by Karen Rose
Keeping one hand in her hair, he let the other drop to her shoulder, then hesitantly brushed the back of his fingers over the swell of her breast.
She hummed again, this time in anticipation. He dragged his mouth away, resting his forehead on hers as he cupped her breast with a hand that trembled. She closed her eyes on an almost silent whimper, her body melting into his.
“God, I missed you,” he whispered.
“I was right here,” she whispered back. “Waiting for you.”
He opened his mouth to tell her then, he really did. But Darth Vader’s theme belted out of his phone, startling them apart. Meredith stared down at the phone in her hand as if it was something she’d never seen before.
“It’s Isenberg,” he said quietly. “I have to take it.”
She handed him the phone and took a step back, but he grabbed her hand and pressed it back to his heart. “Sorry,” he said to his boss after accepting the call. “Had to shower off the fire stink. Did we get Zimmerman to kick in a few guards for Meredith and her grandfather?”
Meredith’s eyes held his. Her lips mouthed thank you.
Isenberg’s voice was a buzzing in his ear. An annoyance. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to pay attention to what she was saying. “Yes, but that’s not why I was calling,” she snapped. “You need to get down to the station. We have a visitor. He says his name is Shane Baird. And he says he was Andy Gold’s best friend.”
Adam sucked in a surprised breath. “Shane. Just like Andy told Johnny at Pies & Fries. Andy told him that Shane was going to college somewhere up north.”
“Kiesler University. He and his friend drove down as soon as Shane saw the news.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” Adam hesitated, then figured fuck it. “I will have Meredith with me. I’m here now. I’d come to take her to the safe house.”
A hesitation on Isenberg’s end. “And you’re cleaning up there?”
“She’s packing her things. I’ve always been a multitasker.” He pointed at Meredith, then upstairs, then held up five fingers. Nodding, she moved to do as he asked. “I had to get the smell off my skin, Loo,” he murmured with all seriousness once Meredith had left, closing the door behind her. “It wasn’t just the fire.” His stomach clenched. “The victims . . . Burned flesh.” He could say no more, but Isenberg seemed to understand.
Isenberg’s sigh was quiet. “It’s a trigger for you.”
“Yeah.” It was the only word he had to answer her.
“Okay, then. Who else is there in her house?” Isenberg asked suspiciously.
Adam wanted to snap, but remembered her warning when she’d assigned him to this case. If she suspected he was in too deep—which he was—she’d yank him off this case and assign someone else to keep Meredith safe. “Kate Coppola, Diesel Kennedy, and Meredith’s grandfather. But she needs to see this Shane. We don’t know why Voss—or whoever’s behind this—picked Andy Gold to shoot her. We need to know if there is a connection.”
“Well, yes,” Isenberg allowed. “But why does she need to see Shane?”
“I don’t know. There might be no connection at all, but what if there is? Hell, she might know this guy, or he might know her.”
“That’s a long shot,” Isenberg muttered. “But bring her in. She observes only, Adam.”
“Got it. She can’t be the team shrink on this one.”
“Good. Now get yourself in here. This kid is definitely not telling me something. I want you to figure out what that is.”
“Will do.” Ending the call, Adam whipped off the towel and finished drying off. Meredith had left boxer briefs, still in the package, a pair of black socks, and his suit and shirt, covered in the dry cleaner’s plastic, on the bed. He had to smile. She’d even laid out a tie that went with the suit. She was something for sure.
He dressed quickly, then looked around for his shoes, only to find a pair at his feet. But they weren’t his. What the—? How did she—? She’d even found shoes that looked to be his size. Cleaned and buffed to a mirrorlike shine. He slid one foot into the first shoe and laughed incredulously. They fit. Perfectly. Of course they do.
He was staring at his shoe-clad feet when he heard the soft knock at the bedroom door. “Come in,” he called, turning to see her standing hesitantly in the doorway, a blush staining her cheeks. “How did you happen to have shoes that fit me perfectly?” he asked, when he really wanted to grab her and pull her in for another kiss.
