But the numbers in the accounts before her weren’t adding up. There were problems in several of the accounts she’d taken over a few months ago. Either she’d made a mistake, or the accountant she’d taken over for had screwed up. Not that it was a huge surprise, considering Billy had had to leave for a drug rehabilitation center.

She flipped back open the main manila file for Hall’s Funeral Home. The numbers swam before her eyes. She blinked several times, allowing them to right themselves.

Wait a minute.

Scrambling for the accounts payable ledger, she quickly scanned the items. Triumph had her nearly laughing out loud. Of course. Billy had counted the sales of several plots to one family as a lump sum, and not as monthly income. The sale was spread over several months, and the money wouldn’t be paid until the fifteenth of each month. But Billy had counted the money before getting paid.

Thank goodness. The problem was an easy fix. Josie took a deep, relaxing breath. Maybe all four troubled accounts had similar mistakes. Drugs had apparently really messed with Billy’s brain. Though to be safe, she should double-check all his files, even the ones that seemed all right, especially since competition at the firm was crazy at the moment. She glanced at the other files perched on the bed.

Maybe she should just go to bed and forget about work. It was only a little after eight, but exhaustion made her head feel heavy. She eyed her knitting basket in the corner. Knitting. Precise, logical, and yet somehow creative. Mrs. Lilly, one of her favorite foster mothers, had taught her when she was eleven. Before Mrs. Lilly got too sick to take care of lost kids. More recently, her old hobby had allowed Josie to make friends in a strange city and show a side of herself she often hid.

With a smile, Josie noted a striped hat perched on the dresser she’d recently knitted for her secretary. Sassy, bright, and bold, the woman would love the pattern. It was so different than Josie’s first disastrous attempts on her own. Now she could picture the final result in her mind while buying yarn at the specialty store on the other side of town. The owner knew her there… and while shopping, Josie became part of something. A community of people who created.

Times were tough. People knitted to make money, to keep their families warm. While women with adorable kids searched the cozy aisles, Josie could almost pretend she had a family, too. That she had a skill to pass down and share with somebody else.

A somebody with Shane’s eyes and her nose.

Even if she stayed alone for life, she could create. Something of her would remain… so long as the yarn held true.

Shane had loved her knitting. Something old-fashioned and feminine about the process. A part of her wanted to go back to the living room. To be near him. But they really didn’t have anything to talk about except the need for him to sign the divorce papers. What if he wouldn’t sign?

What if he would?

The phone rang, jarring her from thoughts of Shane. She grabbed the handset. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Dean, it’s Detective Malloy.” Rustling papers and ringing phones sounded across the line, surrounding the detective’s voice in noise.

“Hi, Detective.” A shadow crossed her doorway. She glared at Shane. He more than filled the entrance, his large bulk contrasting with the feminine tones of her room. Wet hair curled at his nape.

The detective cleared his throat. “We’ve had some developments in your husband’s case, Mrs. Dean.”

Unease straightened her posture. “Developments?”

“Yes. I know it’s almost eight at night, but I’d like for you and your husband to meet me at the station in thirty minutes.” The detective hung up.

Josie pulled the handset from her head, turning to stare at it. Developments? Malloy needed a book on proper phone etiquette. She hung up the phone and turned toward the doorway.

“Angel?” Shane leaned against the door frame in faded jeans and ripped T-shirt, the casual stance belied by the sharp gaze in his too-pale face. His head was probably killing him. His scent of heated cedar wafted her way, suffusing a maleness into her comfort zone.

“Detective Malloy would like to speak with us.” Her hands clutched the thick comforter with its pattern of homey tulips. She’d purchased the cover from a catalog, waiting impatiently until it arrived before choosing the whimsical table lamps that matched. She normally counted her pennies, but she’d splurged on creating her home.

The king-sized bed had been another indulgence.

Memories of heated nights and fun mornings spent grappling in another bed with Shane filled her mind. He was a big guy and needed a king-sized bed. She fought a blush.

Shane lifted an eyebrow, leaning against the wall she’d painted a soft beige. A shadow lined his sharp jawline, giving him the look of a rebel. “Why does the detective want to speak with us?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.” Blood stained Shane’s ripped shirt, a testament to the violence that stalked him. “Give me a second while I change, and we can go see what this is about.”

