The White Carnation by Susanne Matthews

trust-fund money her grandmother had left her. She let the hot water sluice over her body, grateful the water wasn’t pink as it had been last night. How on earth had she gotten all that blood on herself? She vaguely remembered kneeling next to Lucy Green to take her pulse and getting blood on her shirt, but most of it was a blur until Rob had arrived.
    God, he’d looked good. It had felt so right, so natural to be in his arms, and she hated that she’d been weak enough to allow it. There hadn’t been another man in her life or her apartment since she’d ended the engagement. He’d loved this shower, too. Her skin flushed as she remembered the many things they’d done under the hot water, and heat pooled low in her stomach. She’d noticed the small scar on his chin where the ring had cut his face when she’d tossed it at him. Memories of that part of their relationship brought her hormones under control.
    She finished showering and dried her hair. The red highlights gleamed in the bathroom light, and she decided not to tie it back today. She reached into the hair accessory basket she kept on the counter and pulled out a wide, black, stretchy hairband. She secured it in place and let her hair fall down her back. She hadn’t worn her hair down like this in months. She put on her makeup, bemoaning the fact she’d have to buy another compact and a tube of her favorite lip gloss, an expense she really couldn’t handle this month, especially now that she’d lost her favorite jacket as well.
    Since Rob wasn’t due for almost two hours, she donned her red silk robe and took a seat at the computer, wrote her story about the engagement tea, and sent it to Sloan along with a note stating that she had suffered a personal loss and wouldn’t be returning to work next week. She had holiday time coming to her, and she was taking it. Feeling generous, she emailed Tina the information she’d gathered on the price of dog food and accessories. Everything else she’d researched had been done after hours, on her own time, and was her own property whether Sloan liked it or not.
    Someone knocked on the door. She looked at the clock: seven forty-five. Rob was early, but with the Harvester case, he was probably under more pressure than usual. Well, she’d let him in, but he’d have to wait while she dressed.
    It had been the one thing that had endeared her to him when they’d started dating but almost drove her crazy near the end. Time was fluidic for Rob—he could as easily be two hours late as two hours early—and he didn’t always remember to call. She hurried to the door, eager to pump him for information about Mary and Lucy. If he had no news about them, then he might let something slip about the Harvester—not likely, but a reporter could always dream. Faye opened the door without checking the peephole. The puff of smoke from the flower on the clown’s tuxedo jacket caught her by surprise and before she could cry out, everything went black.
    • • •
    Rob checked the time on his alarm. Nine thirty. He was late.
Damn! Faye’s going to kill me.
He hurried into the bathroom, shaved the day-old scruff off his face, and took one of his famous three-minute showers. He slicked his wet hair back, splashed on some aftershave, wincing when it burned his sensitive skin, and grabbed a pair of boxers, jeans, and a golf shirt. He put on socks, strapped on his ankle holster, and slipped his feet into loafers. He wasn’t officially on duty today, so the suit could stay on the hanger. He bundled the gray suit he’d worn yesterday, hoping the combination of blood from Faye when he’d held her and rain hadn’t ruined it. He’d drop it off at the cleaners near the precinct. Holstering his Beretta, he went into the kitchen.
    The coffeepot had come on at six as usual and had turned itself off a couple of hours ago, leaving its cooling contents slowly congealing in the clear glass pot. He poured a cup of his homemade tar into a plastic