Saving Joe. Laura Altom Marie

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      “Like you did my wife?”

      “Odds are, that kind of thing would never happen again.”

      “Promise?”

      Therein lay the problem.

      Of course Gillian couldn’t promise. And though she had faith in herself and in her co-workers to do their very best, she saw Joe’s point. He’d been burned once by the Witness Protection Program. Why would he want to stick his hand back in the fire?

      Unable to argue with Joe’s logic, she tried being quiet, but the darkness was oppressive. Complete. Reminded her of that creepy forest they’d marched through on the way from Joe’s cabin. Even though they were surely safe from any thug types, her internal danger meter sprouted a fresh crop of goose bumps on her arms.

      “You might feel better if you chat,” she said, itchy to calm her sudden nerves.

      “I might feel better? Or you?”

      “Okay,” she laughed. “You got me. Never been a big fan of the dark.”

      “I am. It’s peaceful.”

      “It’s dangerous. Boring.”

      “You ever shut up?”

      Being constantly around men, Joe’s bark didn’t phase her. “You always this much fun?”

      “Fun? You call being crammed into a freezing cave that smells like dead fish, with a half-dead dog, no food or water, and a woman who talks more than she breathes, fun?”

      At that, Gillian shook her head. “Have you ever in your whole life looked on the bright side of a situation?”

      “Yeah. And then my wife died and nothing in my life has ever been bright again.”

      Instantly sobered, Gillian swallowed hard. “Bud’s gonna be okay. That’s bright, isn’t it?”

      “Sure. Thanks to you.” She felt him lean forward, heard him sigh. “Sorry to be such rotten company. I really do owe you for helping my pal, here, but…” Joe stopped talking to rub the scruff on the animal’s neck. She knew, not because she could see him, but because her own hand rested on the dog’s head. Her fingers tingled from Joe’s radiated heat. “…it’s just that this is hard for me.”

      “What?”

      “Small talk. Pretending we have anything even remotely in common.”

      “Oh, I’ll bet between us we could come up with something. What’d you think of the last Brad Pitt movie?”

      “Didn’t see it.”

      “What’s your favorite color?”

      “Black.”

      She made a face. Kind of morose, but she supposed apropos, considering where he’d been emotionally.

      “Used to be green,” he surprisingly volunteered. “So?

      “What?”

      “Your favorite color? It’s been awhile since I had a polite conversation, but isn’t that how it goes? I talk, then you talk?”

      “Yeah. I was just thinking about your green.”

      “What about it?”

      “Which one? There are only about a zillion. Kelly green and bamboo. Forest and teal—which is really more of a blue, but—”

      “Money green. I used to spend a lot of time worrying about making it. Then, once I had more than I could spend in a lifetime, I worried about keeping it.” He rubbed his chin. “I should’ve spent more time on my wife and kid. Maybe then I wouldn’t have been checking out that new warehouse. I would’ve been home with them, playing a game of Candyland or grilling by the pool.”

      “What happened to Willow—it wasn’t your fault.”

      “Yeah, it was.”

      “We’ll agree to disagree on that. As for me worrying about keeping money…” Gillian laughed. “I’ve never had any. Probably wouldn’t know what to do with it if I did.”

      “It’s true, you know. That old saying about money not buying happiness. I always thought it was a lie, but hell, I’ve got millions sitting in an L.A. bank. Fat lot of good it’s doing me.”

      “Ever think about going back? You know, back to L.A. to be with Meghan permanently?”

      “I thought we weren’t going there.”

      “We’re not. Just answer me that one thing.”

      “Why?”

      “Who knows? Because it’s dark, and I’m cold and…” She wanted to believe her reasons for being there went beyond just doing her job. That maybe once all of this was over, he’d go get his little girl. Gillian knew what it felt like to lose her mother. The last thing she wished for Meghan was for her to lose her father, too. Swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, she said, “You’re right. It’s none of my business. Sorry I asked. I won’t again.”

      Intending to keep her word, Gillian turned her attention to food, meaning it was time to wriggle their only snack from her pocket.

      “What’re you doing?” Joe asked.

      “Cooking supper. Hold out your hand.”

      He did, and she placed something cold, hard, and at the same time soft on his palm. “What is it?” he asked.

      “Taste.”

      He closed his eyes and all but moaned at the incredible sensation of chocolate melting on his tongue. The Snickers she’d brought him. She must’ve taken it from the side table after he’d gone. “Thanks,” he said. “But back at the cabin, I was a jerk about it. You eat it all.”

      “No way.”

      After they’d taken a few minutes to eat, Joe steeled himself for Gillian to once again bring up the topic of Meghan, but she surprised him by staying quiet.

      Odd. He hadn’t expected her to gracefully drop the subject of Meggie any more than he expected the flash of disappointment he felt—almost as if he’d wanted to talk about his daughter. Needed to, only he never gave himself permission. But here, in the dark, beside this slip of a woman…

      Never had he been closer to a confessional. Never had he wanted more to confess.

      Everything.

      His pain. Grief. Anger. Most of all, guilt.

      Somewhere along the line, after Willow’s death, after the trial, after saying goodbye to his little girl, he’d stopped believing in the whole concept of good. For him, the word didn’t exist.

      Life sucked.

      Period.

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