Back After the Storm Save as PDF
Chapters (40)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. Acknowledgments
  5. Epigraph
  6. Prologue
  7. Chapter 1
  8. Chapter 2
  9. Chapter 3
  10. Chapter 4
  11. Chapter 5
  12. Chapter 6
  13. Chapter 7
  14. Chapter 8
  15. Chapter 9
  16. Chapter 10
  17. Chapter 11
  18. Chapter 12
  19. Chapter 13
  20. Chapter 14
  21. Chapter 15
  22. Chapter 16
  23. Chapter 17
  24. Chapter 18
  25. Chapter 19
  26. Chapter 20
  27. Chapter 21
  28. Chapter 22
  29. Chapter 23
  30. Chapter 24
  31. Chapter 25
  32. Chapter 26
  33. Chapter 27
  34. Chapter 28
  35. Chapter 29
  36. Chapter 30
  37. About the Author
  38. Also by Linda Castillo
  39. Newsletter Sign-up
  40. Copyright

Tomasetti arches a brow.

I fill him in on the highlights. “Considering the marks left on those bones, I thought it might be worth a look around.”

“I agree.” He gives Skid a pointed look. “Might be a good idea to take someone with you.”

Skid clears his throat. “Sure, Chief, uh … just let me know and I’m there.”

We fall silent. Realizing that’s his cue to leave, Skid moves closer to the door. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks.”

He tips his head at Tomasetti and then he’s gone.

For the span of several seconds, I stare at the door, part of me wishing Skid hadn’t left so quickly.

“I’m sorry I’ve been such an egocentric son of a bitch,” he begins.

“I don’t know what to say to that.”

“You could tell me I’m off the hook, or maybe let me know I’m being a little hard on myself.” One side of his mouth curves into a smile. “Then we could go home and have makeup sex.”

I return his smile, but mine feels halfhearted. “I know this has been hard for you.”

“Harder for you, probably. I’m sorry.”

I nod and look down at the reports spread out on my desk, not really seeing them.

“How are you feeling?” I look at him, not sure if he’s referring to the shooting and ensuing accident last night or my pregnancy. Then he touches the place between his eyes to indicate the cut on the bridge of my nose.

“Better.” The tension that had crept into my shoulders begins to unravel. “I’ve been wearing my sunglasses.”

“For the record, you look good in purple.”

“Tomasetti, you’re full of shit.”

“You’re not the first person to tell me that.”

“Probably not the last, either.”

“Yeah.” Sighing, he shoves his hands into his pockets. “I was in the area and I thought, if you have time, I’d take you to dinner.”

“In the area, huh?”

“That’s right.”

“You have pretty good timing, because I’m starving.”

“In that case, why don’t you close that file and shut down your computer? I know just the place.”

*   *   *

Two hours later Tomasetti and I are seated at Pier W, one of Cleveland’s most elegant and renowned restaurants. Cantilevered atop the cliffs in Lakewood, west of the city, the restaurant offers a stunning view of a brooding Lake Erie and the skyline to the east.