Chapter 21 #2
Mallory let out a quiet sigh before she said, “Yes. He did.”
Yeah, I really didn’t like that at all. “Do you think it was his real name?”
“No,” she said without hesitation and I shot her a quick look. “He said his name was Simon, that part is true, but I don’t think it’s anymore his real name than the Auditor or unsub would be.”
“Then why give it to you at all?” It came out a hell of a lot more harshly than I intended. As she glanced at me, I raised one hand from the wheel in a gesture of supplication,
“I’m sorry—I said I wasn’t going to interrogate you.”
“It’s okay to be curious,” she said in a far more generous tone than I deserved.
“I’m an adult. I can survive curiosity.”
She studied me for a moment as the light changed and I took the next turn on my way to my apartment.
“I'll tell you.”
My gaze shifted toward her before I could stop myself.
“But not in the car,” she added.
“Why?”
“I don't trust the car.”
I almost laughed but she didn’t join me. The sober look on her face said she wasn’t joking and I swept a look over the car.
Someone could have bugged it. FBI. CIA. Homeland security.
Simon.
I grimaced again. Right, paranoia wasn’t as unhealthy as some people thought. They’d had time to bug my apartment too. But I could sweep it. I’d have to sweep the car later.
“Fair,” I said and we drove the rest of the way without discussing the case.
The garage beneath my building had never looked so good. I parked in my assigned spot and shut off the engine.
Mallory unbuckled but didn't move.
Neither did I.
We'd arrived.
Apparently that complicated things.
“Home,” she murmured. The word was so quiet I almost convinced myself she'd said something else.
I looked at her. She stared through the windshield.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head. But something in her expression had changed.
I filed it away. Then hated myself for filing it anywhere. We’d spent too much time around the damn feds.
“Come on.” I was torn between shuffling exhaustion and over-caffeinated adrenaline. I could have taken the stairs, but I settled for the private elevator. At least it was secure.
Mallory leaned against the wall again. This time her shoulder rested against mine. Neither of us mentioned it.
When the elevator opened directly into the small vestibule outside my apartment, she waited while I unlocked the door.
I checked the frame first.
The lock.
The hinge.
Then the tiny paper strip I'd wedged behind the upper jamb before we left.
Still intact.
Mallory noticed. “Old habit?”
“Yes.”
“Paranoid.” She made it a compliment.
So I flashed her a grin. “Yes.” I opened the door. She started past me. I caught her arm. “Wait.”
Her eyes rose to mine.
“I'll check.”
“Flint—”
“Humor me.”
For a second I thought she'd argue.
Then she stepped back. That unsettled me far more than if she’d rolled her eyes or started cursing me.
I entered first.
Kitchen.
Clear.
Living room.
Clear.
Bedroom.
Bathroom.
Closets.
Balcony door.
Everything exactly as we'd left it.
The whiteboard still covered half the wall.
Photographs.
Building diagrams.
Floor plans.
Access routes.
Copies of everything I'd managed to gather before Mallory's meeting. My entire Saturday spread across glass and paper.
Mallory stood in front of it when I came back.
“You went there.” Not a question.
“Yes.”
“Before we went.”
“Yes.”
“You didn't tell me.”
“You would have accused me of being overprotective.”
She snorted. “You were being overprotective.”
“I also saved us time.”
She stared at me. I braced for impact. Instead she touched one of the photographs. “You photographed the west side.”
“The construction openings.”
“You knew they weren't accessible.”
Now I shrugged. “I thought they weren't.”
Her fingers slid along the edge of the photograph. “Still can’t figure out how he left.”
“If he was ever there.”
“Right.” She looked at the board for another moment. Then her shoulders dropped. “I'm taking a shower.”
“Good.” She needed that and about eight hours of solid sleep.
“And coffee.”
“After sleep.” If she started on the coffee now, she wouldn’t be sleeping.
She turned. “Coffee before sleep.”
“No.” For once, I wasn’t going to back off on this.
Her eyes flashed. “I've had coffee before bed for twenty years.”
“That explains a lot.”
She pointed toward me. “Quad-shot latte.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Flint.”
“Decaf.”
“Why not just get some food coloring and dump it in the water?” Her expression became genuinely offended.
“I can do that too.”
“You should hear yourself.”
“I’m the responsible one.” I raised my eyebrows daring her to dispute it. “Deal with it.”
“You sound evil.”
“Shower.”
She glared but I refused to budge and with one last look, she threw up her hands and disappeared down the hallway.
I waited until the bathroom door closed. Then I leaned both hands against the kitchen counter and finally let myself breathe.
She was here. Alive. Safe enough for now.
I had spent hours knowing none of those things. My hands started shaking. I curled them against the stone until it stopped.
The feed replayed in my head.
