Love Can Be Murder

something to prove—then and now.
    Roxann bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, attributing her bout of self-doubt to the heat and to the newspaper article and to being fired. What she needed was time to think. She pointed Goldie in the direction of the Y. Maybe a cathartic run on the track would help her work through the mess that had become her life while she was otherwise occupied.
    In college, her plans had seemed so simple and so right. Devote her time to a worthwhile cause, make enough money to get by, share her life with a righteous man...then again, in college, there had been Carl.
    Dr. Carl Seger, professor of theology. She hadn't seen him since graduation, but over the years his face had had a way of floating into her mind when she needed to remember that goodness did exist. He was uppermost in her mind because he'd left a message on her machine a few weeks ago—a shock. Her foolish heart had fluttered, then zoomed back to earth when he explained in a businesslike voice that he was calling because her name had come up during an alumni board discussion about this year's recipient of the Distinguished Alumni Award. But they didn't want to draw undue attention to her if it would somehow compromise the program or her anonymity. Then his voice had changed—he had his own selfish reasons for wanting her to come back to the Notre Dame campus to accept the award during Homecoming week. He...missed her.
    She'd left the message on her recorder for days and replayed it, oh, about two dozen times. But in the end, she hadn't returned the call—as much as she yearned to see him again, she couldn't very well do it under the guise of accepting an award that she didn't deserve, even if she was only one of two people who knew why.
    Dr. Carl...a renaissance man. Handsome. Wise. Noble. And in the end, his nobility meant they couldn't be together. Deep down she knew she'd always measured the men in her life and, to some extent, her own behavior, up to Carl, the moral compass. And suddenly, sadly, she remembered— Carl was her "type."
    She offered polite nods to familiar faces as she walked through the gym, but stopped short of engaging in conversation. With her mobile lifestyle, she usually didn't go out of her way to form friendships—girlfriends were complicated, and goodbyes were messy. A blast of laughter from a corner of the bustling locker room caught her attention—smiling women with normal lives, normal loves. How enviable.
    She'd sacrificed so many everyday trappings that other people took for granted, although she'd never missed those mundane attachments. Until lately. Swathed in a fog of rising panic, Roxann changed into running gear. Where had the last ten years gone, and what did she have to show for them? A twenty-page resume, a gas-guzzling van, and a few dozen acquaintances scattered to the ends of the map.
    She hit the footpath at a fast jog, sucking in fresh air, then exhaling forcefully. A quarter of a mile flew by quickly, then a half mile. The comforting thunk, thunk of her running shoes hitting the packed dirt lulled her into a more peaceful place, where women and children didn't have to be rescued from abusive spouses, where fathers and daughters cherished each other, where families lived intact and happily ever after.
    "So, what are you going to do now?"
    At first she thought she'd spoken aloud to herself. Then she jerked her head around to see Detective Capistrano jogging calmly behind her, still wearing his stained pants.
    Roxann bit back a groan. This day did not appear to be improving anytime soon.

Chapter Two

    WITHOUT BREAKING STRIDE , Roxann looked back to the running path. "Did you come to apologize for getting me fired, Detective?"
    He caught up with her in two strides and fell into a lazy jog. "Apologize? I'm the one who got the lap full of hot coffee." His eye contact was fleeting, his tone dismissive. "I ought to arrest you for assaulting a police officer. That's a federal offense, you know."
    "You're not limping, so you must be okay."
    He almost smiled. "Still, I'm going to let you make it up to me by answering a few questions."
    "I told you, I don't know the woman you asked about."
    "Think hard—Melissa Cape. Blond, back side of forty, daughter named Renita."
    She dug in deeper for more speed—she would at least make him work for it. "No, sorry. What did this woman do?"
    He had no trouble matching her pace, even in his ridiculous boots. "She disappeared."
    "Disappearing isn't