Chapter 17
Seventeen
Beckett
I’m pulling into the underground garage when I see her.
At first, my brain doesn’t fully process the image. It’s late. I’m coming off a double shift, and my day has been long enough to justify mild hallucinations. Then the frame sharpens.
The woman dragging a heavy, suspiciously bulging black bag across the concrete floor—muttering a string of curses that would make a sailor blush—is very real.
And very much Madison.
She’s hauling it toward the refuse area at the far end of the garage.
Fuck.
Has she finally snapped? Is she disposing of a rival consultant? Is that Fred from the ground floor?
I park and get out just as she reaches the compactor. She stops abruptly, like she can feel the shift in the air, and turns. The second she sees me, she throws her head back and lets out a groan of pure misery.
“Oh, for the love of God.”
She blows a rogue strand of red hair out of her face and plants her hands on her hips. Her chest rises and falls, a flush high on her cheeks that might be from the manual labor or from the sheer annoyance of my existence.
This is the part where a smarter man would keep walking and value his own sanity. But I’ve already established I’m a glutton for punishment.
I shut the car door and walk toward her. “We hardly know each other,” I say, my voice echoing off the concrete. “Seeing me surely doesn’t warrant that kind of reaction.”
“You’re early,” she snaps.
“What?”
“You’re not due home until midnight.”
That stops me mid-stride.
The fuck?
But before I can process the creepiness of that statement, my gaze drops back to the black bag.
“Am I your next victim? Is this the ‘disappearing’ part of the PR strategy?”
She frowns. “What?”
I nod toward the bag. “Is that Fred?”
“Fred?” She follows my line of sight. “Fred from the ground floor?”
“Yes. Fred.”
She studies the bag for a beat. “Fred would never fit in this bag.”
I stare at her, waiting for the punchline.
“No offense to Fred,” she adds, waving a hand, “but he’s a big guy. I’d need to chop him up to get him in here.”
My mouth opens before my professional filter can intervene. “That’s not actually that easy. To do it right, I mean.”
“Oh? Enlighten me, Doctor.”
“There are bones,” I explain, because apparently this is the conversation we’re having at 10 p.m. in a parking garage. “You’d need the right tools. Specialized saws and at least a very solid understanding of joint anatomy. You’d be at it for hours.”
She lifts her chin, her green eyes flashing. “Are you saying I couldn’t do it?”
“I’m saying you’d need a plan and probably a better bag.”
We just stand there under the flickering fluorescent lights, the absurdity of the moment hanging between us.
“Anyway.” She grabs the bag again and tries to haul it forward, but the plastic catches on the concrete. I rake a hand through my hair and step up beside her.
“Let me get that.”
“I’ve got it.”
“You’re going to blow out a disc and end up back in my ER. Let go.”
“My back is fine. That was a one-off.”
“Let’s keep it that way.”
Before she can argue again, I take the bag from her and dump it.
“Thanks,” she mutters.
“You’re welcome.” I give her a slow smile, just to see if I can get a rise out of her.
It works.
She turns on her heel and stalks toward the stairs. Unfortunately for her, we’re going the same way.
I should wait. I should let her have a thirty-second head start. Instead, I follow. The choice no longer feels like a choice, which is how I know I’m in trouble.
I fall into step beside her. “What did you mean when you said I was home early?”
“What?”
“You said I was early. How exactly did you know that?”
She keeps walking, her pace quickening. “No reason. Just a guess.”
I shake my head. “You don’t get to drop a tracking stat and then walk away. Are you getting a little obsessed with me?”
She spins so fast that I almost walk straight into her. “I am not obsessed with you, Mr. Thuddy.”
“That’s Doctor Thuddy.”
I swear she’s seconds away from stomping her feet.
“I’m tired, Beckett.”
“That makes two of us. Now answer the question.”
She blows out a breath, throwing her arms out in pure frustration. “Fine. I’ve been tracking you. Not like a stalker. I’m not a psychopath. I’ve just… noticed your patterns.”
I stop walking. “Patterns?”
“Your shift patterns,” she clarifies. “This week, you finished around midnight. Last week—blissfully—you worked nights. You weren’t supposed to be home for another two hours.
I was supposed to be asleep by the time you got on that damn treadmill, because you refuse to take any of my perfectly reasonable outdoor alternatives. ”
I don’t have a good answer for her. Not one that would make sense to someone who handles crises with words rather than hands.
Outside is too open. When I run in the park, my thoughts either sprint ahead of me or disappear into the dark.
I know some people want that kind of quiet, but I don’t.
I need the noise contained. The burn in my lungs and the ache in my muscles keep the memories exactly where I can see them.
All the demons in one room. If I’m lucky, I sweat them out.
I look at her then. Really look at her. I see the tired set of her shoulders and the shadows beneath her eyes. She looks like she’s bracing for a blow.
Guilt settles heavily in my gut.
“Goodnight, Doc.”
“You don’t take the elevator,” I point out.
Shut up, Beckett. Let her go.
She pauses with her hand on the railing. “How do you know that?”
“I’ve noticed some patterns too.”
She huffs a quiet, tired laugh. “I’m not good with small spaces.”
“I won’t run tonight.”
“Really?”
“Really. I’ll do some floor work. Quietly.” I hold out my hand. I’m not entirely sure why I want her to take it, but I do. “Temporary truce?”
Meeting my gaze, she exhales and takes it. Her hand is warm and much smaller than mine, yet her grip is firm. It lingers a beat longer than it needs to.
“Truce,” she agrees on a swallow.
As soon as she pulls her hand back, she turns toward the stairs.
“Goodnight, Madison.”
“Night, Doc.”
A neighborly truce. We can do that.
It’s a safe, simple lie.
I let it sit there anyway.