Slow Hands

Maddy’s broad desk, sniffing slightly at the messy files strewn across it. Her big sister liked the money that came from the bank their great-grandfather had founded several decades ago. She just didn’t particularly like the stench of work that came along with it.
    Sometimes Maddy wondered if one of them had been adopted. Or found on a doorstep. They had so little in common with each other, physically as well as everything else.
    In personality, she was told she was a lot like her mother, Jason Turner’s second wife, who’d died when Maddy was four. Supposedly, though he never spoke of her, Jason had mourned her greatly. Which could explain why her sister always harassed Maddy about being their father’s favorite.
    Maybe it was just that they had more in common. Aside from looking more like Jason than Tabby did, Maddy was also blessed with his quick mind, one fascinated by banking and finance. She also had the work ethic to run the business that had been in the family for generations.
    That didn’t mean Tabitha hadn’t gotten something from their father, too—his fickleness. Maddy seemed to be the only Turner who didn’t fall in and out of love as frequently as the networks changed their Friday night lineup.
    “We have to do something.”
    “About what?”
    “About the little cheater, that’s what!”
    Maddy sighed, lowered her pen, and leaned back in her chair. “But she hasn’t cheated yet, has she?”
    “No…and we’re going to make damn sure she doesn’t.”
    Frankly, her sister’s attitude came as a surprise. Considering how strongly Tabitha disliked their father’s new wife, Maddy would have figured Tabitha would want Deborah to cheat, and get caught . Her father would tolerate a lot when it came to his wives—spending money, demanding attention and throwing tantrums. But he would never tolerate being cheated on. As a few of his former loves could certainly attest. Tabitha’s mother included.
    “I’m surprised you haven’t hired a detective to follow her and get the goods yourself.”
    Tabitha frowned, shifting her pretty blue eyes away to study her perfectly manicured nails.
    “You have? Jesus, Tabby…”
    “Look, it was stupid, and I changed my mind almost right away. I don’t want to catch the bitch cheating.”
    “You don’t?”
    Her sister finally lifted her eyes, and in them was a hint of genuineness, an emotion Tabitha didn’t often let the world see, but which Maddy knew lurked beneath her sister’s polished, shiny, brittle surface. “He loves her, Mad. Really loves her and she makes him so happy. It’s like he’s twenty years younger.” She swallowed, murmuring, “I don’t want him hurt. Again. ”
    Wow. That stunned her. So much that she couldn’t reply for a minute. Because while she completely understood the sentiment—and felt the same way—she wouldn’t have expected it of Tabitha.
    Then she remembered the one area where she and her sister were absolutely, one hundred percent alike: in their love for their father.
    She lowered her pen to her desk, finally giving her sister her undivided attention. “Okay. What do you propose we do?”
    Tabitha dissembled for a moment, glancing around the room, at the few framed photos on Maddy’s bookshelf—all family—at the plants in the corner and the view of the Chicago skyline out the window.
    She wasn’t going to like this, Maddy knew. Tabitha had the same look she’d had when they were nine and twelve and her big sister had suggested they “borrow” their new stepmother’s—wife three’s—Dior gowns to play house. And Maddy had the same reaction—the similar twitch in her temple and the sweatiness in her palms she’d experienced on that day.
    One thing was sure…sweat wouldn’t wash any better out of her Chanel suit now than it had out of Dior then .
    “Tabby?”
    Her sister finally met her stare, appearing almost defiant. “It’s simple, really.”
    The twitching intensified. The moisture on her palms could water the office plants for a week. “Oh?”
    “Yes. She can’t cheat on our father with the guy if somebody outbids her.” With a smile that showed off the twenty-thousand-dollar smile their father had bestowed upon his oldest daughter, Tabitha continued.
    “ You buy the gigolo.”
    * * *
    P ARAMEDIC J AKE W ALLACE had faced death dozens of times since he’d started working with Chicago FD’s 4th Battalion five years ago. He’d responded to fires and shootings, to brawls and