Page 110 of Breaking Silence

“Relieved,” Tomasetti says.

“Seems like a genuinely nice guy,” Rasmussen puts in.

Tomasetti all but rolls his eyes. “Maybe he really is rehabilitated and we’re a bunch of cynical assholes.”

“Speak for yourself.” Rasmussen chuckles.

I smile, too, but I’m distracted, thinking about the case, about the kids, Salome and the baby.… “Any idea how the rifle got into Coulter’s closet?” I ask.

“Salome denied any knowledge,” Rasmussen tells me.

Tomasetti grimaces. “But she and Mose knew Coulter had done some work for their father. It’s common knowledge he’s an ex-con. All those kids had to do was plant it in Coulter’s house, and suddenly we have a suspect.”

McNarie hustles over to the table holding a tray containing two Killian’s Irish Red, two shot glasses—and a lone highball glass. A pack of Marlboro Lights peeks out of the top of his apron pocket.

I see Tomasetti eyeing the glass, wondering. “What are you drinking tonight, Chief?”

“Just tonic.”

He looks up at McNarie. “I’ll have the same,” Tomasetti says. “I’m driving. Kate’s on the wagon. And the sheriff was just leaving.”

Across from me, Rasmussen arches a brow, and I know he just connected the dots, made the link between me and Tomasetti. McNarie doesn’t even look surprised. His eyes skate to mine. I give him a minute nod, and he carries the tray back to the bar.

Noisily, Rasmussen clears his throat. “I just remembered I have something to do.”

“You sure you won’t stay for a drink?” Tomasetti asks.

“You asshole.” Grinning, the sheriff slides out of the booth.

Tomasetti rises and the two men shake hands. “Agent Tomasetti, it was a pleasure meeting you. Can’t thank you enough for your help.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” he says, and I wonder if Rasmussen knows he’s referring to me.

The sheriff glances my way, and I think I see a smile in his eyes as he turns and heads toward the door.

Tomasetti settles in across from me. “You think he got the message?”

“Hmmm, I don’t know. You were pretty subtle.”

We grin at each other across the table. I know he’s leaving tonight. And even though he’s so close that I can reach out and touch him, I already feel him slipping away. Already I miss him.

“How are you?” he asks after a moment.

“I’m okay.”

McNarie interrupts, setting two icy highball glasses on the table between us. When the barkeep leaves, Tomasetti says, “I’ve got to be back in Cleveland tomorrow morning.”

“I know.” My heart beats a little too fast. “I wish you could stay.”

“Me, too.”

We sip our tonic and listen to an old Chris Isaak song. Tomasetti breaks the silence. “If you’re not okay, I won’t leave. I’ll find a way to stay.”

Before realizing I’m going to do it, I reach across the table and set my hand over his. I meet his gaze. “I’m okay. I mean it.” Sighing, I add, “This was just a really sad case.”

“Salome played us all.” He shrugs. “We should have seen it coming.”

That makes me feel better, because he has the best instincts of anyone I know. “Sometimes the most difficult things to see are the ones right in front of us.”