She could still smell Tristen on the air; his peppermint breath and a trace of his spicy aftershave. It brought to mind his smile and gentle hand on her arm. Her cheeks warmed. Armed with the pleasant memory, she entered the kitchen. Ray waited for her at the table, massive hands wrapped around a mug of tar-like coffee. The bitter scent warred with the peppermint and chased it away, as if even her father’s beverage wanted the detective gone. Opposite him was another mug, again of coffee. A pot of sugar stood beside it, spoon sticking out to one side. ‘I don’t like coffee,’ she whispered. Ray pursed his lips. ‘Then I’ll drink it. But you should lay off food this morning.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Stress and shock can do funny things to your insides. Make sure you’re settled before you try anything solid.’ She sat down. Picked up the mug. Put it down without drinking. ‘I’m sorry, Daddy.’ ‘What for?’ Though she opened her mouth, the response refused to surface. He snorted.
