Author's Notes: I still don't own the characters, unfortunately. Universal Pictures owns them. Warning: This chapter is a little more, um, risqué than what I usually write (nothing terribly graphic but consider yourself warned in case you don't like that kind of thing). It's also a little long-ish because I didn't have a good point to end the chapter.

VI

STEP EIGHT: DON'T GET GREEDY

Rationally, she knew that it had been a dream, that all was well, but in the wee hours of the morning and the dark of night, her mind and body didn't give a shit for being rational. Her breathing was too ragged, and she knew she'd hyperventilate if she didn't get herself under control quickly. She could feel dampness on her face as tears that had fallen unawares in her sleep. Impatiently, she brushed the back of her hand across her eyes, wiping them dry.

Come on, Sarah, get a hold of yourself.

She slid her legs over the side of the bed, resting her elbows on her knees and her head on her hands, trying to stop herself from trembling and to bring her breathing under control. Her gaze wandered to the clock on her nightstand. 3:09 a.m.

He'd have closed the bar, counted out and done the safe drop, and cleaned up for the night. He was probably getting ready to head home right about now. Alive. Safe at home. Not lying in a ditch in Mosul, almost bleeding to death because a damned roadside bomb had taken off half his arm, like in the images in the damned case files.

The iPad containing copies of the case files lay on the room's small desk. Sarah thumbed at the computer but didn't bother opening the files again. She'd already poured over them a dozen times in the last two months, everything from the robbery down to the sealed juvenile records for both Clyde and Jimmy Logan.

Agent Noonan had emailed her additional information on Staff Sergeant Duane Dawson as well as visited the Veteran's Center in Pittsburgh to confirm Dawson's whereabouts on the day of the speedway robbery. She'd done the same for every man and woman in the veterans' support group that Clyde frequented. All her efforts yielded the same result: None of them had been involved. Another dead end.

She'd also perused Clyde's service records again. Sarah hadn't known anything about him personally the first time she'd studied his files. She'd told herself that her time with him might yield some new insight, highlight some crucial but not obvious piece of information that she had overlooked or dismissed when she'd previously read them. The first time going through them, Sarah had seen what she would have expected for a personnel report on a man who had earned a spot in the Marine Corps and volunteered for two tours of duty in arguably the most dangerous corner of the world.

Indeed, there were new insights, but not the kind that would lead to evidence connecting him to the robbery. Clyde still looked as young in his recruitment photo as Sarah remembered. Absurdly young, so much so that she'd checked his enlistment papers against his birth certificate to make sure he hadn't lied about his age when he'd signed on. Youth didn't make him look vulnerable or innocent.

Looking at the photo again, Sarah recognized the stubborn spark in his dark eyes and the same determined set of his jaw that warned he would not back down from a fight. She had seen that look the night Clyde had chased Floyd out of the Duck Tape Lounge for being handsy with her. She'd seen it after he'd ripped a loaded handgun out of Dawson's grip before the retired sergeant could blow his own head off. Sarah smiled a bit. God help the enemy combatants going up a country boy, fully trained by the finest military minds in the Corps and coming at them with that look in his eyes.

Dawson's name appeared in Clyde's files in the report on the ambush. It was the sergeant who had risked his life—and probably gone against all sorts of protocols—after the vehicle carrying Logan and three other Marines had hit the bomb. Dawson had broke cover to run, under intense enemy gunfire, to pull Clyde out of the road. He'd tied on the tourniquet that had saved Clyde from bleeding out right there in the ditch. He'd called in every favor he'd earned to be able to personally go the hospital in Germany and check on the boy's prognosis, had contacted the Logan family himself after the attack and kept them updated on Clyde's progress until he was stable enough to fly back to the States several months later.

Sarah had shoved the file aside this time. She couldn't look at the photos captured from terrorist propaganda videos that had been posted after the ambush or the awful medical reports again. She didn't need to: The images were seared into her memory, haunting her sleep. She didn't want to see the twisted heap of metal that had once been the vehicle he'd been riding in; she didn't want to see his blood caked on the ground.

