Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
ELI
It was evening when we got back to the Sinclair Security building. Most of the vehicles in the underground garage were gone. We went straight to the safe house apartment to find a labeled casserole in a disposable aluminum pan in the refrigerator.
I threw it in the oven while Sylvie disappeared down the hall to take a shower, saying she needed to wash off the day. I knew what she meant. I hadn’t been looking forward to going back to Hollow Creek, but I hadn’t expected the day to carry so much weight. Stupid, in retrospect—how could it not?
Of course, it would sit heavy on my heart.
Still, I wanted to push that away, to pretend.
No big deal, I’ve got this. I didn’t want to feel the heavy press of it.
I wanted to be Eli, to find my way back to the man I was day-to-day.
It had been thirteen years, after all. I didn’t grieve every moment of every day.
But today—today that was beyond me. I wanted to eat and sleep and leave this day behind me. All of it. Except Sylvie.
The way she’d seamlessly played the part with the neighbor, telling her a story of a couple looking for a rental.
Then, the flush in her cheeks when Miss Carmody had recognized her voice—the sincere, flattered joy in connecting with a fan who loved the thing Sylvie loved doing.
The light in her eyes, the way she’d leaned across the counter, telling secrets that had made Miss Carmody’s day.
And later, the way she’d come to wrap her arms around me at the graveside. We both knew I never would have asked. I could barely admit to myself that I needed her touch, her support. But I had. Maybe I hadn’t even known how much until she was there, holding me until I was ready to go.
Everything was so much more complicated than I’d expected. And while part of me wanted to shift life, Sylvie, and myself back to where we’d been a few days ago, the rest of me wanted to lean in.
Not to the mystery, necessarily. I’d just as soon know exactly what the fuck was going on with Silas, whether he needed an assist or was fine out there on his own.
But Sylvie? That was an entirely different story.
Because while I would happily rewind to before her van exploded, I couldn’t regret her showing up at our offices.
I would unravel so much of the last few days—but not her.
And I had to figure out what to do about that, because I didn’t have my head so far up my own ass that I couldn’t see the pit I was about to fall into.
I wanted her, and I wanted to keep her at arm’s length. I couldn’t have both. Not for long. But that was a problem for later. For now, I just had to get through the rest of the day.
Sylvie came back down the hall wearing a matching set of cotton knit pajamas, the legs loose around her feet.
The front of the T-shirt said LET ME SLEEP with a sketch of closed eyes.
More sleeping eyes decorated the pants’ legs.
Her hair streamed over her shoulders, the cinnamon color dampened to dark brown, clumps of waves curling at the ends.
The pajamas were designed for comfort, but I couldn’t stop staring.
“Smells good,” she said. “What is it?”
“Chicken cordon bleu casserole,” I said, forcing my eyes away, “from a place around the corner.”
“Awesome. Beer?”
I nodded, and she moved past me to pull two bottles out of the fridge, grabbing the opener from the utensil drawer and popping the tops. She handed me one and leaned back against the counter, taking a long drink.
“I needed that,” she said after she swallowed.
“Me too. You ready to eat?”
She was setting the table while I pulled the food from the oven and served it on the plate she handed me. We were halfway through eating before either of us spoke again.
“Are you going to show me that envelope?” she asked.
I’d been thinking about it for hours and hadn’t come to a conclusion.
Fuck it. I didn’t need to tell Sylvie everything, but she might be able to help with the cryptic code.
Before I could question it further, I found myself getting up from the table, grabbing my jacket where I’d tossed it over the back of an armchair, pulling out the envelope, and sliding it across the table.
“Nice stationery,” she said as she pulled the sheet out.
“Yeah, it was,” I agreed. I’d always liked the navy and gold of the Creed Global logo.
Her eyes fixed on the line on the page. “You know what this means?” she asked.
Internal > MP > 102398.delsh.active
“Not exactly sure,” I said. “I think it’s the code to a file—internal, so one of ours.
Missing persons.” I tapped the next section of the code.
“And the rest of this could be a birthdate, letters from a name. I don’t know.
I figured I’d take it down to the office tomorrow, start going through files. ”
She didn’t ask any further questions, just nodded. It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was something.
I slid the paper back in the envelope.
“I got a message from Emmett and Maddox,” I said. “They cracked some files we’ve been trying to get into. Communication logs with Emily Shaw.”
I left out that the drive had belonged to Silas, not Emily. We’d get to that later. Maybe.
“What does that mean?” Sylvie shoveled another forkful of casserole into her mouth and chewed slowly, her hazel eyes shrewd as they watched me, waiting for my answer.
She hadn’t missed that I was being cagey.
