Page 51 of The Woman Left Behind

The next morning, Harry dropped the tin of cookies in the staff kitchen.

It was light a few, the ones he and Lillian had eaten the night before, and the ones he’d put in a Stasher at home.

After his run that morning, he’d had eggs, bacon, and a thick slab of Lillian’s bread, lightly toasted and slathered in butter. He took one bite and added grape jelly, because that flavorful, chewy bread needed jelly.

And right then, he walked down the back hall toward his office, and it wasn’t lost on him his thoughts were light, as was his step, because he’d started his day shitty yesterday, and he could compartmentalize, he could get on with things, but no cop could escape the fact you carried a hint of every tragedy you processed or investigated with you. And in the beginning, after they’d just happened, they weighed heavy.

But Lillian took it from him, she cuddled with him, she fed him, she made him laugh.

She didn’t erase it, but by damn, she sure as hell made it better.

He hadn’t walked into this station feeling this unburdened since he lost his wife.

Two dates (or, he smiled to himself, in Lillian’s estimation, four) and she gave him that.

Oh yeah, they were exploring this because she wasn’t just gorgeous, soft, generous, a great cook with fantastic taste in movies and television who was strong and smart and tasted fantastic.

She didn’t get loaded down with his job.

In the days before Winnie, he’d dated, and he’d done it while he was a deputy. He’d had colleagues share it took a certain kind of woman to marry a dedicated cop. And he’d learned that quickly when his job got in the way of him paying attention to them.

It was early days with Lillian, but she didn’t throw a fit when he showed way later than they expected, and she’d noticed immediately the toll that crash had taken on him, and she set about doing something about it.

So yeah, fuck yeah, he hadn’t felt this unencumbered coming to work for years.

And he fucking liked it.

So yeah again.

They were going to explore this.

To the fullest.

He shrugged off his jacket, hung it on a hook, settled behind his desk, turned on his computer, and Polly strolled in with his Aromacobana.

“Just so you know, I have to pay attention to catch you coming in, and then I have to bring you your coffee in your office,” she griped in a roundabout way about the sign in the front being gone and Harry now parking out back.

“You used to watch for me to show out front, met me at reception, and now, I walk right by your office, and it’s right next to mine,” he pointed out, and added, “I’ve also told you repeatedly you don’t have to buy me a coffee, but if you insist on doing it, I could just walk into your office and get it so you don’t have to walk to mine.”

“If I don’t go to the front, I can’t look over the boys and girls and make sure they’re getting themselves settled and taking care of business,” she retorted.

He usually arrived around morning shift change, and Polly was always in first, so he saw she’d want to do this, because Polly kept her finger on all of their pulses.

He should have known there was a method to her madness.

Even so.

“I’m not putting the sign back up,” he warned.

She rolled her eyes.

Rus showed at the door carrying his own Aromacobana cup.

“Hey, Pol,” he greeted her.

“Heya, Rus,” she replied, then sashayed out.

Rus’s attention came to Harry. “Know you just got in but wanted to know if you saw that file on Clifford Ballard.”

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