She knew all the facts about how the ridiculously youthful-looking Marine had been injured. She knew that, in addition to the loss of his lower left arm, Clyde had suffered a traumatic brain injury and a compound fracture of his left femur. She knew he'd gone through years of physical and speech therapy after his release from the VA Hospital.

The problem was Clyde wasn't a collection of facts in an impersonal stack of military and civilian file folders anymore. It had been easier for Sarah when he was. When he was just a suspect in a precisely executed robbery at a speedway full of thousands of spectators and not the gangly, headstrong teenager with the determined look in his eyes who had joined the Marines just to establish an identity for himself beyond "Jimmy Logan's kid brother". When his careful, deliberate manner of speaking didn't owe to the fact that he'd had to learn how to talk all over again because of a head injury. When he wasn't the country boy who was shy about singing in public, frequented the used bookstores because e-books were impersonal and new books were too expensive, still opened doors for ladies and defended their honor whether they needed it or not, and who drove all night to save a friend's life.

When he wasn't someone who could be compelled to grant any favor asked of him as long as you said 'cauliflower' when you asked.

Damn it, Sarah cursed her own stupidity for getting too involved in this case. She was letting it get too. They didn't teach recruits at Quantico not to become emotionally involved with their suspects because they assumed anyone bright enough to qualify for employment in the Federal Bureau of Investigation was bright enough to already know that. Sarah had closed fifty-two investigations with an unbroken arrest record because she was smart enough to know not to let things get personal. The best thing she could do was recuse herself from this case and hand the files over to another agent because she had lost her own objectivity…but her own pride was getting in the way.

Maybe it was sending her chasing after the wrong suspect.

That nagging suspicion in the back of her mind found its voice, probably because her brain lacked a filter that early in the morning with nightmares still lingering on the peripheral of her consciousness.

Sarah's instincts had never failed her on the job. Not once.

But, there was a first time for everything

All she had was an uncorroborated report that Clyde had been at the Charlotte Motor Speedway on the day of the robbery. A lead so flimsy that her own partner wouldn't agree it was worth chasing. However, based upon that, her own intuition, and her unrelenting inability to simply let go of an investigation that had been closed, well…here she was. Stubbornness had led to the hair-brained idea of walking into the Duck Tape Lounge, becoming too close to her only suspect, turning up absolutely squat in the way of evidence, and losing sleep to bad dreams because she couldn't keep impersonal facts impersonal…

at least not where Clyde Logan was concerned.

Apparently.

How the hell had that happened?

Sarah rubbed her eyes, giving up on the notion of sleep for the night. She climbed off the bed and moved over to the hotel room's small kitchenette, setting the Keurig she'd brought from home to start brewing. Sitting at the small table, Sarah carefully considered her options. She figured she had two: Sarah Butler could disappear from Clyde's life so that Sarah Grayson could find a different approach to this investigation or Sarah Grayson could admit she'd blown the whole investigation and hand over what scant information she had to another agent…

…at which point she still couldn't tell Clyde the truth about herself and compromise the F.B.I.'s case, nor could she continue pretending to be Sarah Butler. Even if he were proven innocent of all accusations, she knew damned well how he'd feel about having a government agent insert herself into his private life. That, along with the fact that Sarah could have used him to implicate his family in the crime and potentially send them to jail…no, he'd never forgive it.

In fact, Sarah wasn't so sure what he'd do. He wasn't the sort who'd raise a hand to a woman, she'd bet her own life on that fact, but still, she wouldn't want to find out first-hand what it was like to have the angry ex-Marine coming after her with that look in his eyes. The thought sent a chill up her spine, and she wasn't the sort who got nervous too easily.