His eyes warmed. “Need help?”

Her abdomen heated. “No.”

His shrug made him wince. “Suit yourself.”

“Are you okay?” The unwanted concern reminded her of emotions she thought she’d destroyed.

“Fine. Just a headache.” He pivoted on his bare feet and disappeared from view.

Yeah, there was the Shane she remembered. Blocking her out on the pretext of protecting her delicate nature. Dumbass.

It was time to move on and unravel the hold he had on her. The emotions Shane evoked were raw, dangerous, and so deep. She’d never completely expel him from inside her heart.

He was a soldier and he’d staked his claim.

The sooner he left, the sooner she could return to pretending she’d moved on. Maybe someday she actually would. Her feet hit the cold wooden floor. She’d been searching for a rug for the bedroom for more than a year—someday she’d find the perfect one.

She dressed in comfortable jeans and a blue sweater that brought out the varied hues in her eyes. Not that she was dressing to impress Shane. She just liked that sweater.

Indecision had her biting her lip until, with a shrug, she grabbed a faded men’s T-shirt out of the bottom dresser drawer. On cold nights, or lonely nights, she often slept in one of Shane’s old shirts. He couldn’t very well go to the police station in the ripped one.

She found him at the kitchen table, eating the rest of the cold lasagna. “You’re hungry again?”

He finished chewing. “I like your cooking.”

The T-shirt landed on the table with a quick toss. “I have one of your old shirts. It’s clean.”

He wiped his mouth with a napkin, his gaze on the shirt. “Am I supposed to read something into this?” Deep and dark, his voice lowered to a rumble that sped up her heart.

“No.” Only that she hadn’t gotten over him yet. No matter how hard she tried to lie to herself. “Some of your clothes must’ve been mixed up with mine when I moved.” Nothing would make her admit she also kept a shirt of his she refused to wash, hidden in the back of her closet. Even after two years, his unique male scent still clung to the worn cotton.

“All right.” He whipped off the bloodied shirt and pulled on the clean one. “Thanks.”

“Sure.” One glimpse at his impressive chest and she wanted to lick him head-to-toe. Man, she needed to get herself under control. She grabbed a jacket from the small closet near the door. The emotional walls between them were suffocating her, and she needed to get outside. “We should get going.”

Shane nodded, unfolded himself from the kitchen chair, and opened the door slowly and deliberately. “Okay.”

Concern stilled her movement. “Are you all right?”

“Yep. Just a headache. I’ll drive.”

Josie thought about arguing. But why bother? He’d end up driving, and frankly, driving at night wasn’t her favorite activity. She’d liked that about Shane during their brief marriage. Driving was a pleasure for him, and she could just sit back and relax during the ride. “Whatever.”

She waited until he’d backed them out of the driveway before giving him directions. They drove in silence until he reached town. Josie picked distractedly at a fray on her jeans. “Any memories come back?” Only stubborn will kept her gaze off the capable hands on the steering wheel. She’d loved those hands.

“No.” Shane glanced again at the rearview mirror.

Josie turned to look at the cars behind them. “What are you searching for?”

“The van that followed us earlier today.”

Maybe his concussion was worse than they thought. “I think your imagination took over. You do have a head injury.”

“Perhaps.” He checked behind them again. Frustration and doubt slid across his face, to be masked by a pleasant smile. One that didn’t fool her a bit. “Regardless, I don’t sense any danger now.”

Yep. He still kept secrets now, didn’t he? Josie turned her focus to the night outside the car.

Shane exited the freeway, drove for a mile, and parked the SUV in front of the three-story brick building. Bright lights surrounded the station, banishing the night. Jumping out, he crossed to open her door before she grabbed the handle. Strong hands helped her out of the vehicle, where the autumn breeze cut into her skin.

“Ah, Josie? How about letting me do the talking with the detective?” The door shut with a soft click, and Shane gestured her forward.

“Why?” She was perfectly capable of answering questions from the police. Not only had she done nothing wrong, but she’d grown up in foster care. Dealing with authority and its agenda was nothing new for her.