It was a Monday night again and quiet except for my two customers—Eva Grayson and Violet Fox. The two college girls sat at the counter, slurping down chocolate milkshakes and studying. Their books covered a good portion of the countertop. Eva and Violet had started coming into the Pork Pit at least once a week when they had an hour or two to kill between classes. Sometimes, Cassidy, Eva’s other friend, joined them. But more often than not it was just the two girls.

“So when are you going to go out with my big brother?”

Eva said, pushing aside her empty milkshake glass.

I looked up from my book. “Why do you ask?”

Eva stared at me. “Because every time I mention I’ve been in here, he asks me how you are, Gin. Why don’t you give the poor guy a break?”

I raised my eyebrow. “If your big brother wants to ask me out, he can come down here and do it himself, instead of getting his little sister to plead his case to me.”

Eva waved her hand. “I’m just filling you in on Owen’s good qualities. Not pleading his case.”

“What was it you told me you were majoring in again?”

“Marketing,” Eva replied with a grin.

“I rest my case.”

Violet just laughed and took another swig of her own milkshake.

The front door opened, causing the bell to chime. I looked up, ready to greet a potential customer.

And he walked into the restaurant.

Detective Donovan Caine. Black hair, golden eyes, bronze skin. The Hispanic detective looked the same as I remembered, except for the lines on his face. For once, they seemed to have smoothed out, as though some great weight had been lifted off his lean shoulders. As though he’d made some decision that had finally brought him a measure of peace. I wondered what it could be, but I had a funny feeling it had something to do with me. Maybe everything to do with me.

The detective came over and rested his hands on the counter. Hands that had done such wonderful things to my body. “Gin.”

“Detective.”

“Can we talk?” he asked in a low voice.

I hadn’t seen the detective since that afternoon I’d waved to him from the ridge, and he hadn’t made any effort to contact me. People always talked about the stages of grief you went through when something traumatic happened. Hah. I’d pretty much moved from hurt to just plain pissed, with no stops in between. Still, I was curious as to why Donovan had come, what he wanted to say to me now, two weeks too late. Fucking curiosity. Just wouldn’t let me be.