Sarah was tempted to forgo the coffee in favor of the tiny bottles of whiskey in the minibar, if only to toast her own bad idea of getting involved with him in the first place. Instead, she picked up her cell phone.

There was no point in delaying the inevitable.

He answered on the second ring. "Duck Tape…sorry, we're closed up for the night."

It annoyed her no end that the sound of his voice sent a warm feeling through her body, like her entire being had been holding its breath tensely since waking from those bad dreams and now exhaled. Good God, woman, get ahold of yourself. You aren't a teenaged girl with a crush, Sarah chided herself. "Hey, you."

"Hey." She could hear the smile in his voice. "What's going on? You're up late—or up early?"

"Yeah. Can't sleep, bad dreams," she admitted. "I thought maybe you'd be home by now?"

"Pretty soon. Folks didn't want to clear out tonight. The county fair's goin' on, and tonight was monster truck night. They get a little worked up about it, needed to blow off some steam," he explained.

"How did I miss that?" she joked.

"It's very serious." Clyde had to take away the keys to Fish and Sam Bang's car and make them walk home when the winning driver of Doom & Gloom had walked into the bar. Then, he'd had to take the keys to their tractor when they'd drove it to the bar later intending to ram into Doom & Gloom (which hadn't even been in the parking lot, but the boys were too inebriated to let that stop their plan).

"I'd imagine it is."

"How was your trip to Wheeling?" he asked.

That reminded her… "Same ol', same ol'. But, I did talk to the folks over at that lab in Beckley. They said they could take a look at your arm, see if they can fix it."

He sounded grateful when he asked: "Aren't they going to ask about the bullet holes?"

"Nah, it's fine. I just told them you got handsy with me, so I gave you a couple warning shots. They understood."

She heard him chuckle at that. "So, you called to tell me you impugned my honor to the folks at the prosthetics lab?"

"Actually, no," Sarah nervously picked at an old coffee ring on the tabletop. Her brain was coaching her on the words: I can't keep our date next week. I'm heading back to Virginia. I don't know when I'll be coming back. "I called to-" I'm leaving on a jet plane. Don't know when I'll be back again. She cleared her throat. "-I mean-" I'm a Martian and it's time for me to go back to my home planet.

Clyde waited.

Sarah blurted the opposite of what she'd meant to say: "-I'm just up the road a little way, if you wouldn't mind some company?"

"Sure."

"All right, then. See you in an hour."

Sarah tossed the cell phone on to the table, groaning. It occurred to her that, in addition to her utter failure to break off the relationship during the call, she hadn't bothered to ask whether Clyde would be at the bar or at home and would have to stop at both locations now.

She caught her reflection in the dresser mirror, giving herself a disgusted glare. "Don't look at me like that," she scolded herself.

LLLLLLLLLLLLL

Clyde was sitting on the front porch waiting for her when Sarah's car pulled up to the curb.

After her phone call, he'd begun to worry. She'd said something about "bad dreams". He'd worried that her sleepless night owed to what had happened with Duane. Sarah wasn't the timid sort, Clyde had figured that out the first night he'd met her, but having a front row seat for a full-blown bought of PTSD and Clyde nearly getting his own head blown off was a bit much for anyone to shake off. He felt more than a little guilty about it.

Sarah had re-rehearsed what she wanted to say on the drive to his house. She'd deliberately worn her oversized sweater and torn up jeans, which made her feel about as unsexy as she could be without sprouting a cold sore through sheer willpower. She was resolute that this time she'd get through her whole speech. It was the smart thing to do; it was the right thing to do.

Naturally, as soon as she saw him waiting, looking a bit rumpled from dealing with drunks and rowdy monster truck enthusiasts all evening and smiling as soon as Sarah looked his way so that her stomach fluttered and warmth spread through her body-well, all freaking thoughts of her break-up plan went right out of her head. Her every nerve came alive, overwhelming her senses until she was climbing out of the vehicle and moving to meet him halfway as he walked towards the car.

