them.”
“Let me do it. I told you before, I know what’s what.”
“May we go home now, Delia?” Bert asked. He was eternally six. She’d grown up without him and it made her sad.
“Please, Mr. Wolverton.” She swallowed, keeping her eyes on Grant’s square jaw, keeping her gloved hands pressed firmly into her thighs. “Please let me clean out the shop.”
He ducked his head to catch her gaze, “What are you hiding, Delia?”
“Nothing!” she gasped, because he was within inches of her and a breath from the truth. If he knew what she had planned, he’d never let her near the statues—or Steward House—again.
“Right. Listen, if your father was dealing anything besides secondhand goods, you had better tell me now. We can call in Chief Benson and deal with the abatement properly.”
Delia struggled to keep the anger out of her voice. She had a job to do, and she could not risk him kicking her out of the shop. “There’s nothing to abate, Grant. I’m just trying to help.”
He smelled like everything a man should—and lavender soap. It should have been funny, but instead, it just made her want to press her nose into his neck.
“I need…” she whispered, then caught herself and made her voice louder. “I need something to do. ” A dark curl fell over his temple and she clenched her fist to keep from brushing it back. “I can’t spend every hour at the hospital. I need work. I need to keep busy.”
“How much do you want to be paid?”
“What? No!” She recoiled. This was her duty, her privilege. But he couldn’t know that.
“Why not? I’m paying the guys.”
Delia grew wary. He had a tone, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. “Thanks, but I’m fine for cash.”
He acknowledged the jab with a twitch of his lip. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Ralph and Travis will be here tomorrow with the truck and they’ll do whatever you tell them.” He scanned the room once more and added, “Let’s go.”
“I’ve got work to do.”
“No, you have to eat. Then we have to go see Chief Benson.”
“The case is closed.” Delia looked at his impassive face and sighed. “My father didn’t try to burn down Steward House.”
“Someone did. If not him, who?”
She flushed. “Well I didn’t do it! I was in D.C., which you damn well know.” She’d given up trying to hide her bitterness.
“Delia.” He took her by the shoulders. “I know you didn’t set the fire, but I intend to find out who did. If you know anything, it’s time to say so.”
She wrenched herself out of his grip and pushed past him to the back office.
“You’ll be back, won’t you?” Sophie’s plaintive question was at odds with her brazen posture. Grant was behind Delia now as she strode to the rear door, so she couldn’t even give the statues a reassuring wave.
But she’d be back. And she would keep her friends, old and new, out of the warehouses, which were as cold and dark as Grant’s own heart.
***
“Are you related to Chief Benson, too?” Grant growled two hours later as he pulled in beside her car in the lot behind the shop.
Delia leaned on her rattletrap, arms folded. Another dark curl fell loose from the short, sloppy ponytail at the nape of her neck. She looked exhausted. He’d offered her the room at Blossom’s Folly for a nap, for God’s sake, but she’d refused. He had to wonder why.
“Come on, Delia,” he said through the open window as he shut off the Lexus. “Is this some small-town-everybody’s-everybody’s-cousin thing?”
Her lips were pursed. She looked indignant and fearful, a dark kitten about to hiss.
Grant released his grip on the wheel and climbed out. The interview with Benson hadn’t gone well. Grant hadn’t been able to tune into the man, to read him, and Benson didn’t seem to be all there. He’d just kept repeating, “No motive, no witnesses and no reason to waste time.” Grant had stood in the still-smoking house. He’d smelled the gasoline. But
“Let me do it. I told you before, I know what’s what.”
“May we go home now, Delia?” Bert asked. He was eternally six. She’d grown up without him and it made her sad.
“Please, Mr. Wolverton.” She swallowed, keeping her eyes on Grant’s square jaw, keeping her gloved hands pressed firmly into her thighs. “Please let me clean out the shop.”
He ducked his head to catch her gaze, “What are you hiding, Delia?”
“Nothing!” she gasped, because he was within inches of her and a breath from the truth. If he knew what she had planned, he’d never let her near the statues—or Steward House—again.
“Right. Listen, if your father was dealing anything besides secondhand goods, you had better tell me now. We can call in Chief Benson and deal with the abatement properly.”
Delia struggled to keep the anger out of her voice. She had a job to do, and she could not risk him kicking her out of the shop. “There’s nothing to abate, Grant. I’m just trying to help.”
He smelled like everything a man should—and lavender soap. It should have been funny, but instead, it just made her want to press her nose into his neck.
“I need…” she whispered, then caught herself and made her voice louder. “I need something to do. ” A dark curl fell over his temple and she clenched her fist to keep from brushing it back. “I can’t spend every hour at the hospital. I need work. I need to keep busy.”
“How much do you want to be paid?”
“What? No!” She recoiled. This was her duty, her privilege. But he couldn’t know that.
“Why not? I’m paying the guys.”
Delia grew wary. He had a tone, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. “Thanks, but I’m fine for cash.”
He acknowledged the jab with a twitch of his lip. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Ralph and Travis will be here tomorrow with the truck and they’ll do whatever you tell them.” He scanned the room once more and added, “Let’s go.”
“I’ve got work to do.”
“No, you have to eat. Then we have to go see Chief Benson.”
“The case is closed.” Delia looked at his impassive face and sighed. “My father didn’t try to burn down Steward House.”
“Someone did. If not him, who?”
She flushed. “Well I didn’t do it! I was in D.C., which you damn well know.” She’d given up trying to hide her bitterness.
“Delia.” He took her by the shoulders. “I know you didn’t set the fire, but I intend to find out who did. If you know anything, it’s time to say so.”
She wrenched herself out of his grip and pushed past him to the back office.
“You’ll be back, won’t you?” Sophie’s plaintive question was at odds with her brazen posture. Grant was behind Delia now as she strode to the rear door, so she couldn’t even give the statues a reassuring wave.
But she’d be back. And she would keep her friends, old and new, out of the warehouses, which were as cold and dark as Grant’s own heart.
***
“Are you related to Chief Benson, too?” Grant growled two hours later as he pulled in beside her car in the lot behind the shop.
Delia leaned on her rattletrap, arms folded. Another dark curl fell loose from the short, sloppy ponytail at the nape of her neck. She looked exhausted. He’d offered her the room at Blossom’s Folly for a nap, for God’s sake, but she’d refused. He had to wonder why.
“Come on, Delia,” he said through the open window as he shut off the Lexus. “Is this some small-town-everybody’s-everybody’s-cousin thing?”
Her lips were pursed. She looked indignant and fearful, a dark kitten about to hiss.
Grant released his grip on the wheel and climbed out. The interview with Benson hadn’t gone well. Grant hadn’t been able to tune into the man, to read him, and Benson didn’t seem to be all there. He’d just kept repeating, “No motive, no witnesses and no reason to waste time.” Grant had stood in the still-smoking house. He’d smelled the gasoline. But
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