The Witness

above what he hoped he’d get, and she offered a cash deal.”
    “Cash.”
    “That’s right. On the barrelhead. The Skeeters jumped on it. Well, you know Dean, he’s a salesman, and he likes to talk it up. He says he couldn’t get much more out of her than yes and no. She wired the earnest money from a bank in Kansas City. Drove in with that dog of hers for the settlement, pulling a U-Haul trailer. Signed the papers, handed over the cashier’s check, from a bank in Fairbanks, Alaska, this time. Dean wants to take her to lunch to celebrate, but she shuts that down. Wants to take her to the property, walk her through and shut down again. She takes the papers, the keys, thanks everyone and that’s that.”
    “It’s a puzzle,” Brooks murmured.
    “People who say live and let live? They’re not doing a lot of living, as far as I’m concerned.” She got up as the radio in the dispatch area squawked. “It’d be interesting to find out what her deal is.”
    “It would,” Brooks agreed. As Alma went out to answer the radio, his phone rang. “Bickford Police Department, Chief Gleason.” For now, he put Abigail Lowery on his back burner.
    He handled the paperwork, the phone calls, took a turn at foot patrol, where he listened to the owner of a pottery shop complain about the owner of the neighboring candle shop once again blocking his delivery entrance with his car.
    And once again talked to the offender.
    He picked up a ham-and-cheese panini, and while taking a late lunch at his desk, started puzzle solving.
    He ran her tags, crunched into the chips he’d gotten with the sandwich. He read her date of birth, noted that she was twenty-eight, so he’d been on the mark there. Her license carried no restrictions. She was an organ donor with a clean driving record.
    He accessed the database and ran her criminal.
    No criminal record.
    That should be enough, he told himself. She was, according to the data, a law-abiding citizen without so much as a single speeding ticket.
    But …
    Out of curiosity, he Googled her. He got several hits on the name, but none of them were his Abigail Lowery.
    Caught up now, he continued to dig. He had her name, address, tag number, driver’s license data. Since he knew she had a license to carry, he started with gun registration.
    As the data came up, he sat back.
    “Now, that’s an arsenal,” he murmured.
    In addition to the Glock 19, she had licenses for a Glock 36, one for a Glock 26, a nine-millimeter Beretta, a long-range Sig, a nine-millimeter Colt Defender and a Smith & Wesson 1911, and a pair of Walther P22s.
    Just what did the woman need with that many handguns? He was a cop, for God’s sake, and other than his service weapon, he had only two others.
    “Who the hell are you?”
    “Hey, Brooks.”
    The bombshell blonde stood kind of posed in his doorway. Sylbie’s hair fell in gleaming waves over the shoulders of a white lace shirt loosely belted over jeans that were a thin coat of paint over long legs. She had eyes that reminded him of a tiger, tawny and just a little feral.
    In high school he’d wanted her more than his next breath. And when he’d had her, his life had been a seesaw of bliss and misery.
    Automatically, he toggled over to screen saver. “How you doing, Sylbie?”
    “Oh, I’m just fine. I’ve been working since dawn, so I’m giving myself a little break.” She glided into the room on those long legs, perched on the corner of his desk in a provocative cloud of fragrance. “I thought I’d just drop in and see you, and see if you wanted to get together tonight.”
    “I’ve got a lot going on here.”
    “If the chief of police can’t take the night off, who can?”
    “The law’s ever vigilant.”
    She laughed, tossed that glorious mane of hair. “Come on, Brooks. I thought I’d pick up a nice bottle of wine.” She leaned in. “And you can take advantage of me.”
    It didn’t make him feel manly, but he had to admit the few times they’d gotten together since he’d come home, he’d felt like the one being taken advantage of.
    Not that he’d minded at the time. But afterward …
    “That’s a nice invitation, Sylbie, but I’ve got to work tonight.”
    “Come on by after.”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “You’re hurting my feelings.”
    “I don’t want to do that.” But neither did he want to get caught up again. They’d come a long way since high school, when she’d captured his heart, then demolished it—and were a