The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

Understanding slides over his features. He gets it. He gets me. Sometimes after the worst crime scenes, we need to battle our fear and beat it, or we can’t go on. That has to be done alone. “We’ll compromise,” he offers. “I’ll walk you to the door of your building.”

I’m a little surprised at how easily he caves, but also relieved. I wasn’t going to let him stay. I also wasn’t looking forward to the battle that can erupt between the two of us when we bump heads. I nod and we start walking, again in silence. There is much we both will have to say about tonight’s events, but those words will wait for tomorrow.

It’s not long before we arrive at my building and prepare to say our final goodnight. Lang’s way of doing so is an order. “I’m calling patrol to let them know you’re walking up. And pull the damn trigger next time.”

Regret fills me with those words. The Poet will kill again. I could have stopped him. “I will,” I promise, reaching for the door and making quick work of entering my building. The walk is more tedious than normal, the stairwell tight but well enough lit, but I’m suffocating in the small space. I check my watch to find it’s now nearing midnight and, as would be expected, not a peep can be heard but for me and my tired feet.

Relief fills me at the sight of my door, and I slide the key into the lock. I’ve barely cracked the door open when the glow of light tells me that someone is inside. Instinct kicks in and I drop my bag, pull my weapon, and kick the door open the rest of the way.

Chapter 44

I step inside the door and a man is suddenly in front of me, holding up his hands.

Wade.

It’s Wade. Wade is here.

“Easy, baby,” he murmurs, like calling me baby will somehow save his life. Men do that a lot. Call a woman “baby” and “sweetheart” to calm us down. Does that ever work? It damn sure doesn’t for him. I’m suddenly pissed. Burning alive and hot under the collar.

I slam the door shut with my foot and walk toward him, shoving the gun into his chest. He’s a good-looking man, and at thirty-eight, a younger Brad Pitt look-alike. His looks can’t save him now. Not when his suit jacket is gone, flung over the table by the door, his blue tie that matches his blue eyes hanging low and loose. He’s made himself comfortable, and while it would be a shame to mess up his pretty face, I think I could do it right about now.

“What are you doing in my apartment, Wade?”

“I still have a key. You know that.”

“I don’t remember you keeping my key.”

“And you still have my key, which you haven’t used in months, but we can talk about that later.”

“You scared the shit out of me. I’ll give it back. Talk complete. Why are you here?”

“Langford called. He told me about your visitor last night, the guy hanging out by your door. I grabbed a high-tech invisible camera and installed it by your door.”

I grimace. I should have known. Lang gave up too easily downstairs. “He knows you’re here?”

“Yes. He knows I’m here.” He eyes the gun in my hand, now pressed to his chest. “Are you going to shoot me?”

“Did you bring wine and chocolate?”

“I did, in fact, bring wine and chocolate, Godiva and that Italian blend you love so much. And I have that late-night pizza joint on autodial, ready to call.”

He wins. I lower my weapon.

Apparently, I’m not shooting anyone tonight, though I think I probably should have. I open the drawer to the entrance table and slide my gun inside. The minute the drawer is shut, he pulls me to him and wraps his arms around me. I’d forgotten how good it feels to have someone who doesn’t think you’re weak just because you’re feeling beat-up in the moment. He pulls back and gives me a keen inspection. “Pizza?”

This man knows how well pizza replaces the acid burn of a bad night. I’m suddenly not as angry as I was moments before. “Please.”

“Good. I’m starving. I’ll order the pizza. The wine’s on the counter.”

A few minutes later, he’s showing me my new state-of-the-art camera and security system, complete with a monitoring system that he installs on my phone.

“Thank you,” I say, and a bit later, when we sit down at the coffee table with wine and pizza, I add, “You aren’t staying the night.”

His lips quirk and he says nothing. He just sips his wine.

“He killed a man tonight who just had a conversation with me this morning, Wade.” And there it is. The words I’ve suppressed because speaking them somehow makes them far more real. It’s out now, though. This isn’t like any other case either of us has ever experienced. This killer is killing for me. “You can’t stay.” My voice is softer now, but it vibrates with emotion I can’t afford to feel.