had promised, on top of a small desk weâd found on one of our rare joint hunts. I stood at the foot of the stairs leading to the master suite weâd created from two small bedrooms and a bath best termed a water closet.
Donât do it, Pepper.
I did it. What can I say? Iâd sweated blood and tears over that project. My fingers trailed the smooth pine rail as I climbed, remembering the terror on Tagâs face when an old storm window shattered in my hands and the shared relief as we realized I wasnât badly hurt, despite the blood spatter.
Heâd swapped the double wedding ring quilt weâd been given for shirting striped linens and a navy comforter that went surprisingly well with the red-and-blue Persian rug and the unpainted fir floor. Tag did have a sense of style, despite his pokes at mine, but I sensed his motherâs hand.
The closet door stood open. An icy spasm gripped my gullet. After Iâd found him and the âparking enforcement officerâ plugging each otherâs meters, half a dozen signs of trouble had fallen into place. Including the time Iâd picked up the cleaningâusually his taskâand noticed shirts I didnât recall him wearing.
My breath snagged in my throat as I realized I was standing in my ex-husbandâs bedroom searching for signs of Another Woman.
You left him, Pepper. For good reason, yes, but you left.
Heâs entitled to move on.
Maybe he was dating and I was the Other Woman.
That I didnât know shouldnât matter, but it did. Meaningâwhat?
Meaning it was time to go.
I gave up the plan to cut peonies in the backyardâthe garden wasnât mine anymore, eitherâand dashed outside.
âGood boy.â I grabbed Arfâs leash, and we trotted to the curb. I opened the driverâs door, and he hopped in. For a small guyâabout twenty inches at the shoulderâheâs a heck of a jumper.
A few blocks away, I stopped for a light, my heart still in high gear.
What were you doing, Pepper?
What had I expectedâbooby traps for intruders? But that wasnât the kind of danger Iâd faced.
The danger of my own uncertain heart.
A movement at the bus stop caught my attention. A slender black kid grooving to his earbuds. Noânot a kid. One of the line cooks from the First Avenue Café. Tariq something. Weâd met when Iâd dropped off Spice Shop deliveries, and a time or two when Iâd joined Alex and the staff for family meal.
I waved. He frowned, trying to place me, and approached, tugging one bud free.
âTariq, right?â I said at the same moment he said, âYouâre Posh. No, Pepper. Thatâs it.â
Alex had dubbed me âPosh Spiceâ when he heard I grew up on Capitol Hill. No matter that my family were neither the landed old school nor the moneyed new aristocracy, but part of the hippie invasion forty years ago.
âHop in. Iâll give you a lift downtown.â
Arf jumped into the backseat, Tariq slid in, his pack in his lap, and the light changed. A car honked, and I shifted gears. Urban ballet.
âYou work the line, right? Meat side?â
âYes, maâam. Started in the Eastside joint, moved over here a year ago when Alex shuffled kitchen staff.â His torso rocked back and forth as he spoke. âOriginal paint?â At my look of surprise, he added, âI like cars.â
âIâm sorry about Tamara,â I said. âMust be rough on all of you.â
Tariq stopped rocking and snapped his head toward me. âYou found her.â
My hands tightened reflexively on the wheel and my jaw pinched as I turned onto Highway 99, aka Aurora Avenue, and merged into the zooming midday traffic. âMm-hmm.â
âSucks,â he said, sitting back and gazing forward. âShe was going places.â
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