I deflate. I’m not sure if Drew’s lack of motive is a comfort, but it’s damn infuriating.
“What I do know,” he says, moving a fraction closer, “is that people respond to threats oddly. I’ve worked on cases where a perpetrator’s motive made no logical sense to me, but it’s not about me. It’s not even about you. If Abbot is good for this, then he had his reason. Whether or not you’ll ever be able to understand it…well, that might be the hardest part to live with.”
I stare into his eyes. “Even harder than not knowing?”
He’s so close now, I can smell his aquatic cologne. His body heat touches my skin, making me yearn to press against him and absorb his warmth.
The thought sends a jolt of awareness through me.
“You’ve worked cold cases,” he says, drawing me out of my thoughts. “You know there’s never any satisfaction at the end of the tunnel. There’s truth, there’s a form of closure, of justice. But there’s no gratification.”
He’s right, of course. How many times have I longed to know what the families felt when I’m writing their story, only to sit in front of my laptop, blank. Stalled. Unable to find the words.
I rub my arms, chasing away the sudden chill of the A/C unit. “Okay,” I say, accepting. “Then we just follow the lead.”
“To wherever it takes us.”
My gaze snaps to his. Us.
“I think I was being followed.” It just comes out. The need to divulge the utter truth to Rhys may be lingering guilt from my former mistruth, or something else—something I see in his eyes; that yearning my brain says to ignore, to avoid.
His expression darkens. “Where?”
“After I left Cam’s. Not far from her house. I thought I saw a man.” I shrug. “Maybe it was nothing.” But the note resurfaces fresh in my mind. Someone wants me off the case.
“Did you see what he looked like?” Rhys forces the subject.
“Tall. Could’ve even been a woman. They dipped into the tree line as soon as I spotted them.” It sounds stupid to hear myself say it aloud.
Rhys is still holding my arms; his grasp tightens. “You can’t go off solo,” he says. “Until we prove otherwise, we have to take this seriously. Someone sent that note. That person doesn’t want you working the Delany case, or they fear…” He trails off.
“That I’ll make the connection to my own case?”
I can see it in the hard press of his lips, the painful realization that he’s refusing to admit. My stalker is connected to my past. This person could be the key, if he doesn’t end my pursuit first.
If he doesn’t kill me.
What’s he waiting for?
“I don’t want to talk about this now,” I say, trying to step out of his hold.
His dark brows draw together. “There’s more,” Rhys says, reading me clearly. “What else, Hale?”
I try to turn away, but he holds on. Strong fingers embed my flesh. This time, he’s not letting go. “Tell me.”
Even as I try to push it away, the image of Cam on her patio flares vividly in my mind. “Cam. She’s pregnant.”
God, I’m pathetic. I came here to solve Joanna’s case, to bring a murderer to justice. Not wallow in self-pity.
I should’ve never come back.
I note the slackening of Rhys’s hands. He softens at my admission. Then his palms graze my arms, a comforting caress that should feel foreign coming from him, but it’s the most natural touch. Like he touches me in this way all the time.
Everything that could be said is relayed through that touch. How sorry he is that this was taken—stolen—from me. That I’ll never experience this miracle for myself. That I’ll never be a mother.
An ache pushes against the back of my eyes, the threat of tears, but I sniff them back. I won’t succumb to grief.
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