinson Beach never would. Her great grandfather had built the Mission-style cottage for his young bride in the early 1900's, handling all the finish carpentry himself. The house wasn't luxurious by anyone's standards, but its high ceilings, built-in, glass-fronted cabinets, and mahogany crown moldings made her condo seem cold and sterile by comparison.
Each of the rooms of the Astoria house held decades of memories, images of times when the family had still been together. Good memories, memories to cherish. In the last decade, she'd led a full and productive life down in San Francisco, but she'd been too focused on building her consulting business, and she'd let her relationships with family and friends suffer. Maybe she could be happier here than she'd been down south…no, that was crazy. It was insane to think moving home permanently would fill that empty place deep down inside her. Wasn't it?
There was a loud pounding at the back door, jolting her out of her thoughts. She jumped a foot.
Michael Chapman stood on the other side of the glass, his gaze watchful. Zeke stood on his hind legs beside Chapman, both paws on the window ledge, looking in. The dog grinned, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. Chapman wasn't nearly so cheerful, but neither did he look as ghoulish as he had in her nightmare.
Rubbing damp hands against her jeans, she walked over and flipped the lock. Zeke pushed against her leg, wagging his tail, and she leaned down to let him sniff her hand. "Don't you two have a home of your own to go to?" she asked Chapman. It was the first time she'd said something out loud since she'd awakened, and the words came out raspy. Obviously, the abuse her throat had gotten the night before hadn't helped her vocal chords.
"I went home after I left you for a change of clothes." Chapman handed her the morning paper that she had yet to retrieve off the lawn and sniffed the air appreciatively. "You going to share some of that coffee?"
His Bostonian accent was stronger this morning than it had been last night, and he looked as tired as she felt—he probably hadn't gotten any sleep at all. Although she didn't need the diversion of having him underfoot, she simply didn't have it in her to refuse him the coffee. As far as she was concerned, coffee was one of the major food groups and should be featured prominently in international human rights laws. She pointed to a chair and then opened a cupboard door to retrieve a second mug.
He sat down at her oak pedestal table, slouching comfortably, his long, jeans-clad legs stretched out in front of him. His hair was damp and casually disheveled—he'd evidently
She needed a plan, and fast. Planning was her forte—she'd built an entire career around her organizational skills. It was time to put those talents to good use outside the corporate boardroom.
She sighed, turning away from the window and heading for the bathroom. Getting the smell of smoke out of her hair and off her skin would be a first step toward feeling up to facing the day. The quick shower she'd taken last night before falling into bed hadn't even made a dent. So first, a long, hot shower. Then caffeine. She definitely needed lots of caffeine.
#
A half hour later, Kaz stood in her cheery turn-of-the-century kitchen, watching the coffee drip with excruciating slowness into a glass carafe while she listened to the sounds of the house waking up around her—the ancient furnace in the basement kicking on with a thump , the whoosh of air through the cast iron heating grates, the creak of the walls and floors as the wooden structure warmed up.
She'd missed the old place. It represented home to her in a way that her condo in Stinson Beach never would. Her great grandfather had built the Mission-style cottage for his young bride in the early 1900's, handling all the finish carpentry himself. The house wasn't luxurious by anyone's standards, but its high ceilings, built-in, glass-fronted cabinets, and mahogany crown moldings made her condo seem cold and sterile by comparison.
Each of the rooms of the Astoria house held decades of memories, images of times when the family had still been together. Good memories, memories to cherish. In the last decade, she'd led a full and productive life down in San Francisco, but she'd been too focused on building her consulting business, and she'd let her relationships with family and friends suffer. Maybe she could be happier here than she'd been down south…no, that was crazy. It was insane to think moving home permanently would fill that empty place deep down inside her. Wasn't it?
There was a loud pounding at the back door, jolting her out of her thoughts. She jumped a foot.
Michael Chapman stood on the other side of the glass, his gaze watchful. Zeke stood on his hind legs beside Chapman, both paws on the window ledge, looking in. The dog grinned, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. Chapman wasn't nearly so cheerful, but neither did he look as ghoulish as he had in her nightmare.
Rubbing damp hands against her jeans, she walked over and flipped the lock. Zeke pushed against her leg, wagging his tail, and she leaned down to let him sniff her hand. "Don't you two have a home of your own to go to?" she asked Chapman. It was the first time she'd said something out loud since she'd awakened, and the words came out raspy. Obviously, the abuse her throat had gotten the night before hadn't helped her vocal chords.
"I went home after I left you for a change of clothes." Chapman handed her the morning paper that she had yet to retrieve off the lawn and sniffed the air appreciatively. "You going to share some of that coffee?"
His Bostonian accent was stronger this morning than it had been last night, and he looked as tired as she felt—he probably hadn't gotten any sleep at all. Although she didn't need the diversion of having him underfoot, she simply didn't have it in her to refuse him the coffee. As far as she was concerned, coffee was one of the major food groups and should be featured prominently in international human rights laws. She pointed to a chair and then opened a cupboard door to retrieve a second mug.
He sat down at her oak pedestal table, slouching comfortably, his long, jeans-clad legs stretched out in front of him. His hair was damp and casually disheveled—he'd evidently
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