That Touch of Ink Read Online Free

you if you wanted to talk.”
    “It was my past, Tex. My issues. My baggage to deal with.”
    “Nobody said you had to deal with it alone.” He paused. “Sorry. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. Maybe you didn’t deal with it alone.”
    An eerie calm came over me at Tex’s inference of Hudson James, the contractor I relied on for furniture repair and maintenance to the apartment building I secretly owned. After finding out the truth about Brad in that dark theater, I’d withdrawn from life. And then Hudson started coming over.
    First, it was to check the smoke detectors in the building. When he said they were due for inspection, I didn’t question him. A week later it was a tear in the carpet on the back steps. When he showed up the following week with a box of energy-efficient light bulbs for the hallway, I met him with two glasses and a bottle of merlot. From that point on, I created the projects, and we worked on them together. We never talked about the homicide. I never told him what I’d learned about Brad. We’d simply enjoyed each other’s company. Slowly, in the months that followed, I’d started to deal with what I’d learned to be the truth about Brad.
    Over two years ago, in the middle of a passionate relationship, Brad had surprised me with the news that he was a married man who wasn’t going to leave his wife for me. We’d been on the top of a ski slope in the Poconos. I left him there, turned my back on him and skied down the slope, barely in control. My ski caught on a patch of ice. My tears clouded my vision. My reaction time failed. I fell. I blew out my knee and spent the rest of my vacation in a hospital room.
    But that day, last May, in a darkened theater in Dallas, with Tex at my side and a government official in the wings, I learned that Brad’s bombshell had been the real lie.
    Brad had never been married. He lied because he was involved with bad people—that’s what he called them—and he knew they’d come after me if I were a part of his life. He’d lied to drive me away—to protect me, not hurt me—but I didn’t know what to do with the cauldron of emotions I felt as a result.
    I’d established a new life when I moved to Dallas. I volunteered at a local movie theater and swam laps most mornings alongside senior citizens. I established a business and adopted a puppy. I got along just fine.
    And then I met Tex. Despite the conclusions he’d jumped to, I set out to prove that I was an independent woman who could take care of herself. I saved Hudson’s life, helped solve a cold case, and stared down a killer. But the vulnerability I felt after watching Brad’s confession was an arrow through a chink in my armor. I had excused myself from the theater and left without saying good-bye. I hadn’t returned to the theater. I hadn’t returned to my morning swimming routine.
    I hadn’t seen Tex again. Until now.
    “How did Turlington know you were here?” Tex prompted.
    “I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him since—I don’t know. The last time I heard from Brad was the message we watched in the theater.”
    “Keep going.”
    “I had to do something. I called the numismatist—”
    “The who?”
    “Stanley Mann. He specializes in collectible currency. He owns Paper Trail. I called him and asked if I could meet with him even though it was late. As soon as he heard about the five thousand dollar bill, he told me to come over. Nobody answered the doorbell when I got here, but I saw the dog inside. He was barking like something was wrong. I broke in because I thought he was hurt.” I kept my hand on the dog’s head. He was shaking.
    I was barely making sense to myself, but I felt the pressure of the ticking clock and, like a contestant on the twenty-five thousand dollar pyramid, I babbled out every fact that had brought me to this spot in the hope Tex could process the oil spill of screwed-up logic.
    “There’s a bowl of water out front. There’s a toy on the floor.