But he didn’t, because once he started, he wouldn’t want to stop. And the bed was too damned close. Too damn tempting.
She was too damn tempting.
“You’re lucky,” she said with a shrug. “You’re the same size as Daniel.”
“Daniel. Your cousin’s husband.”
She nodded. “He left them here the last time he and Alex visited. Your shoes were pretty disgusting. I bagged them.” She held a white plastic trash bag for him to see.
His lips quirked up. “You didn’t clean them, too?” he teased, then tensed, hoping she wouldn’t think he really meant it.
Russet brows arched. “No,” she said crisply, but she smiled, so it was okay. Her smile faltered then. “Isenberg . . . is she upset with you for being here?”
He considered lying, but went for straight truth. “She’s warned me off any romantic entanglement with you, since you’re the principal target of a killer,” he said and was rewarded when disappointment made her lips droop sadly.
“Oh.”
The single word said everything he’d hoped to hear. He closed the space between them, gripping her upper arms possessively, but gently. She was so fair, her skin would bruise easily. As easily as her heart. His chest tightened then, because she was staring up at him, naked yearning in her eyes. I do not deserve this. I do not deserve her.
He kissed her lightly this time. Tenderly, because that was what she deserved. Tenderness and care. He lifted his head and had to grit his teeth against an almost feral need to take more, because she was licking her lips. Savoring the taste of him.
“I need you,” he whispered and groaned quietly when she closed her eyes on a relieved little sigh. Because his mind was conjuring image after image of making her sigh like that in the bed behind them. “I need you, just like this. No mask. No serene smile. I need to see you.”
Her lashes lifted, revealing a knowing that hit him like a brick. “I need you like this. Talking to me. Being honest with me. No more hiding, Adam.”
“Okay,” he managed to say, then dragged his mind back to the clock ticking in his head. “But for the next hour or so I need you to wear that mask for Isenberg. I want you to take a look at this kid from Chicago who says he was Andy Gold’s friend. We need to know if there is any connection between you and Andy Gold.”
“And if there’s not?”
“Then at least I’m keeping you safe until I can get you to the condo. I just need you not to look at me like you’re looking at me right now. If Isenberg senses that I’m . . . emotionally involved, she’ll put someone else on your case. And I don’t want to give anyone else that . . .” He trailed off, looking for the right word.
“Responsibility?” she supplied.
He shook his head. “No. The privilege.” He struggled for the perfect word, but she was watching him with those green eyes that always seemed to see right through him. Tell her. Tell her the truth. “And the opportunity.” He drew a breath. “To make amends.”
She frowned abruptly, startling him because he thought he’d said it right. “I’m not your atonement, Adam,” she bit out. “I’m not a cage to be cleaned or a house to be fixed or a team to be coached or a shelter to be”—she fluttered a hand impatiently—“whatever you did at St. Ambrose’s.”
“Handyman stuff,” he murmured, stunned. She knew. “How did you know?”
“Because I’m not stup
id?” she snapped, then stepped back, out of his arms. Rubbing her forehead, she sighed, this time in resignation. “Or maybe I am. Let’s just go. I’ll observe the kid from Chicago and then I’ll go to the safe house so you don’t have to worry about me. What’s his name?”
His brain refused to spark. “What? Whose name?”
She rolled her eyes. “The kid from Chicago.”
“Shane. Shane Baird.”
“Okay, then. Let’s go look at Mr. Baird.” She disappeared for a few seconds, returning wearing her coat and with an overnight bag slung over her shoulder. In one hand she held a parka, in the other another plastic bag, filled with something large and bulky. His coat, he realized. And probably his suit, because he’d just realized it was not piled on the floor where he’d discarded it before his shower. All that would have to be cleaned, too.
