Chapter 2

Alex stared at the four walls of her living room. Though it was nearly five years ago that she and Sam moved into the house and painted all the walls white, it seemed like just yesterday. She'd tried to negotiate for some color at the time, but Sam had been adamant on white. It seemed more important to him, so she'd let it go. Looking back now, she was glad they'd gone with white. That way, Sam got to enjoy them for what little time he had left. But now here she sat, staring at boring white walls for the past six months since his death. She'd considered painting them a cheery yellow but decided against it. She hated painting, and in the end, it wouldn't matter what color the walls were, she'd still be lonely.

Her nightly pity party was about to start. Though it was only nine o'clock, she decided she might as well climb into bed and with any luck tonight actually fall asleep. She longed for an uninterrupted night's rest, which hadn't occurred since her husband's death. On a typical night, she would begin by crying herself to sleep, wake after a couple of hours thinking of Sam, cry until she dozed off again, and repeat the process until morning. It was exhausting.

She rested her head on her pillow. Her eyelids were heavy but sleep wouldn't come. Painful, yet loving memories of her husband played through her mind. Her heart ached, God how she missed him. What she'd give for just one more gentle brush of his hand to her cheek, as he tucked her hair behind her ear and whispered, "I love you." She swallowed down her sob.

Her mind drifted back to the day of his murder. A wealth of emotions swept through her, fury pushing the heartache aside. No matter how hard she fought, the anger always surfaced and consumed her. She felt pissed as hell that Sam had been taken from her, and her anger grew tenfold as she recalled the means by which he'd been taken.

A burning sensation penetrated deep into her fingers, an all-too-familiar feeling. She lifted her hands and held them in front of her half expecting to see Sam's blood seeping between her fingers just like on the day he died. She shook her hands frantically as if trying to shake the feeling from them. It didn't work. It never worked. The burning sensation remained.

A distraction, that's what she needed, anything to get her mind off Sam.

She fluffed her pillows before she leaned them against the headboard of the four-poster bed in the spare bedroom. She no longer slept in the master bedroom. Sleeping in the bed she once shared with her high school sweetheart, and husband of seven years, brought too much pain.

She pressed her back against the pillows, reached over, snatched the TV remote from the nightstand, and flipped it on to the local news channel.

The local news report was typical - uneventful, but way too much crime was reported from the larger surrounding communities.

One particular news story snapped her to attention. The anchor reported that in a small community about forty miles to the south, a police officer had been brutally stabbed to death in his home. The officer left behind a wife and two young children. Her chest tightened as her heart grew heavy with grief for the officer's family.

What's wrong with people? Has the whole world gone mad?

The station cut from the newsroom to the crime scene. Alex squinted at the TV screen. A couple of gentlemen milled around between the reporter on the scene and the victim's house. If she didn't know any better, she'd swear that the patches on the back of their jackets said "FBI."

According to the field reporter, the officer had been part of a joint internet crime task force, involving several surrounding communities. The reporter questioned the local authorities. He asked them if there were any ties between the murder of this officer, and the murder of Officer Sam Polecheck last January.

The authorities refused to comment.

Alex's heart raced at the reporter's mention of Sam's name, and it nearly leaped out of her chest when the man mentioned that this officer had also been part of a joint internet crime task force, just as Sam had been.

Her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out the TV. She sprang from her bed, ran to the phone, and somehow managed to punch in Peter's phone number with her trembling fingers. She needed to know if he knew anything about the death of this police officer and whether or not his murder might be related to Sam's. If she didn't get some answers soon, regarding how much progress Peter and the department were making with Sam's murder investigation, she'd surely snap.

Peter didn't answer his home phone.

Alex slammed the receiver down. "Damn it! I need some freaking answers!" she yelled, though no one heard.

Then, she remembered it was Peter's volleyball night, and he usually went to his favorite drinking establishment, The Depot, after his match. She dialed his cell. Still no answer. Fine, she'd go to him then.

Her hands shook, making it difficult to fasten the button on the jeans she'd just slipped into but with persistence, she managed. Then, she flung a T-shirt over her head, slid her feet into a pair of tennis shoes, and raced out the door.

Within a couple of minutes, she arrived at The Depot to find Peter's sparkling black truck parked in its usual spot. She'd never known anyone as anal about keeping his truck in such spic-and-span order. He was even more anal about keeping his perfectly-toned body in shipshape condition.

After parking her SUV, she bolted from it and practically ran into the bar. She halted just inside the doorway to scan the clientele, looking for Peter. Within seconds, she'd located him. At slightly over six feet, he stood taller than many of the other patrons. He ran his fingers through his wavy, mocha hair that was nearly as dark as his eyes. Then, he picked up his mug of beer from the tabletop and took a swig. His teammates surrounded him.

Alex sighed at the sight of him, doing his best to ignore Kimberly, the twenty-two-year-old beauty school flunky, who apparently thought mixing hair color ingredients only needed to be "close enough." The school had asked her to leave when she'd accidentally turned Miss Wisconsin's hair a vibrant orange - the day before her promotional appearance on Good Morning Wisconsin.

Alex gave the woman credit though. She was a persistent little thing, and she looked good decked out in a pink mini-skirt that hardly covered her butt. But none of the guys probably noticed that because they were focused on her youthful, perky breasts, which protruded out of the top of her tight, white crop top. Alex shook her head as she approached the table.

A tinge of surprise passed through Peter's eyes when he noticed her. A year ago, it would've been common practice for her to be at The Depot after a match. She'd attended all the games to watch Sam play. Though Peter had invited her over the past couple of months, she declined his invitations.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Peter asked.

"No thanks," Alex replied as she stepped between him and Kimberly. "Can I talk to you in private?"

He nodded, set his mug on the table, and followed her outside.

Alex took a seat on the smooth, wrought iron bench in front of The Depot. Peter sat next to her. She pulled in a deep, calming breath, and let it out as she told him what she'd seen on the news, then she paused for a moment.

Did she dare ask? Yes. She had to know. "Do you think the officer's murder is linked to Sam's murder?"

Peter expelled an audible breath and lifted his gaze to meet hers. "I'll get to the bottom of this if it's the last thing I do. You know that, right?"

She got her answer and her eyes filled with tears. When would this madness stop?

Like so many other times since her husband's death, she found herself clinging to Peter, sobbing into the crook of his neck. He was always there for her, whenever she called on him. And he stopped by her house regularly just to check on her.

Peter's strong arms tightened around her, and he rocked her back and forth in a soothing manner as one would rock a baby.

When her tears dried, she lifted her head and found herself looking into caring, dark-brown eyes so full of pain it broke her heart again. She knew Peter missed Sam as well, and he wouldn't rest until Sam's killer was brought to justice. The fact it took so long nearly killed her.

She'd always considered herself a strong, self-sufficient woman but not so much anymore, not since her husband's death. She longed for the day when she no longer felt so weak and vulnerable; especially in front of Peter, who'd once known her as strong.

She shimmied herself loose from Peter's grip and rose from the bench. "I'm sorry for interrupting your evening and being such a bother to you all the time," Alex said as she swiped the back of her hand over her moist, blazing cheeks.

Peter rose. "You're never a bother to me. I'm here for you whenever you need me. Don't forget that."

He leaned toward her and drew her in for another hug before he loosened his grip just a bit and tenderly pressed his lips to her forehead.

"Are you sure you don't want a drink?" he asked as he released her from his comforting hold.

"No, thank you."

He walked her to her vehicle, opened the door for her, and she climbed in. Then, he shut the door and walked away.

She sat for a moment gathering her thoughts, silently begging God to turn the clock back six months. Was that too much to ask?