He needed her gone.
For good.
“I do hate you,” he said with a calm he didn’t feel, using his blank cop expression so she’d have no idea of the battle raging inside him.
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to pull them back in. He might as well have backhanded her.
The color drained from her face, and she didn’t hide the damage his words caused.
Her blue eyes were bright with agony.
Every instinct in him was to reach for her, pull her into his arms and reassure her he was lying, that he didn’t mean it, that he was sorry.
And Michael was sorry, but he wasn’t sure it was a lie. Because he didn’t get it. He didn’t understand how she could stay away from him all these years if she cared about him as much as her pain seemed to suggest.
Thankfully, before he could take it back, Dahlia lifted her chin and strode slowly past him with her head held high. But the tremor in her full mouth gave away her upset almost as much as the way she had to fumble with the door handle to get out of the room.
The sudden fear that something would happen to her while she was distracted by his words, by the apparent turmoil they’d caused, washed over him. Michael’s feet moved before he could think about it too hard and he followed her out. However, she must have started to jog or something because she was already out of sight. Hurrying to catch up with her, he turned the corner, saw no sign of her in the office, and picked up the pace.
When he came out into the main reception, he pulled up short. Dahlia hurried down the steps to the precinct doors and a man in uniform rushed down the steps after her. He grabbed her arm, drawing her to a stop.
It was her brother. Dermot.
Whatever he saw in her face made Dermot’s expression tighten. He asked her something, and she shook her head frantically and pulled at her arm.
Dermot held on and said something else.
His sister seemed to slump into him, and to Michael’s relief, he watched as Dermot led her to the door. Her brother was taking care of her.
Good.
As Dermot held the door open for his sister, he turned, as if feeling Michael’s gaze. His was questioning. Michael gave him nothing.
Yet he wasn’t giving him nothing, was he? He was standing at the top of the steps watching her leave. That pretty much said it all. If he didn’t give a fuck, he wouldn’t care how she got home.
Dermot seemed to understand and gave him a nod before he took his sister by the arm and led her out.
The ache in Michael’s chest flared worse than ever.
He thought getting rid of her would be like exorcising a ghost, but he was wrong.
Inflicting pain on her was worse than petty. It was revenge.
A hard knot formed in his gut.
“What was that all about?”
Michael jolted out of his thoughts. He cut a look to his left where Nina, a police sketch artist he’d known for years, stood staring at the now-empty entrance. “What?”
Nina gestured to the doors with her coffee cup. “Who was that gorgeous number McGuire led out of here? The one who seemed to be running away from you as if her sweet little ass was on fire?”
Michael flinched. “It’s McGuire’s sister.”
“Yeah?” She shot Michael a look out of the corner of her eyes. “What she do to you?”
He realized Dahlia was a bullet fragment. One, it seemed likely now, that he’d never be able to work out. And she was slowly filling him with poison because Michael never thought he’d be the guy who would hurt Dahlia McGuire the way he’d hurt her. And he fuckin’ hated himself for it.
“You ever been in love, Nina?” he asked.