"There was a note, too. Under the wiper blade. It said Dead Meat."
"Oh, God."
"We're reporting this," he said. "No arguments. And you're staying at my place tonight. No arguments there, either."
She nodded, numb.
Gently, he pushed her away from him, then studied her face. "Taylor, baby. Are you okay?"
She shook her head. "No," she whispered. "I'm really not."
Chapter Ten
Landon gave Taylor credit for giving the report to Detective Sanchez without any gaps or obfuscations. Of course, everything she told Sanchez was something that was essentially obvious--the car had been vandalized, she was pretty sure she knew the identity of the perp--but considering how close-mouthed she'd been so far, he'd been afraid she would shut down.
She hadn't, and that was good.
But she still hadn't completely opened up to him, and he was terrified that by keeping her secrets she was hindering his ability to keep her safe.
He slowed to a stop at the intersection of Chicon and Seventh Street, and used that time to glance over at her. Her head was back, her eyes closed, and she kept her hands twisted together in her lap. She was spooked, and he understood that. Who wouldn't be with a restaurant-size supply of meat rotting inside their car? But it hurt more than he liked to admit to know that she didn't yet trust him enough to tell him the whole story.
For most of the drive, he'd been trying to tell himself that he was frustrated because she was making his job harder. And while that was true, it wasn't the problem. No, Landon's frustration wasn't professional, it was personal. He wanted her to trust him.
Hell, he just wanted her.
Most of all, he wanted her safe. And now that Beau was escalating his torments, Landon was becoming more and more afraid.
And determined. He'd nail the son-of-a-bitch to the wall, but he needed Taylor's help to do that. Her trust. But damned if she wasn't just
like Vanessa had been.
Fuck.
He turned left on Chicon, irritated that his ex-wife had popped into his head for even a second. She was history, and that was a good thing. After five years without her, he rarely even thought of her anymore. She'd been fascinated by his job, but it had also been an albatross. She'd worked in the courthouse and knew the kind of dangers a cop faced. Hell, she'd married him with full awareness of what he did and that he loved his job.
But as the first year of their marriage progressed, she became more and more clingy. They'd fight almost every day when he left the house for his shift. And by six months into their marriage, she'd transferred her fear from him to herself, convinced that the evil he fought on the streets would come after her.
Maybe it would--probably it wouldn't--but either way, he'd begged her to trust him. To believe that he could keep her safe.
But she'd spiraled down, certain that the weight of the criminal world would bear down on her.
Counseling hadn't helped. Talking hadn't helped.
In the end, they'd both realized that her fears about his inability to protect her from the fallout of his job reflected a more systemic lack of trust that permeated their entire marriage.
He'd needed his wife to believe in him. She'd needed--what? He still didn't know. But they never had the connection. They never had that trust.
It had destroyed them, and after eighteen months, they'd gotten divorced.
Now Taylor didn't trust him either. It was goddamn deja vu all over again.
Except it wasn't.
He slowed the car to turn right onto East 16th Street, the frustrated part of his mind calming in response to the voice of reason that had seeped in through the cracks.
No, it wasn't the same. Not really. Hell, not at all.
Vanessa hadn't been willing to trust him to keep her safe from a general fear of the boogeyman. Taylor had a legitimate reason for her fear, and she'd told him enough to identify her stalker and to take steps to keep him away from her.