Things We Never Said (Hart's Boardwalk 3)

When would that feeling ever stop?

Parking in the lot at the side of the building, I took the side entrance that led to the main reception of the sheriff’s department. There was no receptionist at the desk, so I walked up the stairs into the open-plan office. Jeff was standing talking to Wendy by the water cooler, and they both looked over at me. Jeff made his way over, and his blue eyes drank me in from head to toe. “Everything okay, Dahlia?”

I nodded, distracted by the busy office behind us. “Everyone’s working long hours these days, huh?”

“We’ve got a killer to catch, and Ian Devlin and his press monkeys constantly on our fucking asses.” Jeff’s response was full of exasperation. He winced. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’re doing great.”

He studied me carefully. “You’re here for Mike.”

Someone should have warned me how awkward it would be talking to an ex-lover about my … well … my other ex-lover. “I wanted to check on him.”

“I sent him home,” Jeff said. “He wasn’t happy about it, but he’s no good to me tired.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t sure I should go to Michael’s apartment under normal circumstances. I definitely shouldn’t go when he was exhausted.

“As much as it kills me to say this …” Jeff’s lips flattened into a thin line. “You should go to him. He’s taking this a little too personally for my liking.”

I nodded, biting my lip in worry. “And we know it was Freddie who shot Stu?”

Jeff just gave me a look.

I pulled a face. “Right. Civilian. None of my business.”

“You know where Mike lives?”

“I didn’t say I’d go to him.”

“We both know you’re going to him.” Then he relayed Michael’s full address.

“Thanks, Jeff.”

He nodded and then took a step toward me, bending his head to mine. “He’s a good guy, Dahlia. I’m sorry it couldn’t be me, sorrier than I can say, so if it has to be anyone, I’m glad it’s Mike. You deserve that.”

Too many feelings overwhelmed me. I didn’t want Jeff’s blessing, and that’s what he was giving! I didn’t want anyone’s blessing. I wanted to check on Michael, make sure he was okay, and scurry into my cowardly hidey-hole again.

* * *

The cartons in my hand contained falafel wraps packed with hummus, salad, and spicy sauce. I had no idea if Michael liked falafel but the deli across from his apartment building sold them, and they smelled amazing.

If he was tired, he was probably hungry too.

I took a deep breath as I stared at his crisp, white-painted front door. “You can do this,” I whispered to myself. “Friends check on each other.” I knocked before I could talk myself out of it.

A few seconds later, I heard his footsteps as he approached the door. The chain sounded, then the lock, and he opened the door wearing a black T-shirt, jeans, no belt, no shoes or socks. Oh, and he was holding a gun casually at his side.

“Expecting someone else?” I nodded at the gun.

I didn’t like guns.

My dad kept a gun in the house; Dermot and Michael both carried them for their jobs, so I was used to them.

I just didn’t like them.

He squinted at me, and I noted the dark circles under his eyes and the pale pallor of his usually olive-toned skin. “What are you doing here?”

“I brought food.” I pushed inside, taking in the modern, sleek surroundings. The apartment was open plan with a French window that led out onto a ground-floor balcony. Light spilled into the white room, showcasing the light gray, glossy kitchen cabinets and island along the back wall. Center of the room was the sitting area where Michael had a black leather couch, armchair, glass coffee table, matching glass TV cabinet, and a huge flat-screen TV. To my left, a doorway led to a narrow hall, which I presumed led to the bedroom and bathroom.