Sundays Are for Murder. Marie Ferrarella
Charley ordered. Her expression grew serious. “Are you in some kind of trouble, Brannigan?” She headed him off, in case he was going to offer a flippant remark. “And before you staunchly deny it, most people don’t open their door to find dead rabbits lying on their doorstep, not unless there’s something else going on in their lives.”
He frowned, lowering his eyes to his meal. “It’s personal.”
“So am I. Stop stalling, Brannigan,” she insisted. This wasn’t something she was going to back away from. It was in her nature to get involved. Not to merely test the waters but to jump in with both feet. For better or worse, the man was her partner and if that was going to work, trust had to be involved. He had to give her his. And then maybe she’d give him hers.
The slightest hint of humor surfaced around his mouth. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re a pushy broad, Special Agent Dow?”
Her mouth curved. “Part of my charm. Talk,” she repeated.
He took a long breath, then finally said, “There was this woman back in D.C.”
When he paused, she pushed. If she had to crawl down his throat with forceps to get this story out, one piece at a time, she was determined to get it. “Yes?”
“Her name was Linda.” He tried not to remember her face. Tried not to remember anything at all. He just wanted this behind him, although he was beginning to doubt that it ever would be. “Linda Dixon.” He studied the paper cup that held his soda. “She was a little intense, but we had a good time. At first.”
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