Over the pounding of her own heartbeat, she almost missed his concerned question: "Hey, what's going on? Want to talk about it-?"

Sarah grunted, "Nope." Her irrational need to touch him and reassure herself that he was there, safe and breathing, was more urgent. She nearly had to stand on her tiptoes to reach up, tangle her fingers in his wavy black hair, and pull him down close enough for Sarah to capture his lips with hers.

The warmth coursing through her body turned to fire. She felt his arms close around her, nearly lifting her from her feet as he pulled her against him and returned her kiss. Sarah felt ridiculously tiny in his embrace, reveled in the feeling of his body surrounding her almost completely. She wanted more, needed more, and parted her lips, inviting him to deepen the kiss. Her hands moved from his neck to touch his shoulders, the muscles of his arms, even the smooth surface of the prosthetic, and his chest.

Too many clothes, Sarah made a frustrated growl in the back of her throat as his shirt interfered with her explorations. Her hands moved to the hem of his shirt before the last shreds of lucidity made her stop and reluctantly break off the kiss. She meant to look him in the eye, but her gaze was riveted to his lips. It took all her concentration to restrain herself from the desperate need to resume their activities long enough to breathe against his mouth: "Is this okay?"

He bent lower, trailing kisses at the base of her throat, murmuring, "It's okay."

"Okay then."

LLLLLLL

Sarah's body roused her from her sleep, alerting her that something was wrong before her mind could fully shift to wakefulness. The room was dark, faint moonlight filtering through closed curtains. Her first reaction was confusion. The window was unfamiliar; the room was unfamiliar. Where was she?

Reflexively, she tried to move. That was when she became aware of the muscular arm around her waist, the warm sensation of a chest rising and falling against her bare back, and the feeling of a form wrapped around her. She felt the soft exhalations of breath on the back of her neck. Who-?

Her memory of the night's activities returned in a rush, making her blush. Clyde…

Then she heard the quiet utterings of incomprehensible words, muffled grunts of distress, and the suppressed twitches of the body wrapped around her as he struggled in the depths of sleep against something in his dreams. Nightmare, Sarah's groggy mind supplied. He was having a nightmare.

Sarah turned towards him. In the pale light, she could see the furrow of his brow and the curl of his lips as he scowled against the invisible threat. She gently raised her hands, brushing her palm along his jaw, whispering nonsense words of reassurance to try to ease him out of the night terrors.

His dark eyes snapped open, staring at her without seeing her. Sarah read the fear in their depths. It was on her lips to whisper more comforts, but Clyde was instantly moving, rolling on top of her as if shielding her against the dangers in his dreams. He raised his right arm, hand brandishing a non-existent weapon against a threat that was only real in his mind.

"Clyde…" Sarah grunted against the full weight of his body covering hers. He was oblivious to her words, his unseeing gaze scanning for the threat. She could maneuver from beneath him if she needed to, but it was safer not to grapple with him. FBI self-defense training was considerable, but Sarah was not anxious to test her skills against a trained Marine with combat experience while he was possibly in the throes of a flashback.

Sarah took his face in her hands, turning his head so that he was once again staring at her. She drew as deep a breath as she could manage and shouted again: "Clyde!"

He blinked, awareness returning as the images of the dream retreated. Slowly, Clyde lowered his outstretched arm. He glanced around the darkened room until his gaze found Sarah staring up at him. She gingerly reached up and brushed the strands of his dark hair away from his face, staring into the depths of his eyes. The tension in her body abated rapidly under the intensity of his stare; it sent fire through her veins, her every nerve burning again for his touch.

"Hey," she greeted quietly. Her breath hitched on the word.

Clyde did not move from where he lay stretched over her, but he shifted his body so that his weight rested on his arms. He searched her eyes and read the invitation there. He leaned down, capturing her mouth with his own.

