Sarah glared at her. "Very funny. Hand it over."

Then she noticed the thin line of a scar on Rae's shoulder and forearm. She was also trying not to stare at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Well, no, she really wasn't. Rae Jefferson was in very fit shape. All at once, Sarah felt old and dowdy. She instinctively tightened her stomach muscles and winced as she felt her lower back cramp.

Rae handed her the bloodied shirt; Sarah graciously did not ask about the scars.

"Why don't you take a hot shower? I'll get you another shirt and a pair of sweats."

Rae stood under the shower and flexed her shoulder; she landed heavily on it when she fell. She was about to step out of the shower when she heard the door open and immediately froze.

"Rae, I've got a shirt here. Need any help?"

"No," she said quickly.

Sarah laughed quietly and closed the door. Rae peeked out from behind the shower curtain, just to make sure the impish Sarah had truly left. She dried off and put on the sweatshirt, closing her eyes as she smelled the slightest hint of perfume.

"Oh, for G.o.dsakes, Jefferson. Get a grip." She struggled into the sweats, opened the bathroom door, and cautiously walked into the hallway. She heard Sarah humming down the hall.

She was in the bedroom, changing the sheets. She looked up and smiled. "Well, that looks better on you than me."

Rae cast a glance downward. The Notre Dame sweatshirt was too big on her, but she stupidly liked the feel of it. "I appreciate all you've done. I really should go home." She put a hand through her hair.

"Okay, all set." Sarah ignored her. "If you need anything, I'll be upstairs. Get some sleep, if you can sleep. Good night, Rae."

As she walked past her, Rae reached out and put a hand on her arm. Sarah smiled up at her.

"Thank you, Sarah," Rae said softly. Then, quite unexpectedly, she bent down and lightly kissed Sarah's cheek.

"That was nice," Sarah whispered. "Have a good sleep." Sarah turned and walked to the door. "I will be tossing and turning, thank you," she said as she closed the door.

Rae smiled and slipped into bed. For almost an hour, she lay there staring at the ceiling. Her head ached and her mind raced, trying to piece some of the convoluted mess together. Where was Amy Davis? How was Mike Porter and possibly this Molly Eastman involved, or were they? Maybe Amy just took off.

She painfully rubbed her forehead and winced as she felt the bandage above her brow. Sarah Connelly came to mind now, which was much more enjoyable. She was unlike anyone with whom Rae was accustomed. For one thing, she was an adult. Rae winced at her own superficial behavior in recent years.

She was used to the love 'em and leave 'em atmosphere. Young women love to be with someone older and wiser; Rae was glad to accommodate. It was short, s.e.xually satisfying, and simple. No explanations, no expectations.

Her heart raced as she thought of Sarah Connelly. She was smart, savvy, and s.e.xy. When she smiled, she smiled from her soul. That intrigued and scared Rae s.h.i.tless.

Tossing in bed, she fought a different kind of urge. No, she argued with herself. This woman is not for you. Don't even give it another thought.

In the end, she finally fell into a fitful sleep, giving it just another thought.

Chapter 7.

Sarah woke early Sunday, and after taking a shower, she crept downstairs, not wanting to wake her guest. She tiptoed into the kitchen and put on the coffee. Then she pulled the shades to let the abundance of sunlight into her kitchen. It was a cool, crisp, sunny autumn morning. As she opened the refrigerator, she noticed a note on the kitchen table.

She picked it up and let out a disappointed grunt.

Professor, Saying thanks for the first aid and the spare bed seems quite inadequate. I truly appreciate your kindness. I will call you later in the day. I need to find this Molly Eastman. I also have to get in touch with McGrath and let him know of last night's mess.

Again, you're an angel of mercy. Something I am not accustomed to. Sorry, but I needed to go.

Rae "Phooey," Sarah said rudely and read the note again. "Just what are you accustomed to, Commander Rae Jefferson, formerly of Naval Intelligence?"

Rae's head throbbed as she drove back to her place. She reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a bottle of aspirin. Tossing a few in her mouth, she chewed and swallowed the bitter pills. This was something else she learned in the navy.

