grittiness of the downtrodden neighborhoods and warehouse districts. So why the hell was he thinking about that shit-hole farmhouse out in the middle of fuck-all?
He might not want to admit it, but he knew why. And the notion that his life was about to change, especially by his own hand, scared the living hell out of him.
It had been a long time since he’d wanted anything with such ferocity, even longer since he thought he might actually have a chance of getting it. Or that he deserved something as ordinary as happiness or peace of mind or the opportunity for a fresh start. For the first time in four years, he was thinking about the future. A future that wasn’t bleak.
Two days later Tomasetti called his Realtor and made a ridiculously low offer on the property. He assured himself even a motivated seller would never accept that level of highway robbery and a rejection would be fine by him. The last thing he needed was a goddamn money pit. But the owner had surprised him and accepted the price without a counter offer. Tomasetti had surprised himself by handing over the cash. Three weeks later, they closed the deal.
He’d figured the regret would sneak up on him any day now. The knowledge that he’d screwed up and made a bad investment. But a month had passed and he had yet to lament his decision. He’d already resolved to do some work on the place. Put in a new kitchen. Granite countertops. Cherry cabinets. Travertine flooring. The kitchen, after all, was the room in which you garnered your best return. When the kitchen was finished, he’d sand and stain the hardwoods. Repair and paint the siding. Slap some paint on the interior. Then he’d sell the place to some sucker who wanted to live out in the middle of nowhere so he could listen to the frogs and get bitten up by mosquitoes. Hopefully, Tomasetti could make a little cash in the process.
His superiors at the Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation had been urging him to take some time off for a couple of years now—something Tomasetti had resisted because, up until now, he’d needed to work. When he’d walked in to Denny McNinch’s office and announced he would be taking the entirety of his vacation time, he’d thought Denny was going to fall out of his chair. In fact, Denny had looked worried, like maybe he thought Tomasetti was teetering on some precipice with one foot already over the edge. Then he’d told Denny about the house and his superior had seemed not only relieved, but genuinely pleased.
The one person Tomasetti hadn’t told was Kate. He wasn’t sure why; he knew she’d be happy for him. Hell, knowing Kate she’d probably volunteer to drive up for the weekend to help him paint. But Tomasetti knew why he hadn’t told her and it was those not-so-apparent motivations that scared him. This house wasn’t just an investment or a place to live. It represented something much more important: the future.
Last summer, he and Kate had worked together on a string of missing persons cases in the northeastern part of the state. They spent some intense days together in the course of the case and one night he’d gotten caught up in the moment and asked her to move in with him. Tomasetti had never seen her look more uncertain—or terrified. He might have laughed if he hadn’t been so damned disappointed.
Kate was independent to a fault. She could be closed off emotionally. Like him, she lugged around a good bit of baggage. She might be fearless when it came to her job, but she could be skittish when it came to their relationship.
Tomasetti got that, but he wanted her in his life. He wanted to share this with her. For the first time since he’d lost his wife and children, he wanted more. A lot more. The question was, did Kate?
He’d been making the forty-five-minute drive from Richfield to the farm for three days now and he’d fallen into a routine he liked, arriving at the crack of dawn, throwing open the windows, turning the old