Murder at the Villa Maria-Sedona Retirement Home

  * * * *

  Noah flipped his cell closed, thinking Dallas was lost to him forever. Still, he couldn’t … wouldn’t give up on her.

  He wanted to hate her and in the minutes the drive home took him he told himself he had the right.

  His split-level home looked as lonely as he felt when he pulled into the driveway. Tonight, seeing the flourishing trees and shrubs gave him no contentment, and the house seemed more of a prison than a home. Growling, he hit the remote for the garage door and pulled into his lonely parking place.

  Shephard was wrong.

  I don’t need to see a shrink.

  Keep telling yourself that, Noah.

  On his way out of the garage, he slammed his hand against the button to close the door. A second later, the metal panels rolled at a turtle’s pace along the runners.

  The lights inside the house burned dimly. Where he and Dallas worked shifts and their home was often unoccupied for long periods of time, they had installed timers on staggered settings on the lights in different rooms throughout the house to deter burglars.

  He unlocked the back door and hung his keys on the rack on the wall above the steps leading into the kitchen.

  God, he could use a beer. But that was another want he would not give in to. Some of his colleagues suffering through separations and divorces indulged themselves and became addicts to alcohol or pills after giving in to the temptation to ease their pain and hurt.

  It wouldn’t happen to him.

  He wouldn’t allow it.

  Not because he was strong of character, but because he wanted to be clean and free of any vices when Dallas found her way back to him. And she would. He merely needed to be patient.

  He ambled down the five steps to the rec room and checked the answering machine, scowling when no red blinking light tried to get his attention.

  Distressed, he ran down the steps to the fourth level, flicked on the lights. His hand traced the side rail of the pool table while he stared at the red felt. Dallas had put up a good fight for the color. Running his hand over the fuzzy covering, he remembered the promises she’d made when he feigned preference for the green felt. He was in his right mind, then.

  Now…

  You need to see a shrink.

  What would a shrink do for him he couldn’t do for himself?

  Nothing.

  Just as pills and alcohol temporarily eased the pain, so would a psychiatrist.

  His life would get easier with each passing day. He would never have again the rich and full life he had before, but the days would get easier to bear.

  Not believing a word of the self-analysis, he strode to the bar and grabbed a beer from the fridge.

  Just one.

  One wouldn’t do any harm.

  He unscrewed the cap and took a long pull, enjoying the cold burn down his throat.

  Noah forbade himself to fall prey to self-pity and regret. Instead, he looked to the positive side of things.

  Dallas wasn’t dead. He could still remind her how much they meant to each other.

  He had his work.

  He had his friends.

  He had a beautiful house.

  He had reliable transportation, no debt and money in the bank.

  Yes, he had a lot to be thankful for, yet, he had nothing without Dallas.

  Heaving a sigh, he set the beer in a side pocket on the pool table and walked to the desk, knowing he should keep busy, keep his mind occupied with something besides Dallas. He had a few reports to write.

  Visions of the judge and lawyer’s slain bodies flashed in his mind. He should run through his murder files. There must be something he missed on the first, second and third run through.

  And when he solved these cases, there would be something else to occupy his mind and time.

  He didn’t need to see a shrink.