“The parka is Papa’s. He says to use it because he has another. It’ll do until you can get home to change.” She shoved it at him. “There are gloves in the pocket.”
Of course there are, he thought numbly, staring at the coat in his hands.
“Let’s go out upstairs,” she continued. “The sidewalk is shoveled, so we won’t have to walk through snow.” Turning on her heel, she was gone.
And suddenly her words clicked. I’m not your atonement.
“Meredith, wait.” He ran after her, catching up in the TV room. Grabbing her shoulder, he spun her around. She glared up at him, but there were tears in her eyes. Shit. He’d done it again. Made her cry even when he was trying to do the right thing. “You think that I’ve done all this as part of my atonement? That I kissed you because you’re a . . .” He sputtered, wishing he had the words. “God, I don’t even know what.” She said nothing, but her lip trembled. “Dammit, Meredith, you are not an atonement. You are not some charity case or a project. You are . . .” He closed his eyes, trying to slow his racing heart. “You are what’s kept me going for the last godawful year.”
He opened his eyes to see hers narrowing in confusion. In disbelief. “I don’t know what that even means,” she said tightly, her jaw rigid, tears balancing on her lower lashes.
Frustrated, he released his hold on her and raked his shaking hands through his hair. He held them there, clenching, pulling his hair hard enough to make himself wince. But the pain centered him. Helped him find the words in the chaos of his mind.
“It means that I’m an alcoholic.”
He’d gritted out the words from behind clenched teeth, he realized belatedly. Not the way he’d wanted them to come out.
But at least they were out, he thought as he dropped his hands to his sides. He felt relieved . . . yet defeated. But mostly honest. Finally. And now he just waited.
Her mouth fell open, her expression one of bald shock. A single blink sent those tears racing down her cheeks. “What?” she whispered.
“Yeah.” He wanted to look away. He wanted to bolt. To run so far that no one would ever be able to find him.
God. His mouth was as dry as it had ever been. He wanted a drink so goddamn bad that he was shaking, head to toe. But he forced himself to remain where he stood. Forced himself to breathe. In. Out. In. And out. He forced himself to wait for her reaction, no matter what it was. At least she knew the truth.
“But . . .” She shook her head, still stunned. “How long?”
He swallowed hard. “How long what? How long have I been an alcoholic or how long have I been sober?”
“How long have you been sober?” she whispered.
“Eleven months,” he heard himself say, voice like gravel. “And fourteen days.”
She opened her mouth, but no more words came out.
Huh. He’d never expected her to be wordless, too. She always knew the right thing to say. They stood in silence, staring at each other.
And then Darth Vader screamed out of his phone, shattering that silence. Isenberg. Again. Adam answered it, never looking away from Meredith’s shocked face. “Yeah, Loo?”
“I’ve got Mr. Baird in Interview 3. What’s your ETA?”
“Ten.”
“Hurry, Adam. This kid looks like he’ll break into pieces any minute.”
Join the motherfucking club. “On my way.” He ended the call, dropped the phone in his pocket, and gathered the plastic bags with his clothing and shoes. “We’ll have to finish this later. You need to wait a minute while I get a vest for you out of my Jeep. Once you’re protected, we need to go.”
Cincinnati, Ohio
Sunday, December 20, 4:15 a.m.
Sitting a block away from the burned-out house, he sipped bad coffee and tried to stay awake. Shane and his friend would have to drive this way to get to Andy Gold’s former residence.
Which was gutted. He blew out a breath that hung in the cold air of his car. Four people had died. Which sucked, because now the cops would be even more dedicated to finding the arsonist.
The family should have had plenty of time to get out. That they hadn’t . . . well, he couldn’t be blamed for that. He hadn’t meant for them to die, too.
At least anything that might have given a hint into Andy’s background—including photos of Linnea—was gone. Nothing had survived the blaze. And once he had Shane, Linnea would come to heel. He’d get rid of them both and those ends would be snipped.
