Drawn in Blood (Burbank and Parker 2)

When they were finished, he unlinked his hands and leaned forward, scribbling down some notes on a piece of paper.

“Jeff, type up the report and e-mail it to Tony and to me. Sloane, nice work at the shelter. Both of you go back tomorrow as planned. With any luck, Sloane, you’ll get some solid information out of Lucy.” He rose. “Just so you know, Fred Miller’s body was pulled out of the East River an hour ago. No surprises. Estimated time of death is consistent with your mother’s kidnapping. Cause of death—one lethal stab wound to the back. Sloane, I’m putting full-time security on you until your involvement in this case is over. Right now, I’ve got a meeting with Tony.”

Without another word, Derek headed off.

Jeff and Sloane stared after him and then exchanged glances.

“That was weird,” Jeff commented. “No explosions. No lectures. And he didn’t pull you off the case, or confine you to desk duty. He was almost eerily quiet. When do you think the volcano’s going to erupt?”

“I don’t know.” Sloane was puzzled. She shared Jeff’s opinion that there was a lot more brewing beneath the surface than Derek had displayed. But she knew Derek better than anyone. The emotion he was repressing wasn’t anger. It wasn’t even frustration. It was something more.

She broached the subject that night when they were getting ready for bed. It was the first time they’d been alone all day. The hounds were snoozing in a pile of blankets they’d arranged at the foot of the bed, and Derek was in his gym shorts, doing his nighttime push-ups.

Sloane came out of the bathroom, pulling on one of Derek’s Colorado State T-shirts that she used as a nightshirt. Then, she slid between the sheets. “Do you want to talk about what happened today?” she asked, sitting up, arms wrapped around her knees.

“Not particularly.” Derek reached his fiftieth push-up and rose.

“Well, I do.”

“Fine. Which part of what happened today did you want to discuss?”

“Your reaction, or lack thereof, when Jeff recapped what happened.”

“I did react. There’s FBI security posted outside the cottage. You should be used to that by now. It’s not the first time I’ve assigned security to you. I’m sure it won’t be the last.” Derek took a few gulps of water and got into bed.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Something’s going on in that nonstop mind of yours. You’re not pissed, which I expected. You’re not threatening to take me off the case, which I also expected. You’re not even raving about my impulsive way of putting myself in danger.”

“Would there be a point?”

“That’s not the question, not in this case. I know you, Derek. This isn’t about your resigning yourself to who I am. It’s about something else. Whatever that something is, I want you to share it with me.”

“I’m not sure you do.” Derek propped his back against the headboard, staring straight ahead. His expression was sober, and his jaw was tight.

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“This isn’t a five-minute conversation, Sloane. Let’s shelve it.”

“For when? When we have hours of free time? That’s not going to happen. If we have to lose a night’s sleep, so be it. We’ve done it before, for pleasure and for work. So talk to me.”

Derek was silent for a long moment.

“What’s going on inside me is complicated,” he said at last. “I’m not even sure I can sort it out myself, much less explain it to you.”

“Try.” Sloane slid down and rolled over to one side, propping herself up on her elbow. “I might surprise you.”

A hard swallow. “Our lives are spinning out of control. I need some sense of order. I thought living together would resolve that. It hasn’t. And I’m not sure it ever will.”

Whatever Sloane had been expecting, it hadn’t been this. An odd knot formed in the pit of her stomach. “What is it you want to change—our living arrangement, or us?”

“It isn’t that simple. I love you—the kind of crazy, forever, deep-in-my-gut love I thought existed only in books and movies. I’d go to hell and back for you.”

“As I would for you,” Sloane replied quietly.

“I know. We’ve got all the vital feelings down pat. And that’s supposed to make everything right. But it doesn’t. That’s the part that stops me cold.”

“Why, because we’re different? Because we don’t do anything half-measure—love, fight, make up, back down? Is that it?”