Sarah uttered a whimper and moved her hands to tangle them in his hair, pulling him closer as she deepened the kiss. She felt his hand move to rest against her hip briefly before his fingers trailed lightly along her leg and caressed beneath her knee. She moaned against his lips, her legs moving of their own accord to wrap around his waist, drawing him impossibly closer still.

This time, Sarah did not allow doubts or the most remote concerns for propriety or process to darken her thoughts. There was nothing but the rush of sensations as he joined their bodies together; there was room for nothing else to exist in her universe at that moment except for the two of them.

LLLLLLL

The next time Sarah awoke curled up against Clyde's chest, the room was light. She had no idea what time it was or how long they had been asleep, she only knew that she had been awakened by the urgent need to use the bathroom.

The house was quiet, but Sarah could hear birds chirping and the babbling of some nearby creek through the thin walls. For a fleeting moment, she imagined what it would be like waking up there every morning, to the sounds of nature and the smell of trees instead of the cacophony of traffic sounds and noisy neighbors. She thought about spending enough time in her own town that the people who owned the local restaurants might really know her name (and not because they had to scribble it on the side of her coffee cup).

Sarah leaned her head back a bit so she could see Clyde's face as he slept. In the light of morning, in a sleep undisturbed by nightmares, she was again struck by how much younger he looked than his thirty-four years. The spray of freckles added to that impression. Up close, having the opportunity to study him, she noticed one healed scar above his ear that was hidden beneath his hair and another on his jaw that was covered by his beard. He had a tattoo of the Marine Corp's eagle, globe, and anchor logo on his right shoulder. Sarah traced it with her finger.

She could get used to waking up right there with him, too. The impossibility of that made her stomach knot with grief, like she'd lost something before she'd had the chance to find it.

She climbed out of Clyde's embrace, careful not to wake him. Her own clothes were strewn somewhere in the living room, so Sarah rummaged until she found one of Clyde's t-shirts and put it on before she quietly padded her way across the room.

He hadn't been kidding about enjoying his books; the room was jammed with unpacked boxes of books on every subject. A "novelogue" poster hung on his closet door, all one hundred book covers already scratched off. A second Enno Vatti 100 books poster hung beside the novelogue, half of its list crossed off. She was pleased to note the worn copy of To Kill a Mockingbird and his new copy of Piin elämä on his nightstand. The closet door was open, and Sarah glimpsed an old acoustic guitar and keyboard shoved into its corner behind clothing and more boxes. A shadowbox on Clyde's chest of drawers displayed his Purple Heart. Sadie had decorated the box for him with glitter, patriotic ribbons, hearts, and a small metal tag dedicating the box to "Uncle Clyde".

The walls of the house's narrow hallway were adorned with dozens of family pictures: Clyde, Jimmy, and Mellie as kids with people Sarah assumed were their parents and grandparents, other people who bore enough physical resemblance to be unmistakably related to the three siblings, family members working at the coal mines, other family members in military uniforms (some of which appeared to date back to World War II), Jimmy at various ages in various football uniforms, photos of Jimmy and Sadie, photos of Mellie and her father working on an old Ford truck, assorted school pictures, and a photo of Clyde in his Marine uniform that she guessed had been taken when he'd finished basic training. She smiled a bit. Sarah spent so little time at her apartment in Virginia that she hadn't bothered to unpack what few family photos she possessed much less to hang them.

She had no idea which room was which, never having been inside the house, so she tried different doors until she located the bathroom. Sarah stared at her reflection—had it really only been a few hours since she was in her hotel room, giving herself the warning not to make the exact mistake she'd just made? Her reflection didn't look the least bit sorry either, she noticed.

"Honestly, you've got to start making better life choices," she scolded the Sarah in the mirror. "The way I see it, we have two options: You walk out that door right now, get back to work, and chalk this experience up to a colossal fuck up in judgement…" She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, combing her fingers through her disheveled hair nervously. "…or you go back in there and resign yourself to career options in the private sector. Because you are in love with that boy, whether you like it or not."

