He backed away from Skye. “Remember what I said, Skye. Think about him.”
Then he was gone.
The female officer stood uncertainly in the doorway. “Um, miss, you ready for that ride?”
Her nails dug into her palms. “Where’s Trace Weston?”
“Booking.”
Right. That was the same thing Alex had said. Skye’s gaze slid to the table. To the photograph of her crash. He was there. “Then, yes, I am ready to go.”
***
The small apartment seemed to be closing in on her. Skye sat on the couch, unable to sleep. Two a.m., and she was wide awake.
The ticking of her clock seemed far too loud. Every second passed by so slowly. Every. Second.
She stood and strode toward her window. She couldn’t breathe in that place. Skye threw open the window. An alarm immediately started to beep. One of the alarms that Trace had installed for her.
Skye’s back teeth clenched. She stalked to the alarm pad and stopped that damn beeping.
Then, through that open window, she heard the sound of music. A fast, driving beat.
Coming from the club down on the corner of her street.
The music drove out the sound of that ticking clock.
Before she gave herself a second to think, Skye grabbed her shoes and her bag. She nearly ran from her apartment and down the stairs. Her legs pumped. Her left calf twinged.
Then she was outside. A line of people snaked around the side of that club, waiting to get inside.
Laughter, voices, and music drifted on the wind.
She wanted to get close to that music. She needed it.
No, not the music.
She slipped into the line.
She needed to dance. Dancing always helped her to forget the most painful moments of her life. Dancing helped her to cope. To survive.
She’d go in the club. She’d dance. She’d be like everyone else for a time.
I’ll forget.
Because if she didn’t forget, for at least a little while, Skye thought she might just go crazy.
***
“It looks like the lady’s going clubbing,” Carol Jones said as she settled back into her car. An unmarked vehicle, it blended pretty well on the busy street. Friday night in Chicago. Sure, it was after two a.m., but the city usually just got pumping at this time.
She tightened her hold on the phone. “She’s going into the club alone.” What was the name of that place? The neon letters were flashing. Extreme. “It’s a place called Extreme.”
She sure hoped that she wasn’t given orders to go in that club.
Not my scene.
The beat of the music was already giving her a headache.
She’d rather take traffic duty over this detail any day.
But, if she had to follow orders…
Carol sighed. She’d do her job.
***
“Your detective made a serious mistake, captain!” Trace’s lawyer snapped as he grabbed his briefcase. “He deliberately provoked my client and—”
“The charges have been dropped, Guthrie, what more do you want?” The captain, older, with gray shooting through his red hair, sighed. “Mr. Weston is free to go.”
Alex Griffin stood at the captain’s side.
Trace had no doubt that Alex had been ripped a new one by the captain. You shouldn’t have gone after me.
The charges might be dropped, but the situation between Alex and Trace was a long way from over.
“Where’s Skye?” Trace asked quietly.
Alex’s features tightened. “She went home.”
“By herself?” He swore. “Dammit, I’m not the threat to her. Someone else is out there, and you just let her go—”
“Officer Carol Jones is keeping an eye on her.” It was the captain who spoke. “Carol took her home, and then we gave orders for Carol to stay and keep watch on Ms. Sullivan’s place.”
His racing heart calmed a bit. The cops hadn’t completely screwed up.
Not yet.
“That’s good to know.” He jerked his head toward Craig Guthrie. “Let’s go. I’ve seen enough of this station to last a fucking lifetime.”
Guthrie nodded. The guy was on retainer. Five minutes after Trace had called him, Guthrie had rushed into the station.