“Do we know when that tech was planted?” Liv asked.
“Recently. The components are so new that Cole has never seen its kind before.”
Her eyes hardened. “Do you think we’re dealing with two unrelated threats?”
“The hitman made contact with Paul’s phone. We’re still waiting on the analysis from the call logs, but we know there’s a connection.”
“It could be a criminal Rylee testified against,” Luke said. “Or a family member of one of those criminals. Someone with a vendetta against her.”
“Or it could be any of the hundreds of traffickers we’ve taken out. We never leave loose ends, but mistakes happen.”
“Whoever this is, they’re not after your emails. Rylee’s house hasn’t been ransacked. No one seems to be searching for the copies she made.”
“Unless they already have them.” His insides tightened.
Her house was compromised. At some point, very soon, he needed to get those email copies and talk to her about selling the property and moving to Colombia.
He went back and forth with his friends for the next hour. The conversation circled, discarding theories and forming new ones. Eventually, Tate rapped on the window, announcing dinner, and they moved the discussion inside.
Tate and Lucia had prepared a spread of Mexican food—enchiladas, tacos, and other fixings Tomas could name.
Cole breezed around the large dining table, setting up numerous laptops, printers, phones, and other electronics.
Behind him, Rylee stood at a giant whiteboard that had been wheeled in on a stand. The marker in her hand flew across the surface, listing evidence and timelines, drawing diagrams, and collating links between people, places, and events.
While the seductive shape of her ass in those jeans tried to steal his attention, it was her mind that held him rapt, gripped in a state of awe. She’d managed to organize the tangle of conversations he’d just exchanged with his friends into an orderly, concise illustration.
As she worked, he made them both plates of food. Cole hadn’t stopped messing with his equipment to eat, so Tomas made a plate for him, too.
Setting the heaping dishes on the table, he approached her back and dragged his nose through her soft hair. “You’ve done this before.”
“Well, I’ve spent a lot of time holed up in cubicles with detectives, but they don’t use evidence boards like this. Everything goes into advanced computer programs. It’s a more efficient way to connect findings.”
She tapped the marker on her chin, staring at her work. Her other hand absently drifted behind her to rest on his hip. It was a simple thing, just a casual touch, but it meant so much more. It was familiarity, comfort, and connection. It was everything.
“Right now, the one currency we have to work with is time,” she said. “There isn’t a serial killer on the loose or an abducted person held somewhere. No one’s breathing down our necks. So I thought the board would be helpful to kick around ideas.”
“Is this what you were discussing with Cole?”
“No.” She laughed uncomfortably and turned around, her eyes watching Cole head toward the hall for more supplies. “I talked to him about you, me, my failed marriage, and the woman he built that dance room for. Relationship stuff. I did the talking. He indulged me by not kicking me out.”
“He was listening.” He stroked his thumb across her pillowy lips. “Listening to a beautiful, brilliant psychologist.”
“Oh, my God.” She laughed again. “I’m a terrible therapist. Therapists listen.”
“You listened to me.”
“And changed my major because I thought I could fix things.” She touched his face, his gaze soft with affection. “Some things don’t need to be fixed.” With a small smile, she turned back to the board. “This has always been my dream. Investigation. Profiling. Criminal justice.”
“You’re in the right place for that. With us. I know it’s too soon to make demands—”
She snorted. “You’ve been making demands since day one.”
“Quit your job.”
“Done.”
“Just like that?”
“I took a sabbatical because I hate that fucking job. The detectives pull me into their sit-downs when they have questions, but I’m never part of the analysis or action. I watch from the sidelines, bored out of my mind. When I drove into the desert, I was searching for so many things. A new life, friendship, happiness, possibilities…” She pressed her lips against his chest. “You.”
He was a goner. Utterly, completely lost for this woman.
Pulling her close, he wrapped his arms around her and scoured his fumbling brain for something profound to say. “This is nice.”
Lame.
“This is nice.” She hugged his waist and perched her chin on his breastbone, smiling up at him. “I love the growly, aggressive, tough-guy thing you have going on, but it’s also nice to just be able to touch you like this, to hold you without expectation or agenda.”
Dishes clinked, voices murmured, boots scuffed—the din of family coming together for a meal.
He held her until she pulled away, turning back to her evidence board.