The Sarah in the mirror made a face at her.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Sarah answered herself sourly. "At least, go get your underwear out of the schefflera before someone else comes home."

She gathered her clothes from the living room and stood there for a minute, staring at the front door with indecision…

…which was the precise moment when she heard a key in the door's lock. Before Sarah could dash into the hallway to the bathroom or the bedroom, the door banged open and Sadie Logan led her father and aunt into the house. Sadie was carrying an ice chest in one hand and checking text messages on her cell phone with the other. "No, Daddy, Alex is the Iron Chef and Aarti is the Food Network Star champ."

"What difference does it make? A cooking show is a cooking show…" Jimmy was lugging the ladies' camping bags as he debated with his daughter.

Sadie took offense. "That's like saying playing for the Black Bears is the same as playing for the Power."

Jimmy nodded. "Exactly. They're both West Virginia teams, so they're both good, right? Both those cooking shows are good, too, that's what I'm saying."

Mellie followed them into the house. "And what your daughter is saying is that if she has the chance to meet one of her heroes at that competition, she'd like you to not do something stupid like call the woman 'Chef Ghirardelli'."

Jimmy was genuinely confused. "Did I say 'Ghirardelli'?"

"Yes. And if you call her that at the competition, she's going to coldcock you with a frying pan," Mellie warned him.

The little girl rolled her eyes as she took her gear from Jimmy and dumped it onto the sofa. "Please get it straight, Daddy…hey there, Miss Sarah."

Sarah froze halfway down the hallway. "Hey, Sadie."

The girl didn't give a second thought for the woman's half-dressed state, more concerned with educating her father about her culinary heroes and getting her clothes washed so her mama didn't complain about the fish odor. Mellie and Jimmy, however, stared at Sarah in shock (the latter doing his best to hide an amused smirk).

She made another effort to head into the bathroom, but Sadie pushed past her to get to the washing machine. "Can you come to dinner tomorrow? I've got a cooler full of fresh fish. I'm going to practice my recipes for Iron Chef Junior. I need honest opinions."

"Sadie, would you put this bag in the bathroom for me?" Mellie passed her cosmetic bag to the oblivious child.

"Be sure to tell me if you have any food allergies," Sadie continued. "Daddy can't eat red peppers, they give him gas, and Aunt Mellie is allergic to turmeric, so you and Uncle Clyde are the only ones who can try my spicy catfish recipe." She dropped Mellie's bag into the bathroom and then bounded back into the kitchen to put her fish into the freezer.

Sarah wondered if it were physically possible for a human being to burst into flames from embarrassment. "Sounds delicious," she answered, immensely grateful when the little girl moved out of the path of the bathroom door. "I'm just going to go…put some pants on. If you all will excuse me?"

From the kitchen, Jimmy called to her: "If you're planning to climb out the bathroom window, at least come have a cup of coffee first."

Sarah waved over her shoulder at him. She was a good sport, Jimmy grinned. Bobbie Jo would have given him the finger in the same situation.

He noticed Mellie glaring after Sarah. "Oh, what's your problem? At least he's getting laid. Mellie…" Mellie smacked him in the head and followed Sarah down the hall. "…Mellie, leave the woman alone!" Jimmy made a grab for her, but his sister twisted out of his reach.

She rushed to insert herself between Sarah and the bathroom door, bluntly asking: "Why are you here?"

Sarah was already done with the woman, overprotective sibling or not. She hadn't done anything (as Mellie knew) to deserve the suspicion. "That's not really your business—"

Mellie kept her voice down in deference to the little girl who was not far away in the kitchen. "I'm not talking about what you two were doing last night. I mean why are you chasing Clyde? I'm warning you, I'm not going let anyone hurt my brother."

"Why is it so hard for you to believe I might care about Clyde?" Sarah demanded.

"Because there's something about you that I can't quite put my finger on…I don't trust you."

