Spells Trouble - Kristin Cast (mobile ebook reader .txt) 📗

was something else. Something familiar yet out of reach. His stomach seized and a wave of vomit rolled up his throat. Chunks slipped off his tongue and squelched against the empty sink. He stared at the towel dispenser, turned on the faucet, and washed the mess away. He didn’t want to look at it, either.

The bathroom door creaked open and he stepped in front of the broken mirror and the freshly cleaned sink. Deputy Carter rushed in, his hands already unbuckling his belt. “Oh, Sheriff.” He stiffened. “Sorry, I, uh, I didn’t know anyone was in here.” He let out an awkward chuckle, took off his hat, and ran his hand through his flattened hair. “Too much coffee and not enough bathroom visits.” Another bleat of laughter as he shuffled to the nearest urinal.

Dearborn’s lip curled as the deputy turned his back and sighed with relief when his stream hit the porcelain. At their base, they were all animals. Caged animals. The sheriff threw open the door and charged into the bullpen.

Across the open room of desks, a woman waved at him like her arms were on fire. She was the only woman in the building without a uniform, her hair tied back tight and a row of weapons around her hips.

His teeth ground together as she waddled toward him, so eager for connection, for love. But love was weakness, downfall, the beginning of everything evil or bad. He wanted no part of it.

Her name tag glinted in the harsh overhead lighting. Trish. That’s right. If he dug down deep enough, he could uncover the sun-bleached memory of her. But the memories were fading, and fast.

A dimple made a nest in her cheek as she smiled. “There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you. I was worried.” Stickers, sparkling hearts and fat bears framed the capital letters on her name tag. Dearborn squinted and blinked through the haziness blurring his left eye. Maybe they were beavers. All those hairy woodland creatures looked the same. “You haven’t returned any of my calls and I haven’t seen you since last night before…” She clenched and unclenched the notepad and glittery pen between her soft hands. “Well, you know.” A forced grin cracked her bleak, smooth features.

All he could do was wipe the sweat from his brow and nod. He couldn’t quite remember how he should respond. The Trish memories were fading away.

“It was awful.” She parted the uncomfortable silence and waded closer to him. Warmth rolled off her like she was freshly baked bread. “Old Earl Thompson finally stumbled onto something real and it killed him.” She shook her head. Her red curls bounced, tossing a spicy sweetness into the air.

Pie? Was that it?

His heart clamored and the tips of his fingers tingled. His body remembered something his mind no longer knew.

“I threw out the Ruckus Report.” She leaned in. Her breath fogged the gold star pinned to his chest. “Didn’t think it was right to keep it since he’s no longer with us. Maybe it wasn’t the right thing to do to begin with.”

Another shake of her head. Another swirl of sugar and spice.

He brushed the tip of his nose against her curls. “Cinnamon,” he murmured as a crumb of memory rolled into focus. “You bake when you’re upset.”

Dearborn’s memories faded in and out and would soon leave his mind altogether. But some memories stayed with the body. Things like driving, shooting, not to turn his head too quickly to the left. In a lifetime long before Dearborn, he’d been a brilliant painter. But that had ended in blood and tears and more stains on his immortal soul.

Trish pressed her notepad against her chest and took a wobbly step back. “Frank, I—” She fanned herself with her free hand and fluffed the round tips of her chin-length curls. “Well, I’m not quite sure what to say.” Her cheeks flamed strawberry red as she cast a glance around the bullpen.

He followed her attention, eyes narrowed and fists clenched while he took in all the darting glances and quick returns to computer monitors, stacks of paperwork, and phone calls. There had been something between Sheriff Dearborn and this Trish woman, but that was a different person, a different life. Frank Dearborn had never learned the truth about love and happiness and the pain they both brought. Now he wouldn’t allow this body or these fleeting memories to betray him again.

Trish held out the notepad and tapped at the list of names and phone numbers she’d written under two column headings: ASAP and After Lunch. “I know you’d rather not fiddle with that computer program to read your call-back list, but they’re in there, too, if you’re so inclined.”

Although she couldn’t see through his mirrored sunglasses, he kept his eyes narrowed as he snatched the notepad from her hand. He wouldn’t pine after Trish. Whatever Dearborn had had with her was over, dead.

Trish fiddled with the cap of her glittery pen. “Need another cup of coffee, Sheriff? I have a sneaking suspicion you’re hiding some pretty dark circles under those glasses.”

A dry tickle tightened the back of his throat and his stomach seized again. Only one thing could ease his pain and quiet this restless body. He had to get away from this woman, all of these people, the hot, circulated air, and the overhead lights.

Trish rested her warm hand against his bicep. “Frank, are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine,” he croaked. He’d done nothing but lie since he’d arrived. This body knew it, and it wanted him gone.

Wet coughs tore from his lungs, a thousand molten nails searing the inside of his ribs. Frank Dearborn isn’t here! he shouted at the battle lines carved inside his chest, his gut. He’s never coming back!

Trish steadied him as another barking explosion ripped through him. More hands were on him, different voices shouting concerns, solutions, all guiding him toward his office door. He planted his feet and sucked in a haggard breath. “I’m fine,” he