Mallory on the monitor.
The false smile.
The wrong pauses.
Her voice saying things she hadn't said.
I believe you.
I knew it was manufactured now.
Didn't matter.
I'd heard it.
Believed it.
For several minutes, maybe longer, I had sat in that van and believed Mallory was forming some kind of connection with a killer while I could do absolutely nothing.
Then Brewster. That bastard watched her, watched me, and his control seemed to fray one strand at a time.
I rubbed a hand over my face.
The shower started. Water rushing through the pipes. The ordinary sound grounded me.
I opened the refrigerator.
Eggs.
Cheese.
Leftover Chinese food that I wasn’t even going to check. I just tossed it.
Bread.
Fruit.
Coffee.
Decaf remained negotiable, but I wasn’t throwing in the towel yet. I started water heating anyway. A man had to choose his battles.
Mallory emerged twenty-five minutes later wearing my clothes.
Again.
That should not have affected me as much as it did. Gray sweatpants rolled twice at the waist. One of my black T-shirts.
Bare feet. Wet hair combed back from her face. No makeup. No armor. She looked even more exhausted than she had going in.
She also looked so completely at home in my apartment that something low in my chest pulled tight.
I turned back to the coffee machine before she caught me staring.
“Don't,” she ordered.
“Hmm.”
“You're making decaf.”
“I'm making coffee.” It wasn’t a lie.
“Who’s being evasive, now?”
I filled two mugs. “Drink it before filing a complaint.”
She crossed the kitchen and accepted the mug. Took a sip. Her eyes closed in a suggestion of bliss. When they opened again, her lips curved into a gentle smile.
“You lied.”
“It’s called compromising,” I informed her as I took a sip of my own coffee.
“This is full strength.” She leaned against the counter next to me.
“Nope,” I said, just drinking in the sigh of her. “It’ half-caff.”
Her stare turned suspicious. Then she took another sip of her coffee before she eyed me again.
“Three-quarters.” I took a drink of my own.
“Flint.”
“Fine. Full strength.”
A faint smile emerged. “Thought so.” She took another drink.
I considered moving away. I should. But she looked so pleased with herself, that I didn’t want to. Not after the past twenty-four hours.
Hell, not after the past month. I wanted to be right where I was. So, I compromised—again—I backed up to give us the appearance of distance. It was probably as effective as the coffee, but…
Her smile disappeared. “We're still doing this?”
“Coffee?”
She gazed at me patiently. “The other thing.”
I knew exactly what she meant. “I don't know what thing you're referring to.”
“That bullshit may work on management.”
With a shrug, I took another sip of my coffee.
She lowered the mug. “Three days.”
I looked at her.
“You've been sleeping on a sofa that is approximately eight inches too short for you for three days.”
“Ten.” If we wanted to be specific.
“That's worse.”
“It reclines emotionally.” That sofa and I went way back. I’d slept there for months before Blythe finally moved out. Slept there until I bought a new bed.
“Don't.”
I almost smiled, but Mallory wasn't smiling anymore. “We haven't talked about anything that isn't the investigation.”
“We've been busy.”
“Flint.”
I almost sighed. I knew that tone. There would be no avoiding this conversation, despite the need for sleep. Mallory was going to drag us into it whether I liked it or not.
I looked away. I knew it was a mistake before I even did it because Mallory missed nothing.
“You're still angry,” she spoke in that soft voice that forced others to really listen.
“No.” I didn’t even believe me, so why would she?
“That's still bullshit.”
“I wasn't angry.” That I could sell.
“Sure, if we were talking about the past. But we’re not…”
Damn journalistic acumen. I could almost hate how sharp she was if it wasn’t so damn sexy. Fine… “I was concerned.” That was a concession and hopefully enough of one.
“Was?” Nope, definitely not enough of one.
“Am.”
“Better.”
I met her gaze in the same moment she seemed to realize the word she’d chosen to use. Better. Pretty sure Simon had used that one with her based on her reaction.
Mallory looked down at her coffee. “I’m sorry.”
The genuine regret in her voice tugged at me. “For what?”
“That word is currently ruined.”
“It’s a word, Mal,” I promised her. “The English language is full of them. I'll survive.”
She rubbed one thumb against the side of the mug. “I told you about Brewster because I trusted you.”
“I know.”
“And then you backed off.”
“That wasn't punishment.” A harsh sigh escaped me. I really wasn’t sure we should have this conversation. It could go so wrong in so many ways. She needed me and I needed to be here.
If we opened up this can—it could blow up in our faces.
“It felt like it.”
The words raked through me, not with injury. She wasn’t throwing them in my face or even accusing me. She was telling me, because it had hurt her and that… I couldn’t stand that.
I set my mug down. “I didn't know what you needed.”