Chapter 7
Shawn’s house is not at all what I expected.
Not that I spent much time thinking about it, but I certainly wouldn’t have pictured a warm, welcoming space with actual decorations, including throw pillows on the bed in his spare bedroom.
I would have honestly been surprised if he lived in anything but a studio apartment with workout equipment in the corner and a television as the only means of entertainment.
Instead, I’m dumbfounded as I stand in a perfectly decorated spare bedroom, complete with black and white photographs of a serene lake on the walls and a quilt that looks handmade stretched out over the bed.
The place even smells amazing. A hearty aroma that makes my stomach growl.
Then there’s the fact that he’s been nothing but kind to me since he found me in that hotel room.
A completely different man from the one I’d come to expect.
After leaving the spare bedroom, I step out into a short hallway lined with more framed landscape photographs and make my way into the living room.
One wall is a massive bookcase full of books ranging from non-fiction to thrillers and even a handful of Bible study books. His leather couch has a crocheted throw blanket over the back and a decorative cross-stitched pillow.
The kitchen overlooks the living room and is complete with impressive stainless-steel appliances and granite countertops.
“Here.” He crosses over toward me and offers me a towel and washcloth.
“I noticed you don’t have a Christmas tree up. Do you not decorate?”
“I do, just haven’t had time this year. Last weekend, I helped decorate my mom’s house, though, so mine is next.”
He decorated his mom’s house for Christmas? Unexpected warmth surges through me. Get it together, Beckett.
“I get that. I haven’t had time to decorate my place, either.” Clearing my throat, I study his living room again. “So, are you the only one who lives here?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I just—it’s not what I would have expected.”
He arches a brow. “What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Guns on the walls, workout equipment, dead plants, a bean bag chair.”
He laughs.
Actually laughs. Who is this guy? The vast change in him from earlier to now is enough to make my head spin, even if it wasn’t already pounding from earlier.
Then, he gestures toward the large monstera plant in the corner. It’s honestly bigger than mine, some of its green leaves larger than dinner plates. “Definitely not dead. And I haven’t owned a bean bag chair since college.”
If he’s offended, he doesn’t show it.
I continue staring at him.
“Why am I here?” I blurt the words out, unsure how else to put it. Why didn’t he dump me at another hotel? Why bring me back here to his personal space?
“Because I wasn’t going to let you be alone, and I have no interest in sleeping on a crummy hotel couch when I have a perfectly comfortable spare bedroom you can use.”
“But why? Why are you being so nice to me?”
“I need a reason?” he asks.
“It’s throwing me off.”
“Me being nice?”
“Yeah. Sorry. I know that’s rude, but it’s not like we’ve had the greatest interactions since we met.”
“They could have been worse,” he replies as he crosses his muscled arms. I keep my attention firmly on his face, though, unwilling to glance down even for a second.
Come on, Beckett. You’ve stared down murderers across a table and in the courtroom. Get it together. I clear my throat and shove down the nerves dancing in my stomach. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re concerned about my safety, Detective.”
His expression darkens. “That’s because I am.”
The air around us seems to charge with tension as our gazes hold. It’s so hard to believe that this is the same man I went toe-to-toe with to get Riley Hunt released when he was wrongfully arrested.
The same man I went on that horrible date with, who couldn’t even make eye contact with me and spent the entire time checking his phone.
Clearing his throat, he looks away. “If you want to get showered, I’ll make some dinner. I’d planned on barbacoa, so that’s what’s in the crock pot. Hope that’s okay with you.”
Another shock. I just keep staring at him. Surely, he didn’t—“You have dinner in the crock pot?”
He shrugs. “I don’t like to eat out and rarely have time to cook a full meal after getting home from work.”
“But it’s after eight.”
“I’m used to a late dinner. It’s automatic, so it switched over to keep the food warm once the cook time was over. Shouldn’t be dry.”
“You have a programmable crock pot?”