What was Sarah supposed to say to that? Mellie wasn't wrong. Still, she was too professional to let the woman provoke her into letting something slip. Sarah forced an exaggerated smile. "So, you're saying I shouldn't come to Sadie's dinner, then?"

"Hey, hey…" Clyde appeared from the bedroom, awakened by all the commotion of his family's arrival. He had groggily wondered what had happened to Sarah…until he heard Mellie's voice right outside his bedroom door and the quieter timber of Sarah's voice answering. Instantly, he was awake and aware of what was happening. He'd jumped from the bed, grabbed a discarded pair of pajama pants, and rushed for the door practically all in one motion.

Clyde found Sarah half-dressed and bright red, having another stare down with Mellie (both women's glares could have melted steel); he could hear Jimmy rattling around the kitchen and Sadie's cheerful banter, so Clyde can only imagine what kind of grief they'd been giving Sarah. Like the nonsense the other night wouldn't have been enough reason for the woman to head back to Virginia and never return. He was going to knock both of his siblings in their heads first chance he got.

He pushed his way between Mellie and Sarah, forcing his sister to step back. "Is this how you treat my friends? Come on, now. Enough."

Mellie reluctantly backed down, knowing better to mess with her brother when Clyde used that tone. She inclined her head to Sarah with a grumbled apology and left the two of them alone.

Clyde watched that the rest of the family was done with their antics before turning his full attention back to Sarah. "I'm sorry about…them."

"I just really want to…I don't know…arm wrestle her maybe," Sarah admitted. "Anyway, good morning."

"Good morning."

The good morning kiss was almost enough to make it worth putting up with Mellie and Jimmy. Sarah pulled back for a second. "I have brushed my teeth yet."

"Yeah, I don't care." He kissed her again, deeper this time. Sarah forgot about psychotic siblings, her previous intention to climb out the bathroom window, and everything else except the overpowering desire to drag him back into that bedroom…

…until Jimmy shouted from the kitchen: "Coffee's done. Come on, you two, get some before Sadie drinks it all. No joke, the child's got a disturbing caffeine addiction."

Clyde growled in irritation, and Sarah felt the sudden urge to laugh. It was clearly no use hoping for privacy with the rest of the family only a few feet away. She reached for the bathroom door. "I'm just going to…"

He caught her arm. "Sarah-" His tone had changed, a worried look crossed his face. Clyde was pretty sure he had one of his nightmares last night, probably because of the whole mess with Dawson. Clyde couldn't recall the dream, but he remembered Sarah waking him and the fear in her voice. He was fumbling for the words apologize. "-about last night-did I-I'm sorry if-"

Sarah kissed him again, silencing the apology. "Don't you dare apologize. I'll be right back."

She ducked into the bathroom, feeling herself grinning like a damned idiot. She dressed quickly, seriously mulling excuses to keep the t-shirt she'd borrowed. She liked that it smelled like Clyde. She moved to the sink and did her best to brush her teeth with her finger, daring to rummage in Mellie's bag in search of toothpaste. A bottle of pink nail polish fell from the bag, luckily not breaking or spilling on the carpeted floor. Sarah cursed and hurries to retrieve it.

The label read: Dawn of Beauty Cosmetics. Angel Fire Pink. Sarah paused. Why did that sound familiar?

Glancing around the bathroom, she spotted Mellie's collection of fancy cosmetics and nail polishes. The beauty salon was Mellie's livelihood, so she couldn't buy cheap cosmetics. The bottles of pink and white nail polishes drew Sarah's attention.

Nail polish. Dawn of Beauty. Something about that…something in the robbery case files…

Cockroaches.

There had been a couple of dead cockroaches in the speedway's vault.

Dead cockroaches painted with nail polish. The forensics lab had identified it as Angel Fire Pink polish from the Dawn of Beauty Cosmetics line.

The same polish was sitting on Mellie's countertop.

Mellie.

Sarah sagged to the floor, her breath catching in her chest.

