He has to pay.
A chill touches the back of my neck, and I rub it away. I have to stop relating to the victim. Cam was upset. If the memory is real, then of course she was angry with Drew in that moment. I was hurt and angry myself. That’s the reason we went to the Dock House in the first place.
Nothing ever came of Cam’s proclamation.
We all moved on.
I close my eyes, and hear Rhys move closer to the bathroom. “I was thinking about contacting Ms. Delany again to see if the vic kept up with anyone from her previous life.”
When I open my eyes, I see his reflection in the mirror. Shirt rolled up over his forearms, he leans against the doorjamb, paper cup outstretched toward me.
“I was actually just thinking the same thing.” I turn and accept the cup of tea. “Thanks.”
He nods in acknowledgement.
“She tried to sever herself from that lifestyle,” I say, cupping the warmth against my palms. “That meant severing friendships. People who still used drugs. But maybe there was at least one person she kept in contact with, someone she just couldn’t let go of.”
Cam’s happy, smiling face flashes before my vision.
“That’s what I’m hoping for,” h
e says, then takes a sip of his coffee. “We need at least one person who she confided in. Someone who she told her secrets and worries to.”
I slip past him into the room. “Who do you confide in?”
“My cleaning lady,” he quips.
I smile and set my cup on the nightstand beside the bed nearest the window. “You’re not even joking, are you?”
“Not in the least.” He unbuttons his dress shirt. “She’s a great listener.”
I watch Rhys pull off his shirt, revealing a white T-shirt beneath. He’s defined; tight, sinewy muscle makes up his flawlessly formed physique. He folds his dress shirt and lays it and his neatly folded slacks at the end of his bed. He’s the epitome of a federal agent. Organized, well mannered, loyal. And yet the scattering of scars covering his arms hint to the turbulence just beneath that veneer.
He’s a sidelined field agent. Damaged goods. He has the aches and pains that come with the job, but he no longer has the job he was born to do.
I wish I could’ve met him before his injury, before he was sanctioned to the cold case division. Who was Rhys Nolan then? A more vibrant version of the faded and distant man I see now?
We have that in common, too, I guess. We don’t share much, but we have that—that panging, niggling reminder of who we once were. A cruel souvenir with every glimpse in the mirror. It leaves a bitter aftertaste in your mouth.
Rhys and I, we have our bitterness.
He tugs back the blankets, props the pillows against the headboard. “While conducting the rest of the interviews, we can get handwriting samples,” he says.
The mattress beneath me feels wooden, unforgiving. “I’m in your room, and now you want handwriting samples to compare to the note.” I cock my head as I study his backside. His shoulders tense. “Can I ask you something, and you give me an honest answer?”
Once he finally has the bed made to his liking, Rhys climbs in and looks at me. “Yes.”
I nod, inhaling a quick breath. “Are you actually concerned about the author of that note, or is this fishing expedition an excuse to hunt down a suspect in the field?”
He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he throws back the covers and, planting his feet on the floor, he keeps me in his sights as he stands and crosses the small span between us. I have to angle my head back to meet his eyes as he towers over me.
“Honestly,” he says, voice gravelly low, the question implied.
I swallow. “Yes.”
“I’m always going to protect,” he says. “That comes first. Before the case, before the evidence…it’s how I’m wired. And no matter how bruised and beaten my ego gets, my pride doesn’t factor in. Ever.”
“All right,” I say, still holding his steely gaze.