Hart and Hunter

Chapter 18

Dane looks up from the biscuit and eggs. "Tell you what?"

"About being a cop, and what it meant for you. And before that — about your time in the Marines. You must have..." I wave a hand. "...stories, right?"

He huffs a laugh. "Yeah, I got stories. I didn't think you were interested."

"Why not?" I ask, a tiny bit hurt by the question.

He lifts a shoulder in his characteristic shrug.

"You never asked."

"I thought you didn't want to talk about it."

He smiles and reaches across the table, his fingers gently grasping mine where they protrude from my cast.

"I guess I've been too busy with the present to care about the past, but I'll talk about it all you want, if you want me to. What's brought this up now, though?"

"The case, I guess," I admit, and shiver. "It just seems horrible — that something could replace someone you love, and you wouldn't even know."

Dane frowns, and I wonder if the same thought hadn't occurred to him yet.

"I can't imagine it," he says. "I feel like I'd know you no matter what."

"Another reason to complete the land-bond, maybe," I say, and smile.

His amber eyes warm a little, and it feels good to be fuel for that fire.

"So," I say. "How about we start with the person most likely to notice something amiss?"

"I like the way you think, Hart," he says, lips curving in a smile. "Let's talk to Vicky Lagrange."

***

The Lagrange's live just outside Spring Lakes, in a neighborhood with a log-cabin, vacation-home feel, nestled beneath tall pines and among outcrops of basalt and granite boulders.

It's home to a mix of year-round residents and seasonal visitors. The Lagrange's are the former, and their home is one of the larger, but older, on their street, with steeply slanted roofs, tall, almost church-like windows, and a large wrap-around porch.

Vicky greets us at the door. I recognize her from the funeral, though today she wears comfortable athletic clothes with her sleek black hair gathered in a messy ponytail. Her makeup-free face bears little mark of her age, which I'd gathered was considerably less than that of her late husband.

"Mrs. Lagrange. Thank you for seeing us." Dane inclines his head in greeting, but doesn't extend his hand.

"Call me Vicky, please," she says, stepping aside and gesturing for us to enter her home.

As is his habit, Dane removes his shoes at the door, and I follow suit.

Vicky lifts her brows, but says nothing as she waits, and then leads us on into her living room.

The first thing I notice is now nice it is. An enormous fireplace built of smooth river stones stands free at the center of a generous space, a high ceiling with bare beams of light, natural wood gives it a lofty feel, and the furnishings — though comfortable and well-used — are luxurious. The second thing I notice is all the bicycle-related decor: a huge photo printed on canvas depicts a group of cyclists racing along a scenic coastal landscape, a brass bicycle sculpture occupies a side table, and a single front wheel hangs like a strange, spiky wreath on the wall.

Dane and I settle on a cream leather sofa while Vicky sits opposite on a matching settee.

"Can I get you anything? Coffee, or tea?" she offers.