Swat Standoff. Lena Diaz
cradled a cup of hot chocolate in her hands. It wasn’t that the house was cold. Outside, it was only mildly chilly, and then only when the winds blew down from the nearby mountains. But she didn’t need cold weather as an excuse to have hot chocolate. It was her poison of choice when she needed soothing.
Tonight, she definitely needed soothing.
Across the room, the TV screen hung over the fireplace, dark and quiet. Typically, unless her mom or one of her mom’s well-meaning klatch of friends had set her up on yet another disastrous blind date, she would spend Saturday nights binge-watching recorded cop shows. The ones with the fake forensics and technology were the most entertaining. Where an investigator could search a single database and come up with a person’s entire life history in seconds—like what books that person had checked out of the library in kindergarten and never returned. Nothing could make her laugh harder than their implausible, ridiculous storylines. But tonight, instead, she stared at the set of keys on the coffee table. Blake’s keys.
And she wasn’t laughing.
Guilt was riding her hard. Not for taking his keys. She’d probably saved his life, or someone else’s, by not letting him drive. But she shouldn’t have left him in that parking lot with no way home. She should have argued with him until he agreed to get in her car. She could have taken him back later—once he was sober—to get his truck.
Where was he now? What was he doing? She had absolutely no clue. When she left him, she’d driven away for all of fifteen minutes before guilt had sent her back to that rancid-smelling bar. But even though his black pickup was still sitting in the gravel right where she’d left it, Blake wasn’t.
The bartender had only shrugged when she asked him where Blake had gone. She suspected he knew the answer. But he had no inclination to tell her. Four hours later, with the clock edging close to midnight, Blake still hadn’t responded to any of her calls or texts.
Not that she could blame him.
If he’d left her in that parking lot, she’d be furious. For days. Maybe longer. Mama always said her temper ran hotter than a busted radiator and cooled just as slowly.
She let out a heavy sigh and set her still-full cup on the side table. There was no use delaying the inevitable any longer. No amount of chocolate or silly cop shows were going to make her relax. And there was no point in trying to sleep. How could she even try to close her eyes when he could be lying hurt somewhere, maybe passed out in a ditch?
That lovely image had crossed her mind so many times that she’d called the emergency room in Maryville to see if he’d been brought in. The state police and the dispatch operators for both Blount and Sevier Counties had no reports on him either. She should have been relieved. Instead, she was more worried than ever. It was as if he’d vanished.
Okay—that was it. She absolutely couldn’t sit here any longer, waiting for a call that was never going to come. She would have to head back out and find him herself. Again. And this time, she wasn’t leaving until he was safe and sound at home.
After retrieving her holster and pistol from the floor beside her chair, she went into her bedroom to change out of her nightshirt. A few minutes later, dressed in jeans and a simple button-up blouse, she headed toward the front door.
A loud knock had her whipping out her pistol and flattening herself against the wall beside the door. Her pulse rushed in her ears. Who would be pounding on her door this late? Or even at all? Saying that she lived in the boonies was an understatement. Visitors willing to drive out this far from town, this far from anything, were extremely rare. Even her own family was loath to make the trip and bounce down the pothole-filled street in front of her house. Donna was the one who usually made the long trek to see them instead.
The knock sounded again. “Donna?” Blake’s deep voice bellowed. “I know you’re up. I saw you through the front window.”
Blake. He was okay. Thank God. Her shoulders dropped, the tension draining out of her as she holstered her gun and reached for the dead bolt. Then his words sank in. She hesitated, without opening the door. “Why were you peeping in my window?”
“I wasn’t peeping.”
She could practically hear him roll his eyes.
“Your lights are on, and the blinds are open,” he continued. “I could see you from halfway down that death trap out front that you call a road. The suspension on my truck is probably shot now. What’d you do? Tick the mayor off, and now he won’t send the city out to maintain your street?”
She flipped the dead bolt and pulled open the door. “Actually, it’s his wife. She sped through a school zone, so I radioed for a patrol unit and followed her to city hall. She didn’t appreciate me detaining her until the uniformed officer got there. And she especially didn’t like the two-hundred-fifty-dollar ticket.”
His brows rose as he stepped inside. “Did you know who she was when you saw her speeding?”
“Yep. Honestly, I probably wouldn’t have bothered if she’d blown by me out on the highway. It’s not like we have enough traffic around here to worry about her causing an accident. But she could have run someone’s kid over. That’s an unforgivable sin in my book. So if the price of making her stop and think next time is a bumpy ride home every day, I’ll pay it.” She winced. “But I do need to get a four-wheel drive if this vendetta goes on much longer. My little SUV isn’t designed for that kind of punishment. It’s already starting to rattle, and it’s only a few years old.”
He smiled. “I didn’t know you had a soft spot for kids. Why haven’t I heard this story before?”
She cocked her head. “Why haven’t you ever visited my house before? And why haven’t you invited me to yours? We’re partners. We should kick back together after work sometimes, or on weekends.”
His smile faded. “The answer to those questions are irrelevant, since I’m not a cop anymore.”
She shook her head. “Once a cop, always a cop. And as far as I’m concerned, this current situation with Dillon is temporary.”
“That’s actually why I’m here. Partly, anyway.” He waved toward the two leather couches and recliner a few feet away. “Mind if we talk for a few minutes? Or is the open door an unsubtle social signal that I should leave?”
She blinked, surprised to realize that she was still holding on to the doorknob. “Sorry. Go on, have a seat.” She shut the door behind him and followed him into the part of the house that functioned as a family room.
He perched on the edge of one of the two couches, resting his forearms on his thighs with his hands clasped together. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him look so unsure of himself. His confidence in everything that he did was one of the things that had always bugged Dillon, because he took it as arrogance. He expected the new guy to show more humility and work harder to fit in. Until Blake’s little speech in the parking lot earlier, she’d thought pretty much the same thing. Now she wasn’t sure what she thought.
“Nice place,” he said as she sat beside him on the couch. “It looks a lot bigger inside than it does from the outside.”
“It’s the vaulted ceiling and the open concept. My dad helped me with the remodel. Took a couple of years. That was a long time ago, though. It’s about ready for another update—new lights, new plumbing fixtures. The floors could use refinishing. But I don’t have the free time I used to, before I added part-time SWAT officer to my full-time detective duties.”
“You and your dad did all the work?”
“Most of it. We rooked my three sisters’ husbands into helping with the heavy lifting. But for the most part, it was me and Dad. With Mom supervising, of course. She’s a worse back seat renovator than any back seat driver.” She waved toward the kitchen, which was separated from the rest of the room by a butcher block island. “You want a beer or something?”
His brows arched again. “I think we both know