Fatal Hearts by Norah Wilson Page B

flat-screen TV, down the sides of the couch with its oversize cushions. Hell, he’d unzipped the cushions themselves and examined the interior.
    Yes, his search had felt a little bit like something out of a 1980s crime movie, but he knew his brother was particular as hell about his personal journals. Having a twin meant having almost no privacy. Not that Boyd was a big snooper, but neither twin was above rifling through the other one’s stuff if it was left lying around. And after Boyd had given Josh holy hell for his “feelings” notebook, his brother had sworn that Boyd—or anyone else—would never get his hands on it again.
    It might be a stretch that Josh was still Mission: Impossible about hiding his stuff, but Boyd wasn’t taking anything for granted. Not if it meant bringing a murderer to justice.
    Eventually exhaustion had caught up with him. He’d crawled in between the sheets and went to bed, more frustrated than he’d been when he’d arrived.
    “Help yourself to breakfast, Detective.” She gestured to a sideboard, where several stainless steel chafing dishes gleamed, the kind caterers used to keep food warm. “The live-in staff have already eaten, but there’s plenty left.”
    “Thank you, I’ll do that,” he said. “But there’s no need for the ‘Detective’ business. I don’t have any standing here.”
    “Oh, but there’s every need. I doubt you stop being a detective just because you’ve left your jurisdiction, any more than I stop being a physician when office hours are over.”
    “If you prefer.”
    “I do,” she said. “I believe I called you Mr. McBride last evening, though, and for that I apologize. Put it down to tiredness. Your brother mentioned your occupation a number of times. He was very proud of you.”
    Shit. Just like that, emotion tightened his throat. “Well, the feeling was mutual.” His voice came out sounding amazingly normal. “We couldn’t have been prouder of Josh.” He looked around for something to sip to ease the ache. “Is that coffee I smell?”
    “I’ll pour it for you while you get your breakfast ready.” She stood.
    “Don’t let me put you out. I can get it myself if you just show me where to find the mugs and the coffeepot.”
    “Very well.” She subsided into her chair again. “The coffee urn is on the other side of the refrigerator. Mugs in the cupboard up above.”
    He poured the coffee into a bone china mug, added a couple of creamers, and carried it back to the table. Gesturing to the elaborate place setting, with bowl, saucer, and plate stacked on a woven charger, surrounded by silverware and juice glasses, he asked, “That for me?”
    “Of course, Detective.”
    “Very fancy.”
    “Merely civilized.”
    She got up to refill her own mug while he helped himself to breakfast. Fresh cut-up fruit, fluffy scrambled eggs, and a heap of hash browns that looked to be made from scratch with fresh potatoes. By the time he sat down at the table, he was actually hungry.
    She placed her refilled mug on the table. “You need fruit juice,” she remarked, looking at his breakfast. “What’s your preference? I can recommend the orange juice. It’s fresh squeezed.”
    That sounded like heaven, and Boyd said so.
    She took his glass and went to the refrigerator. A moment later, she placed the juice in front of him.
    “Thank you.”
    “You’re welcome.”
    She glanced at his breakfast again, and, seemingly satisfied he had all the food groups covered now, she went back to her crossword.
    He ate quickly, until he felt Sylvia Stratton’s gaze on him.
    “What?”
    “You really aren’t much like your twin, are you?”
    “Excuse me?”
    She gestured to his plate, which was all but empty now. “Josh took a more leisurely approach to his meals.”
    “That’s one way of putting it,” he said, smiling at the memory. “Meals were events for him, whereas food is pretty much just fuel for me. Yes, I appreciate the high-test fuel if it’s