She had dismissed Mellie Logan as a suspect because the woman had been here in West Virginia at the time of the robbery. She hadn't bothered to chase down any alibis for Mellie, the woman had been completely off Sarah's radar. But, this connected her to the robbery, circumstantial evidence though it was.

It potentially connected all three of the Logan siblings to the robbery.

No.

No, no, no.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit…

Sarah was going to hyperventilate if she didn't get herself under control. Her thoughts were racing too fast, her emotions were churning. She felt devastated. Stupid. This had been her plan; she'd known there would be some kind of clue in this house…

…but she hadn't come here last night looking for clues. She had all but given up finding clues. She'd come here because she'd wanted…

It didn't matter.

Her brain was automatically already working on connecting the dots, making mental notes whether she wanted them or not. Sarah wiped at her eyes. She'd been an idiot. She'd let this get personal. She had to get her head back in the game.

Sarah finished getting dressed, leaving the t-shirt on the bathroom counter.

The family was having breakfast in the kitchen. Sarah quickly gathered up her belongings and heads to the living room, knowing she'd have to face them. For the first time since she walked into the Duck Tape lounge, Sarah knew with certainty that she was in the presence of her robbery suspects. She needed to make that distinction in her mind so that she could do what she had to do next, or she'd never go through with it. She managed to force a smile before she made her way into the kitchen.

Sadie and Jimmy were busy making pancakes, and Mellie had buried her head in the newspaper, pointedly ignoring the bustling activity in the kitchen. Clyde was seated at the end of the table, ignoring her sulking.

"What kind of pancakes do you like, Miss Sarah? Powdered sugar, chocolate chip, cinnamon, or vanilla?" Sadie asked.

It was harder than Sarah expected to get the words out. "Sorry, wish I could, but it's later than I thought. I have two appointments over in Charleston this afternoon. I have to run."

"You can't stay for breakfast?"

She wanted to, so much that it was almost a physical ache. She couldn't look him in the eyes, praying her awkwardness wasn't as obvious as she feared. "Sorry, I can't. I'm going to be late as it is."

"Don't forget dinner tomorrow." Sadie reminded her.

Sarah smiled at the girl. "I'll try."

Clyde stood up. "I'll walk you out." He opened the door for Sarah, waiting until she was off the porch before snatching the newspaper out of Mellie's hands and dropping it into her syrup-drenched pancakes in rebuke.

"Not sorry," she called after him.

Sarah didn't slow her stride to wait. It was like a wall had gone up and the warm woman of quirky humor had vanished, leaving a stranger…a stranger who was avoiding his eyes as she made a rapid retreat for her car. She'd seemed fine a few minutes ago, considering Mellie's bad manners and the whole family naturally barging in at the most awkward possible time. If she was having regrets about last night…

He easily closed the distance between them, stepping between Sarah and her vehicle. "Hey, you okay?"

She smiled again, "Better than okay." Clyde wasn't reassured. Something in her eyes was, well, something in her whole manner was off. She must have seen doubt on his face. She kissed him as if to prove it, but her touch was automatic, devoid of passion.

Sarah felt the weight of his stare, felt his doubt. When he didn't move away from the car, she summoned the strength to meet his gaze.

"You'll come by tomorrow?" he asked.

"Try to stop me," she answered.

Unconvinced, he still relented, stepping back so that Sarah could slide into the car.

She didn't dare look back. Sarah drove for a few miles, resisting the urge to turn around. She held it together long enough to drive well out of view of the Logan house before her last shred of composure snapped. The steering wheel, the dashboard, and a stray empty water bottle took the brunt of her fury. She slammed her fists and screamed her frustration, grief, and rage-at Clyde, at the Logans, at her own stupidity-in the cocoon of the vehicle.

She screamed until her throat was raw, until the last emotion spent itself, leaving her with nothing but the miserable knowledge of what she had to do next.

TBC…