“Do you want to take inventory of everything I do or don’t have? Or would you like to get a shower so we can eat?” Frustration laces his tone now, and I can’t say I blame him. He’s opening his home up to me, and I’m so focused on the past that I’m being rude.
“No, sorry. That sounds amazing,” I reply. “And it explains why your house smells so good.”
His expression isn’t quite a smile, but it’s not not a smile either. “It should only take me about thirty minutes or so to finish up. I know it’s late, but I imagine you’re hungry.”
“Starving,” I reply honestly. “I’ll freshen up; then I can help.” As I turn to leave, I nearly step on a gray tabby. “Who are you?” I ask, completely delighted as I squat down. The cat rubs against my legs as I run a hand over its back.
“That’s Trigger.”
I glance over my shoulder at Shawn. “Trigger?”
“Yeah, he’s only got one eye, so he’s always kind of—” he trails off and closes one eye like he’s looking down a scope, “getting ready to pull a trigger.”
Who is this man? I straighten and stare back at him. “He’s also winking.”
Shawn runs a hand through his thick blond hair. “Yeah, well, Trigger was a better name. He’s a survivor. Winky didn’t seem fitting enough.”
A joke. Seriously? Where was this version of him two years ago?
“Trigger,” I repeat and look down at the cat. “He’s adorable.”
“Thanks. Come here, Trigs, I’ll get you dinner.”
Trigs. The cat has a nickname.
Trigger abandons me and races over toward Shawn, who is already kneeling and opening a pouch of wet cat food. I watch as he pours it into the bowl, trying to figure out if I simply misread this man or if something miraculously changed within him over the last couple of years.
Because this is not the same man I went on that date with. It can’t be.
Before he can catch me staring, I turn and head toward the bedroom to grab some clean clothes before I jump into the shower and wash the day off of me.
Even though I know there’s not enough soap in the world to do so. Every time my throat burns, I can feel those large hands gripping me.
I can feel the searing of my lungs as I fought to breathe.
Tears sting in the corners of my eyes, and I pause in front of the mirror to get the first look at my bruised throat.
Nasty purple finger marks mar my skin.
I gently touch them, the weight of the last few hours slamming down onto me like waves hammering against a shoreline.
Years ago, I would have let them drown me. But not tonight. Tonight, I bow my head and plant both palms on either side of the sink.
“But when I am afraid, I will put my trust in You. I praise God for what He has promised. I trust in God, so why should I be afraid?” My voice catches, and a tear rolls down my cheek.
“What can mere mortals do to me?” As I whisper the words from Psalm 56, I try to separate the fear from my heart and shove it aside.
I’m alive.
He did not end my life.
But he did prove that there is more to this than I thought, which means we now have another lead to follow.
And in a ten-year-old case like this, I imagine that’s a good thing.
“This is delicious,” I comment, then take another bite of my barbacoa taco. “Like, seriously delicious.”
Shawn smiles and takes a drink from his glass of water. “I’m glad you like it.”
“It’s not often I eat something that didn’t come in Styrofoam or plastic.”
Shawn visibly winces.
“I take it you’re not big on takeout?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“Any particular reason?” I question when he doesn’t elaborate.
“We didn’t eat it growing up, and after about a year of eating it non-stop when I was first out on my own, I decided that I could make a better meal faster if I just planned.”
“So now you’re a meal planner.”
He shrugs. “It’s easier, and I’m not pumping my body full of the garbage that’s in most takeout.”
“Fair enough. Well, it’s been about a year of me eating nothing but takeout, so this is much appreciated.”
“You’re not big on cooking?”
“I used to be. Back when Paul and I first got married. I loved surprising him with a home-cooked meal whenever he came back home after a trip.” I pause a moment, the grief hitting me out of nowhere as it usually does.
“After he died, I guess I lost the desire to cook. There wasn’t anyone there to eat it anymore.
” Not appreciating the heaviness of this conversation, I take another bite of food.
“I’m sorry about that. I imagine losing him was rough.”
“It was.”