"No water. Just eat 'em. Don't be a p.u.s.s.y...ma'am," Sergeant Walchek had said as she lay there, bleeding. Then he gave her a wink. Rae truly loved that old man. He was a seasoned veteran of Iraq and Afghanistan. When he was in full marine dress, the ribbons and medals covered Master Gunnery Sergeant Michael J. Walchek's chest. He was like the poster child for the marines, and Rae adored him.

Now she made her way to her bed, peeled off her borrowed clothes, and landed facedown and hugged her pillow. Exhausted, she tried to get the sleep that did not come the previous night as she tossed and turned. The dream invaded her sleep, as well as thoughts of Sarah Connelly. Several times during the night, she sat on the edge of the bed, tempted to go to Sarah's room. There was an attraction there, no doubt. However, for some reason, she didn't just want to climb into bed for s.e.x with this woman. The idea of Sarah holding her was overwhelming. Instinctively, she knew Sarah Connelly would be a nurturing, caring woman.

"I'm a mess," she mumbled as she faded off, trying to forget the smiling gray eyes of Sarah Connelly.

Across town, Sarah sat at her kitchen table drinking coffee and reading Rae's note for the tenth time. Then the doorbell rang.

"She's back." She nearly killed herself getting to the door. She came to a screeching halt a few feet away and took a deep breath, smoothing her hair. Not too pathetic, Connelly, she thought, chuckling to herself, but she didn't care.

She opened the door smiling, and it faded just when she saw Detective Grainger standing there. "Oh. h.e.l.lo."

Delia raised an eyebrow and took off her sungla.s.ses. "Good morning. Sorry, is Rae around?"

Sarah stepped back as Delia walked in. "No, she left early. I don't know where she went. Coffee?" she asked, and Delia nodded emphatically as she followed her into the kitchen.

She watched Sarah at the stove and saw the note. "From Rae? Do you mind?"

"No, not at all," Sarah said over her shoulder.

"Rae didn't stay, huh?"

"Nope."

"You sound disappointed."

Sarah shrugged and retrieved the coffee cups from the cabinet.

"So you just met Rae yesterday? A lot's happened in twenty-four hours," she said as Sarah placed the steaming cup in front of her.

"Yes, Detective. Yes, it has," Sarah said.

"Delia, please," she corrected her as she took a drink.

They sat in silence for a moment. Sarah was playing with her cup.

Delia smiled. "Something you wanted to ask?"

Sarah tried to feign confusion. It didn't work; she didn't know why she tried. "How long have you known Rae?" Sarah asked nonchalantly.

"Oh, ten years. I enlisted two, three years after her. She was already a lieutenant commander. We did a hitch in Washington for the last six years of Rae's service. That's where they promoted her to commander. After Syria, she retired. I'm still in the Reserves."

"What happened in Syria?" She leaned forward, and Delia sighed.

"Sorry, Rae would have my head nice and neat on a silver platter. No, I value my head, as empty as it may get."

Sarah chuckled and nodded. "Understood. She's not one to talk about herself, is she?"

Delia gave her a sad smile. "No, she's not."

"And you're not gonna tell me, are you?"

Delia laughed. "No, I'm not. Well, I'd better be going. I'll try her at home." Delia stood, then noticed Rae's blouse and slacks cleaned and pressed. "You'll spoil her, you know?"

Sarah blushed and gave a deflated look. "Fat lot of good it would do," she said rudely, and Delia laughed out loud.

"You keep plugging away. I told Rae someday she'd find someone. Maybe like you. Not these young..."

"Thank you."

Delia turned red. "I mean young with nothing upstairs." She tapped her temple. "Rae figures no questions from them, and that's all right with her. She needs a real woman to give her a hard time. I think you may fit the bill. You're confident and self-a.s.sured."

"And that's not good?"

"Quite the contrary. Rae's at a disadvantage here. You're not like the bubble-headed girls Rae usually surrounds herself with. This will be interesting to see how this plays out. As I said, you keep plugging away. I'm sure we'll see each other again. Goodbye."

