In Too Deep

pleasure, as if it were a treasured housewarming gift or a valuable antique. The table and chairs and the heavy crockery had come from Marge. The secondhand sofa and the end table were courtesy of Violet and Patty. The Elvis lamps were a gift from Oliver and Fran Hitchcock, owners of the Scar.
    The only new furniture in the place was the bed. Everyone in town had witnessed its arrival. The big van bearing the logo of a discount mattress store had blocked the street for half an hour while the new mattress and box springs were unloaded.
    Fallon had watched the operation from the window of his office. Keen detective that he was, he had observed that the mattress was a traditional double. Unfortunately, that information was inconclusive. It did not tell him what he really wanted to know. Single people often used double beds.
    On the other hand, the size of the mattress could indicate that there was a man in Isabella’s life. If so, the guy had not yet put in an appearance. On the whole, though, the evidence appeared to indicate that Isabella was alone.
    Like me
, Fallon thought.
    The weariness was getting heavier, weighing him down. He had used a lot of energy to take down the killer. Energy was energy, and when you pulled on your reserves, you had to allow time to recover. But he knew that the soul-deep exhaustion that was sinking into him was more than just the result of having pushed his para-senses to the max. It was not the first time he had killed and it might not be the last but coming to terms with the psychic damage was not getting easier. He knew it never would.
    “More whiskey?” Isabella asked, coming toward him with the bottle.
    He looked down at the glass he cradled in his hands and was surprised to see that it was empty.
    “Yes,” he said. “Thanks.”
    She poured out another healthy measure and went back into the kitchenette, where she splashed a little more into her own glass. She knocked back the whiskey with a dashing air and promptly went into a small coughing spasm.
    He got up, crossed the room and thumped her lightly between the shoulder blades.
    “Thanks,” she managed. She took a deep breath. “Whew. Bad day at Black Rock.”
    “You okay?” he asked.
    “Yeah, sure. I’m a J&J agent. I can handle the whiskey.”
    “I’m surprised you keep a bottle around,” he said. “Thought women liked white wine and pink cocktail drinks.”
    “Shows how much you know.”
    “Yeah, it does, doesn’t it?”
    He looked at the bottle. It was nearly full. He’d heard her crack the seal earlier when she’d opened it and knew that his glass was the first she had poured from it. He wondered how she knew the brand he preferred, and then it dawned on him that she had probably seen the bottle he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk.
    What were the odds that she drank the same brand? he wondered. About zero, given all available evidence. That left one tantalizing possibility. She had purchased this particular bottle of whiskey with the express purpose of serving him a drink from it. Something inside him warmed at the thought.
    “Isabella.”
    “Hmm?” She looked at him with her wonderful eyes.
    “I think I’m going to kiss you,” he said.
    “Want some advice?”
    “Sure.”
    “Don’t think about it too much,” she said. “Just do it.”
    He set his glass down on the counter, took hers from her hand and put it down as well. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her.
    For an instant, she did not respond. A heartbeat later the atmosphere around them exploded with blazing energy. Isabella put her arms around his neck and kissed him back with a fierce, feminine hunger that set his senses on fire.
    She might as well have picked up a sledgehammer and used it to shatter the crystalline prison cell in which he had lived most of his adult life. He was suddenly free, wholly consumed by a fever unlike anything he had ever experienced.
    “Isabella.” He could barely shape the word. It was as if he were invoking magic. He framed her face in his hands, astonishment and wonder unfurling somewhere inside him.
“Isabella.”
    Her mysterious eyes widened briefly, as though she, too, was amazed by what was happening.
    “It’s okay,” she said. “I won’t break.”
    “I might.”
    She smiled again and kissed him just under his jaw.
    “No,” she said, sounding very certain. “You won’t. Nothing could break you, Fallon Jones.”
    He could not seem to find his breath. The hair on the back of his