The Witness

pocket. “Something for Bert, if it’s okay.”
    The gift touched her. Ploy or not, she thought it showed kindness. “He won’t take it from you.”
    “You give it to him, then.”
    He handed her the bone, saw Bert’s eyes click between the two of them, the rawhide. But the dog didn’t move a muscle.
    “It was very nice of you. He likes them.” She turned to the dog, murmured a command. Bert’s butt hit the floor.
    “That wasn’t French.”
    “Italian.” She gave Bert the bone, followed it with another command.
    “He speaks Italian, too. That’s some sophisticated dog. He’s smiling.”
    “Dogs don’t smile.”
    “Give me a break, look at those eyes. He’s smiling. Where do you want the pizza?”
    “The kitchen’s best. You’re in a good mood.”
    “I’m about to have pizza with a pretty woman, one who goes for hot peppers, a personal favorite. And she opened wine. I’m off duty until eight hundred hours. I’d be stupid not to be in a good mood.”
    “You’re not stupid.” She got down wineglasses. “And though your job includes a high-stress factor, you rarely appear stressed. That I’ve observed.”
    “I like the job.”
    “But if your father hadn’t become ill, you’d still be in Little Rock.”
    “Yeah, probably. I was meant to come home, take this job and settle back here.”
    She shook her head as she got out plates. It occurred to her she did have more conversation. “There’s no such thing as predestination or fate or destiny. Life is a series of choices and circumstance, action and the reaction, and results of other people’s choices. Your father’s illness influenced you to choose this position at this time. I think it was a loving and loyal choice, but it wasn’t meant.”
    He poured the wine himself. “I believe in choice, and in fate.”
    “How? We can’t have choice and free will and still be fated.”
    “It’s a puzzle, isn’t it?”
    He looked so natural in her kitchen, in her space, with his jeans andT-shirt, his high-top sneakers and battered leather jacket. Should she be concerned about that?
    “Why don’t we eat out on the back porch? It’s a pretty night.”
    That threw her. She never ate outside, and never went outside without a weapon.
    “Look at the wheels turn.” He flicked a finger down her temple. “You’ve been cooped up working most of the day, I imagine. I can’t believe you bought this place if you don’t appreciate a soft spring night.”
    Just another choice, she thought. “All right.” She opened the drawer, took out her holster. “I don’t go outside without my gun.”
    “Okay.” The Glock 19 again, apparently a favorite. “I wish you’d tell me what you’re afraid of.”
    “I’m not afraid.” If it was a lie, it was a small one. She considered herself too well prepared and secured for real fear. “I prefer to have a gun when I’m outside.”
    “All right.” He waited while she put it on, unlocked the kitchen door. “But when you decide to tell me, I’ll find a way to help you.”
    “How do you know I’m not a criminal? A fugitive from justice?”
    “Do you believe in instinct?”
    “Yes, of course. It’s—”
    “You don’t have to explain. Just put it down to instinct.”
    She had a little table on the porch, a single chair. Brooks set the pizza down, went inside for her desk chair.
    “It’s nice out here, the view, the air. You’ve started your garden.” He took the desk chair, sipped his wine. “What do you have in the greenhouse?”
    “Plants. Flowers, some vegetables. I have some small fruit trees. They do very well in the greenhouse environment.”
    “I bet.”
    At her signal, Bert lay down by her feet and began to gnaw on his bone. “He’s smiling again.”
    This time she shook her head but smiled a little, too. “You have a fanciful nature.”
    “Maybe it offsets that stress.” He took the pizza she served him, balanced the plate on his lap, then, stretching out his legs, held his silence.
    She did the same.
    “You’re not going to ask,” he decided. “That’s some control you’ve got there, Abigail.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “I said I had news, but you’re not going to ask about it. Most people wouldn’t have waited three minutes to ask.”
    “Maybe it was another ploy.”
    “Not this time.” He waited a few beats, sighed hugely. “Now you’re not going to ask because you’re messing with me.”
    Her smile bloomed again, and damned if he didn’t feel a sense of