“It means,” I said, “that you and I are going to spend most of tomorrow pounding energy drinks while we go through those files to see if we can find anything that tells us what Emily Shaw was up to before she died, and who may have killed her.”
“Exciting,” Sylvie said, one russet eyebrow raised. “Typical dangerous day in the life of a high-end security consultant?”
Her tone conveyed her sarcasm, and I grinned at her.
She had no idea how much of what I did was digging through files.
“That’s what most of the job is these days, unless we’re playing bodyguard.
Which also gets more boring than you’d think.
We spend a lot of time going through data and tracking down clues—whether it’s surveillance footage, files, electronic, paper.
Less talking to people in my business than you have in yours, I’d say. ”
“Sounds like it,” Sylvie said. “Overall, I think I like my way better.”
“I’m not surprised,” I said, remembering how easily she’d connected with the curmudgeonly neighbor and Miss Carmody. “You’re good with people.”
She shrugged, took another sip of beer. “I like people. I think that helps. Everybody has bad days now and then, but most people are pretty decent, you know what I mean?”
“That’s a surprisingly optimistic standpoint for somebody who deals in unsolved violent crime,” I said.
“Maybe. There’s a lot of ugly out there. I’m sure you’ve seen more of it than me,” she said.
I nodded, knowing she was right.
“But still,” she went on, “I’ve seen a lot of good.
Some of these women—the tragedy of their deaths, the lack of answers, the families who just want to know—that’s tough, and it’s dark, and it hurts.
But then there are the people—mostly cops, sometimes social workers, sometimes family members or people like me—who keep looking, who never give up, who fight for the truth, for answers, for justice.
With little reward, but they keep going because they know it’s right.
And that—” She lifted her hands like they were the scales of Lady Justice and moved them up and down.
“It balances everything out. We can’t stop bad things from happening. Doesn’t mean we can’t do good.”
I wanted to make a crack about her optimism, but I didn’t.
Because this wasn’t some shallow mantra or slogan to brighten her day—this was Sylvie walking into the darkness, carrying a light, looking for others with their own light.
A flash of rage at whoever had blown up her van hit me.
There were shadows under her eyes that he’d pay for, once we found him. But that wouldn’t be tonight.
“It’s not that late,” I said, changing the subject, “but I’m half dead.”
“I know,” she said, picking up on my thought. “The clock says it’s too early, but I could still go to bed. Feels like I need to store up my sleep.”
I nodded. Both of us could use a solid eight hours.
“I’m going to make some tea.” She stood, grabbed both of our empty plates, and pushed back her chair. “Do you want any?”
“Sure,” I said, realizing I didn’t so much want tea as I wanted to prolong the minutes left before bedtime.
I packed up the leftover casserole, slid it back in the fridge while Sylvie filled the kettle and washed our plates and silverware, storing them neatly in the drying rack.
She pulled out a box of herbal tea and set up two mugs with two tea bags, and turned, maybe to ask me if I wanted honey or sugar.
I never found out because she was right there, standing in front of me, her damp hair waving off her face, that rosebud mouth so close, and I didn’t have it in me to step back.
Her hand came up and rested on my chest, right over my heart. “Are you okay? Today was a lot.”
The concern in her eyes broke my restraint.
My hand came up, skimming her jaw, my fingers diving into her thick, cool hair.
I tilted her face to mine and took her mouth, her full lips as soft and sweet as I’d expected.
When her tongue flicked out, I was lost, pulling her closer, molding her body to mine.
She moaned in the back of her throat, and I feasted.
This was what I’d wanted—not just her holding me, making me laugh, but tasting her, feeling her mouth move under mine, the soft breath in her throat.
Her hands slid around my back, her head tilted up, mouth moving eagerly, fingertips finding the hem of my shirt and gliding up to spread across my back, digging in, pulling tight until we were plastered to one another.
I wanted?—
I wanted. Period.
I wanted to strip off those pajamas, to lift her up and lay her back on the counter.
I wanted to hear that moan—not trapped in the back of her throat, muffled by our kiss, but set free, deep and needy.
I wanted to hear her come because I’d brought her to that.
I wanted to watch her eyes bright with pleasure, hungry with need, her body moving over mine while I cupped her breasts, tasted her, possessed her.
And at that thought, I lifted my head. One kiss and I’d gone from lust to a depth of need I’d never known before. Because one kiss wasn’t enough. Not even close.
I stepped back, drawing my hand from her hair, my lips from hers. I couldn’t resist tracing one fingertip down her cheekbone to stroke across her lower lip, swollen and damp from our kiss.
“Sleep well, Sylvie,” I said and strode down the hall to my room, not trusting myself to wait for that cup of tea.