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for you. . .me. . .”
    Linda Rayburn watched her husband implode. Slowly he sank back into the chair, his hands still around the hunk of glass and wood. He lowered his head until it rested on the cool wedge of crystal. Linda bowed her own, her hair covering her face, her shoulders slumping. Maybe they were all lost; maybe not.  Finally, Linda raised her head. Her eyes narrowed. Inside there was a sliver of steel left. A little gift from her mother who made Linda what she was – a friggin’ survivor. Linda was going to share that gift with Kip because the last thing she wanted to do was leave.
    Slowly she walked toward her husband and wrapped her arms around his head. She pulled him into her. His arms went around her waist as she buried her lips in his hair.
    “I know what you did for me. I know what it cost you,” she whispered.
    “You do?”
     “Yes, and I was proud. And now you’ve got to stay brave and see this through,” Linda said.
    “I can, but you’ve got to help me now,” Kip mumbled. “You owe me that. After everything I’ve done. After all the risks I took for you. You owe me, not her. I hate her. It’s my turn now.”
    Linda’s heart turned to stone. Just when she thought life was going to be easy it took the cruelest turn of all. She hadn’t even wanted one and now she had two children pointing at her, making her part excuse, part reason, part inspiration for the things they did. It wasn’t fair.
    Linda sighed and caressed Kip’s hair. She would do what she could. She’d push Kip to his limit and make him find his courage again. She’d be smart, she’d watch and wait, and move only when it was necessary. But in the end, if Hannah didn’t do her part, they were all screwed.
     

4
     
    Josie woke up at six with the sun in her eyes, the smell of Archer all around. It was in the sheets, on her body, in the scent of the dark coffee he preferred, the piquant smell of the chemicals he used in his darkroom. The sense of him was everywhere. In the way his clothes were hung precisely in the closet, and in the book of forensic techniques that lay open on the bedside. Once a cop always a cop.  On the bookshelf, a rosary hung over the neck of an empty bottle of tequila. It was a long story.  Short version: Archer found religion one night while a buddy lost his. He said he kept the rosary to remind him to play savior only when it was a sure thing. Josie didn’t believe him. He could never be so calculating. He had saved her, and she wasn’t a sure thing. Josie threw an arm over her eyes for a second, then rolled onto her side to touch the place where he had slept. The sheets were cold. He’d been gone for awhile.
    Josie got out of bed and searched for her clothes. She found her muscle shirt and panties but the sweats and sports bra were missing in action. She shimmied into what she had, glanced at the picture of Lexi, Archer’s dead wife, and then went looking for the man they shared.  She found him on the rooftop balcony, a perk of owning the building.
    “Morning,” Josie walked up behind him and wound her arms around his waist. He was a big man; made her feel downright dainty. She loved the smell of his shirt. Starched and pressed by the man who wore it.
    “Don’t move,” he commanded.
    Josie didn’t but only because she didn’t want to. She held her breath, loving the feel of him when he was excited by what he saw through his lens. His gut tightened beneath her hands. A solitary muscle rippled. Quick like a snake. A click. He sighed with satisfaction and stood up slowly, surveying the beach once more before turning around to kiss Josie. She kissed him back just long enough for them both to be happy. When she slipped out of his arms, he let her go. No nonsense. No jealousy. No neediness.  Respect. Affection. Comfort. Chemistry. It was the kind of relationship people who could take care of themselves did well.
    Archer and Josie did it extremely well.
    They met a year ago. Archer snapped