"Thanks for the words of encouragement. Goodbye."

Sarah closed the door and stood there thinking about Rae Jefferson. It's not a hard time I want to give her, she thought as her heart and body began to ache.

Chapter 8.

Sunday pa.s.sed with nothing resolved. With Jane and Pam not at home, Rae stopped in and told McGrath about the night before. He listened and raised an eyebrow, glancing now and then at her bandaged brow.

"Not a mugging?" he asked.

Rae took a deep breath and shook her head. "I don't think so. For one, he took nothing. My keys and wallet were still in my pockets. I think..." She stopped and rubbed her forehead.

McGrath gave her a skeptical look. "You think what?"

"I think it was meant to scare me," Rae said in an even voice. She then told him about Mike Porter, Molly Eastman, and the other fellow Sarah told her about.

"This Professor Connelly. How well do you know her?"

"I don't. I just met her yesterday."

"Well, at least you know her name, that's an improvement," he said almost fatherly.

Rae winced and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She ignored his remark.

"Ms. Whiting and Ms. Rodriguez told me about this Porter fellow. I'll take a look at the university tomorrow. Maybe ask him a few questions. Now I can see something going on behind those baby blues, Commander. Stay out of this," he said firmly.

Rae gave him a wary glance. "Not to worry. I have no intention of stepping on your toes."

He chuckled. "Well, if ya do, tread lightly. I got bunions."

Rae laughed and shook his hand. He held on to it for a moment. "Watch your back. I don't want any dead bodies in my precinct."

Rae wanted desperately to oblige.

She spent the rest of the afternoon in her workout room. Working up a sweat, she tried to figure out what was going on. So far, the only common thread was Mike Porter.

She sat on the bench and adjusted the leg weights, then sat back and pumped off the reps until her thighs burned. A good workout always cleared her mind. She looked over at the other apparatus, trying to ignore it.

Finally, she had no choice. It was painful, but she needed to finish. She straddled the bench, sat, and reached up for the bar. Giving it a mighty tug, she pulled the bar down in front of her, then behind her head, grunting as her shoulder ached with each rep.

She remembered her physical therapist back at Bethesda. "At least three times a week, Commander Jefferson. You just gotta. You lost too much muscle, your bicep is just about gone," he said seriously as she pumped the bar. "Better that than your arm," he said, watching her.

"s.h.i.t," she now cursed as she let the bar go. The weights went down in a furious clang as she flexed her shoulder. She looked at herself in the mirror. The long thin line from the top of her left shoulder cut through her bicep where it ended. Another scar started right below her elbow jutting across her forearm.

"Attractive," she grumbled, but she was lucky. The scar, though noticeable, could have been much worse. And a few inches to the right, she'd be dead and wouldn't care about a scar. A pang of guilt swept through her as she angrily grabbed for her towel. She was dripping with sweat as she put the towel around her neck, walking out of the room and slamming the door.

She stopped in the kitchen and took a beer out of the refrigerator. She laid the cold bottle against her aching forehead, then angrily tossed her head back and drank almost the entire contents.

Then it started-the vivid scene of that hot day in Syria. Chief Petty Officer Higgins screaming for help. Rae standing there, her gun drawn, blood streaming down her arm and Higgins covered in it. She rubbed her eyes, trying to erase the images. She drank the remainder of the beer and opened yet another.

She made her way to the shower and drank her beer while the hot, steamy water baked her skin.

"Wash away my inequities, cleanse me from my sins," she recited aloud, remembering her childhood days at Ma.s.s. She lowered her head and let the water stream down her neck and back.

Then she started to weep. She leaned against the wall, then slid down along the cool tiles to the shower floor. Her knees drawn up, she hugged herself and continued to cry, fearing she may never stop. But of course, she did; she would never let herself cry for too long. She took a deep, quivering breath and stepped out of the shower. It was then she heard the doorbell.

"Who the h.e.l.l can that be?" She threw on a robe, grabbed her beer, and headed down the hallway.