The Witness

morning? He looks ten years older. I don’t give a damn about taking the punch, and if it wasn’t for the rest, I’d let it go. But I’m not going to shrug this off so that little bastard slides through this.”
    “Good. If Blake starts hounding you, let me know. I’ll mention harassment charges and restraining orders.”
    Russ sat back, and his smile came easier. “Which one of them are you really after?”
    “It’s two for one, as I see it. They both need a good, swift kick. I don’t know if Justin was born an asshole, but his daddy sure as hell helped make him a bigger one.” He stirred at his coffee but found he didn’t have a taste for it. “I didn’t see his mama in court.”
    “Word is Mrs. Blake’s embarrassed and tired out. About done with it. And Blake’s ordered her to keep it shut. He runs that house.”
    “That may be, but he doesn’t run this town.”
    “Do you, Chief?”
    “I protect and serve,” Brooks said, with a glance out the window. “The Blakes are going to learn what that means. How about you, Mr. Mayor?”
    “It may be tougher to win an election with Blake backing whoever I run against, but I’m in it.”
    “New times.” Brooks lifted his mug in toast. “Good times.”
    “You’re pretty sassy this morning, son. Is it all about Reingold’s rulings?”
    “That didn’t suck, but I’ve got me a fascinating, beautiful woman I’m falling for. Falling hard.”
    “Quick work.”
    “In the blood. My mama and daddy barely did more than look at each other, and that was that. She’s got me, Russ. Right here.” He tapped a fist on his heart.
    “Sure it’s not considerably lower where she’s got you?”
    “There, too. But, Jesus, Russ, she does it for me. I just think about her and I’m there. I look at her, and … I swear I could look at her for hours. Days.”
    Brooks let out a half-laugh, edged with a little surprise. “I’m done. I’m gone.”
    “If you don’t bring her over for dinner, Seline’s going to see to it my life’s not worth living.”
    “I’ll work on it. I figure I’m going to have the women in my family making the same demand before much longer. Abigail’s the type who needs to be eased in. Something in there,” he added. “Something from before. She’s not ready to let me in on that yet. I’m working on that, too.”
    “So she hasn’t figured out you’ll just keep digging, nudging and chewing until you know what you want to know or get what you want to get?”
    “I’m blinding her with affability and charm.”
    “How long do you figure that’ll last?”
    “I’ve got a little more to spare. She needs help. She just doesn’t know it, or isn’t ready to take it. Yet.”
    ABIGAIL SPENT THE MORNING happily at her computer, redesigning and personalizing the security system for a law firm in Rochester. She was particularly pleased with the results, as she’d gotten the job on referral, and had nearly lost it as the senior partner had balked when she’d refused to meet with him personally.
    She believed he and the other partners would be more than satisfied with the system and her suggestions. If they weren’t? It was the price she paid for doing business on her terms.
    To give her mind a rest, she shifted gears into gardening.
    She wanted to create a butterfly garden along the south corner of her cabin, and had read and researched how to best accomplish the goal. With Bert by her side, she gathered tools, loaded her wheelbarrow. It pleased her to see the little vegetable garden she’d already planted doing so well, to smell the herbs soaking up the sunshine as she wheeled by. Her narrow stream bubbled along, and birds sang to its tune. Through the thickening trees, a frisky breeze danced and wild dogwood peeked out like flowery ghosts.
    She was happy, she realized, as she marked off her plot with string and stakes. Really happy. With spring, with work, with her home. With Brooks.
    Had she been really happy before? Surely there had been moments—at least during her childhood, in her brief time at Harvard, even moments after everything changed so completely—when she’d been happy.
    But she couldn’t remember ever feeling quite like this. Nervous. Brooks was right about the nerves, and she wasn’t entirely sure she likedhis being right. But over them and through them was a kind of lightness she didn’t know quite what to do with.
    As she switched on her tiller, she hummed along with its churning grind, with the