Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [56]
“Chloe?” he called, and began jogging across the grass. “Chloe!”
He was almost at the steps before she heard him. She jumped to her feet and a glass fell to the porch with a noisy shattering and splash. “What? Oh, God!” She stared from him to the broken glass at her feet.
“Didn’t you hear me?”
She looked at his truck. “Oh, God. How long have you been here?”
“I just got here. Sit down. Do you have a dustpan?”
“A dustpan?”
“Sit down and don’t move!” he barked. She was barefoot; he didn’t want to add a trip to the hospital for stitches to their list of shared experiences. He went inside and looked in the cupboard under the kitchen sink—empty, of course. Finally he tore a piece of paper from a legal pad he found on the table, and used the pad’s cardboard backing to carefully brush the shards of glass on the porch into the paper. He deposited the entire mess into the small trash bag he kept in his truck.
Then he brought her sandals outside and handed them to her. “Here. I might have missed a sliver or two.”
“Thanks.” She slipped them on. Her cheeks were flushed, now. “I’m really sorry about—that. I didn’t hear you drive up. Please … sit down.” She gestured at the second chair.
Roelke opted for the top step instead. He leaned against the porch rail and stared across the road to the distant mass of the Kettle Moraine State Forest. Shadows were stretching across the landscape. A couple of swallows darted about overhead. Roelke waited.
“Shit,” she said finally. “That hasn’t happened for a long time.”
“What hasn’t happened?”
“Have you ever thought about checking out?”
Roelke’s heart made a determined attempt to exit via his windpipe. “No.”
“Well, I have. Last winter.”
He swallowed hard. All right. All right, think. “Are you thinking about that now?” He used his most measured, calming, cop-on-the-job tone.
“Not really. No.” She stood up abruptly. “I’m going to get another glass so I can make myself another drink, since I wasted most of the last one. Want one?”
“No. But bring some food out, too, if you’re going to drink. And a glass of water so you don’t get dehydrated.”
She disappeared into the house, and returned a moment later with a box of crackers, a small bottle of water, and a new glass. “Don’t worry, I’m not a closet alcoholic.” She shook her head. “And listen, forget what I said before. I don’t know why I dumped that on you.”
“That’s OK.”
“I’m just tired. I’m fine. Really.”
Roelke rubbed his palms on his jeans, choosing his words. “You’ve been here for over a week, and haven’t even started to unpack. You showed no signs of fear when confronted with an intruder—not once, but twice, if you count the missing lock incident at the trailers—”
“Maybe that’s depression’s silver lining. You don’t go through life afraid all the time, because you’ve already been at the bottom of the well.”
“You need to be afraid sometimes. The world can be an ugly place.” And I’ve seen things that wake me up at night.
“Why are you here?” Chloe asked quietly.
“Oh. I was visiting Libby, and since I’d come that far—” he’d gotten very good at sliding around the truth—“I thought I’d just stop by and make sure everything went all right with the Walworth County sheriff. You did file a report, right?”
“I did.”
“Do I need to call somebody?”
“No. They just told me to contact them if anything else happened.”
“And you talked with your landlord?”
Chloe took a delicate sip. “Well, actually … that slipped my mind.”
“It slipped your mind? Jesus Christ, Chloe! What is the matter with you?”
“I just told you,” she observed mildly.
Roelke felt his face flame. He rubbed it with his palms. While he tried to think of something to say, three bicyclists pedaled past. One of the Holsteins near the side fence coughed and flicked her tail.
Finally Chloe gave a tired, rueful smile. “Don’t worry about it.”
Roelke