“I remember seeing the accident,” he tells me. “It was all over the local news. I didn’t know who he was back then, obviously, but I do remember them talking about it.”
Grief tightens my chest again. “That’s, uh, actually how I found out he’d died.”
“What?” His tone is sharp—surprised. Which is the exact expression I see on his face when I glance up to look at him.
“We lived in Boston, so I guess, while the local police were tracking me down to deliver the news, the media decided they didn’t want to wait.
I got a phone call from a friend of mine who’d seen it on the news.
She and her husband lived here in Seattle at the time, so Paul would stay with them whenever he was overnight. ”
“That’s horrible, Beckett. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. It wasn’t too great.” I take a deep breath, that moment branded into my mind. “I still remember exactly what I was wearing and where I was when I got that call. It didn’t feel real until I’d flown out to identify his body. Even though I kept calling his phone and he didn’t answer.”
I lost count of how many times I called.
Over and over again as I prayed they were wrong. That he wasn’t really gone.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, his tone softer now.
I force a smile as I look up at him again, noting the tension in his gaze. Where was this tenderness when we’d gone on that date? Who is this man?
He’d been distant then. Borderline cold. I’ve learned more about him in the last hour of being here in his house than I did sitting across from him at that table for two.
“Thanks. It’s in the past now, and while I don’t understand it, I know God has a plan for everything.”
He nods, then takes another bite of his food.
Silence surrounds us, with only the soft humming of his refrigerator to keep us company.
Because I can’t take it anymore, I clear my throat. “So, your scar.”
“My scar?”
“I saw it when I…”
“Barged in on me while I was changing?”
My cheeks heat. “It was a conference room, not a bathroom. I didn’t expect you to be half-naked.”
“Someone spilled coffee on me. The conference room is closer to my desk.” He takes another bite of food.
“Well, next time I’ll knock.” I scoop up some rice, but don’t eat it just yet. “What’s it from?”
Shawn is quiet for a moment.
“You don’t have to tell me; I’m just inquisitive by nature.”
“Makes for a good lawyer,” he quips.
I smile. “But not great dinner company.”
Shawn’s amusement fades. “It was an undercover job. They made me as a cop, and that was their way of branding me. I’m lucky I lived. Wouldn’t have if backup hadn’t shown up in time.”
I stare at him in horror. He was branded? The thought of Shawn Sampson in pain makes my chest ache. Though, knowing him, he probably stared down his attackers with a cocky grin and dared them to do much worse.
“I’m sorry. That’s awful.”
He shrugs. “It could have been worse, so I’ll take what I got.”
As we fall back into silence, my mind shifts gears back to the attack, racing a million miles a minute.
Who was the man who attacked me?
What was Paul into that would have been dangerous enough to kill for?
Why did the evidence just now show up on my doorstep?
“Hey, what did you come to my hotel for?” I don’t know why it hits me now, but I realize that I never asked him what brought him there.
Shawn’s expression hardens. “To tell you that my captain ordered me to stop using precinct resources to look into a ten-year-old closed case that wasn’t in my jurisdiction.”
My stomach plummets. “Seriously?”
He nods. “Clearly, I have a reason now.”
“Clearly.” I shake my head. “How do you think someone knew to look for me? Do you think I was followed here?”
“I think someone has been monitoring that case, and when I requested the files, it sent up a red flag.”
“But they went for me, not you. Probably because I’m not an armed police officer.”
“I’ll find him, Beckett.”
“I know you will.” I take a deep breath. “I won’t walk away from this, Shawn. Even after what happened tonight.”
“I didn’t expect you to,” he says.
“Do you think your captain will let you look into it now?”
“It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t. There’s no way I’m walking away now.”
“Even if it gets you into trouble?”
“Even if it costs me my badge,” he replies.
I stare at him, his words catching me completely off guard. I don’t know how to respond. Surely, he’s not serious. We barely know each other; why would he risk his career to help me find the truth when he could just send me on my way and save himself the trouble?