A list of news stories appeared. Leigh clicked the top one: Suspect Arrested in Greenbelt Attacks. Leigh’s stomach tightened as she skimmed the story. It was from a year ago. The accompanying photo showed Brandon Reynolds addressing reporters on the steps of the police station. Several uniformed officers stood alongside him, but Brandon seemed to be the one fielding questions.

Javi whistled. “Is that him?”

“Forget it. He’s straight.”

Javi lifted an eyebrow.

Leigh scrolled through the story, skimming for info.

“Oh no,” she murmured.

“What is it?”

“He’s a homicide cop.”

*   *   *

Brandon scanned the faces at the bar and spotted a few he recognized. He walked to the back and slid into a booth as a text landed on his phone.

She show up? Antonio wanted to know.

Instead of answering, Brandon called him. “What happened with the sister?” he asked.

“She still hasn’t heard from her,” Antonio reported. “What about you? Is she there yet?”

“No.”

From the music in the background, Brandon figured Antonio was in his car on his way home, finally, after another marathon day.

“So, what’s with the Ice House?” Antonio asked. “I thought you hated that place.”

“She wanted to meet here.”

“Why?”

Leigh Larson strode into the bar and looked around. Same blouse, skirt, and shoes as before, same hairstyle. She hadn’t been home either, apparently.

She spotted him, and something flitted across her face. Relief?

“Hey, lemme call you back,” he told his partner.

Leigh walked over, and Brandon scooted from the booth to greet her.

“Thanks for meeting me,” she said.

“No problem.”

She glanced around curiously before sliding into the wooden seat. She set her purse on the bench with her phone sticking out, as though she might be expecting a call.

She turned those green eyes on him. “I appreciate your time. I’m sure you’d rather be headed home right now.”

Brandon didn’t comment, and she didn’t seem to notice. She looked around again, as though this place were something more interesting than a dive bar down the street from the police station.

A server stopped beside their table. “Anything to drink?” She directed the question at Brandon, but then settled her gaze on Leigh.

“Um . . . You have Shiner Bock?” Leigh asked.

“Tap or bottle?”

“Bottle, please.”

“And you?”

“Water,” Brandon said.

The waitress left and Leigh sighed.

“Just water?”

“I’m on call tonight,” he said.

“Oh.”

Her smile faded, and she rested her hands in front of her on the scarred wooden table. Her hands were pale and slender. No wedding ring, but she wore an intricate silver band on her left thumb.

“I’ve never been here,” she said.

“Why’d you suggest it?”

“Proximity.” She looked around again. “It seems like a cop hangout.”

“How can you tell?”

She smiled slightly. “You guys have a certain look.”