Then he could refocus his efforts on his original goal. Fuck Meredith Fallon and her concealed weapon. He growled quietly. Fuck Mike’s bomb that hadn’t fucking worked.
He frowned, wondering why that was. It should have worked. Mike’s devices had never let him down. He’d have to use his resources to get at the results of the Feds’ investigation, since they’d been the ones to remove the device from Andy’s body.
As if summoned, his cell buzzed with a text from his uncle. Done.
A photo followed, Voss sprawled in a chair, rubber strap still tied around his arm, syringe still in his vein. TOD 2:50 a.m., Mike’s next text read.
What about cops outside the gate? he replied.
Sleeping. Offering from St. Mickey.
It was a simple ploy, but it worked almost every time. The cops would know they’d been slipped a Mickey when they woke up, but Mike had already finished by then. Mike had shown him how to use the technique on his father during his teens, except they’d slipped the Mickey into his evening whiskey so that he’d go to sleep earlier and sleep soundly through the night. Those had been the hours Mike tutored him. Showed him the ropes. Taught him how to take whatever he wanted from whoever happened to have it without getting caught. All in all, hours well spent. And his dad had never been the wiser.
Good, he texted. Thx.
Going home to sleep. Don’t bother me again.
He chuckled. Sweet dreams old man. He added an emoji of a happy face with z’s.
A photo of his uncle’s middle finger popped up on his screen.
Smiling, he went back to sipping his coffee. One thread snipped. A few more to go.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Sunday, December 20, 4:20 a.m.
Oh my God. Oh my God. It was all Meredith could think as Adam sped across town. He was using his flashers to cut through what little traffic there was at this time of night.
How did I not see this? What is wrong with me that I didn’t see?
All those months. All the pictures he’d colored. That first picture, the stained glass window, solid red. Then those that followed, becoming progressively balanced as the weeks and months passed. Progressively more beautiful.
Eleven months and fourteen days sober. She focused on doing the calendar math in her head, if only for the temporary respite for her aching heart.
“January sixth,” she murmured and heard the sharp intake of his breath in the otherwise silent Jeep. “What happened on January sixth?” Because that the date was just a few days after her birthday seemed too much of a coi
ncidence.
When he said nothing, she turned to study his profile. His jaw was like rock, his lips pursed in a straight, hard line. His hands gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. He wasn’t wearing gloves. Or the parka her grandfather had loaned him.
He slowed the Jeep and turned in to the parking garage under the police station. He parked, then closed his eyes. “I can’t talk about this right now,” he finally said. “I have to talk to Shane Baird, who, according to my boss, is minutes away from losing his shit.”
But he didn’t move, his hands maintaining their death grip on the steering wheel.
You are what’s kept me going for the last godawful year.
She’d known what those colored pictures meant. She’d known he was asking for more time, for her patience. She’d known that.
But she’d let her emotions tangle her up. Loneliness, regret, and depression were bitter bedmates. She’d let her focus wander and . . . she’d missed seeing his pain. God. I’m the worst therapist ever.
She gave her head a hard shake. I am not his therapist. And this is not about me.
Operating on instinct, she pulled off her glove and reached across the console to cover one of his white-knuckled hands with hers. Carefully she peeled his fingers off the wheel and brought his hand to her lips.
He still didn’t look at her, but his throat worked convulsively as he tried to swallow. She kissed each of his fingers, then pressed the back of his hand to her cheek. His stiff shoulders relaxed a fraction as he exhaled on a shudder. “When you’re ready to tell me, I’ll be ready to listen,” she said quietly. “For now, let me take a look at Mr. Baird.”
She followed him into the police department’s headquarters, a building she’d visited too many times in her role as a therapist, but never as a victim.
A potential target. That’s what I am.
“You said to Isenberg that Johnny at Pies & Fries had mentioned Shane,” she said as Adam led her into the elevator and pushed the button for his floor. “In what context?”
