23
Dillon stopped in the station’s front room for a time, mostly because it was the polite thing to do. He listened to Berto and the others begin to fill in his idea and give it a more concrete form. But nothing they discussed required his input. When he started for the exit, Berto asked, “Going somewhere?”
“I thought I’d try and get a start on the fire chief’s records.”
“Good luck with that,” Porter said. He watched Bailey enter the station texting on her phone. “I’m pretty sure that mess is what drove our former bookkeeper around the bend.”
“That poor soul had a serious case of the crazies from day one,” Maud offered. “Charlie’s idea of records only nudged her a trifle in that direction.”
Berto took that as his cue. “I better grab my crew and take a look at a cottage that needs shifting.”
“Correction.” Bailey pocketed her phone. “You’re going to pace around your new property while your crew does all the real work.”
“Thinking and planning are real jobs,” Berto protested.
“Oh, sure.” Maud pointed to the builder’s considerable gut. “Look at all the muscle you’re building.”
Dillon followed the builder from the station, refused his offer of a lift, and enjoyed the walk through town. He felt as if the gray season had gifted him a different set of eyes. He viewed Miramar without any of the frustrated rage that had propelled him out. Gone too was the bitter regret that had brought him back. In its place was . . .
As Dillon entered the fire chief’s office, he decided there was no way to describe how he felt just then.Differentwas the only word that came to mind.
* * *
The mess blanketing the fire chief’s desk looked even worse than the day before. If that was even possible.
As he seated himself and began the sorting process, Dillon found himself recalling other afternoons, other places. Losing himself in numbers and analysis, making sense of an impossible market, thriving on how others trusted him to get it right.
And look where it took them. Straight off the financial cliff. All his clients and partners, not just burned by the markets. They were incinerated. Because he failed to see the assassins lurking behind his numbers . . .
“Whose dog just died?”
Dillon jerked so hard he spilled papers all over the floor. “Elena. Hi.”
“Don’t hi me.” Bailey’s daughter closed the office door. “What’s the matter? And don’t tell me nothing. I get enough of those nothings from Mom.”
“You sound so much like your mother. Not the voice. It’s how you see below the surface.”
“Is that a very adult attempt to change the subject?”
“Sort of.”
“Nice try.” Elena pulled over a chair, seated herself, then asked more softly, “What’s wrong?”
“You pulled me away from some very hard memories.”
“Terrible things. Or so I’m told. I’m supposedly too young to have any.”
“I don’t believe that for a second.”
She bounced the chair a couple of times. “Change the subject?”
“In a heartbeat.”
“What are you doing, and can I help?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be using the Christmas break to, you know . . .”
“Moon over some boy band? Call my bestie and giggle about some teenage version of dear old Dad?”
