Chapter Sixteen
Eliot
It’s a little after seven when I let myself in the front door. The whole drive home, I thought about Parker. About her smile. The way she laughs when she forgets she’s supposed to be tough.
The quiet surrounds me in a way it hasn’t before. Half a day in a conference room with two people who played off one another with both jokes and some of the best damn crime scene analysis I’ve seen in a long time, and I’m ruined for silence.
That’s gonna be a problem.
I drop my keys on the kitchen counter and stare into the living room that oddly feels smaller than it did this morning.
This place isn’t much. One bedroom. The main room barely holds the dining table I use for jigsaw puzzles, a couch, TV, and two end tables.
Most days, it’s enough. Easy to keep clean, even when my body reminds me some injuries never fully heal.
Tonight, it feels empty.
The navy blue blanket is draped over the arm of the couch. Another few hours and it’ll be done. Maybe tomorrow. Thursday at the latest.
Fuck. That means I’ll have to bring the new yarn to Friday’s knitting circle. Marlene will be insufferably pleased with herself.
Pulling out my phone, I snap a photo of the blanket and, before I can talk myself out of it, text it to Parker.
The instant I hit send, I realize what’s behind the blanket. The yarn Marlene picked out. Sunflower yellow. Surface-of-the-sun orange. Neon green. A purple so bright it can probably be seen from space.
I watch the screen for a few seconds, hoping she’ll reply.
For fuck’s sake. She might not even be home yet.
I’ve almost talked myself into setting the damn thing down, when the three dots dance at the bottom of the screen.
That’s impressive. How long did it take?
A few weeks.
You’re more patient than I’ll ever be.
Try it sometime. It’s surprisingly relaxing.
You could teach me. But I’d probably be terrible at it.
The dots bubble, stop, and start again.
I do have questions about the radioactive yarn behind it.
I was hoping you wouldn’t notice that.
Notice? Eliot, it’s glowing.
It’s worse in person.
That isn’t possible.
It is. Trust me.
So, you’re telling me your judgment was compromised when you picked it?
No. One of the women from the knitting circle forced it on me, then plied me with baked goods so I couldn’t say no.
That sounds like compromised judgment. Baked goods as blackmail?
Marlene isn’t someone you say no to. She has very strong opinions.
Do you usually lose battles over yarn?
No. This…was a first.
Watch out. You lose one argument, it’s a slippery slope to taking orders and setting up an Etsy shop. And those colors need a warning label about vision loss.
There’s a long pause, but the dots keep moving at the bottom of the screen.
I’m glad you sent this.
You asked for a picture. It’s just a blanket.
It’s not ‘just’ anything. It’s something you made.
I don’t have a response for that. I give the blankets away. I’ve never made one for myself. But I don’t say any of that.
I should go workout. When I start the neon blanket, there might be another picture.
That sounds like a threat. You know I’m authorized to arrest people, right?
If you arrest me, I can’t take you to dinner.
Fair point. But warn me first, okay?
Deal.
I keep my phone close as I change into a pair of basketball shorts and a t-shirt.
This wasn’t the day I planned. Hell, I didn’t intend to see Parker at all.
Most of my work with law enforcement happens over email.
We’re rarely at scenes together, rarely working a case side by side.
I take samples, interpret the scene, send over my evidence, and occasionally testify at trial.
So why have I suddenly started hand-delivering reports? With iced coffee, no less?
I don’t have an answer. Not one I’ll find by sitting on the edge of my bed staring at the pull up bar in the doorway.
I unroll the exercise mat and lay it out on the floor. The phone goes face down on the dresser. Otherwise, I’ll scroll through the text messages again and again.
I’m glad you sent this.
Five words that landed in a place I thought I’d locked away forever.
Wrapping my fingers around the pull-up bar, I start working my arms. One set. Two. Three. The burn helps me focus. But once I let my arms drop to my sides, I hear her voice in my head.
“Dinner isn’t even the issue. It’s what may—or may not—happen after.”
After.
I wanted there to be an after. Dammit, I still do. But if there’s an after, she’ll see what fire does to a body. My body.
And then she’ll ask me what happened.
Fuck.
Wiping the sweat from my hands, I start a fourth set. My biceps scream at me, but I can’t stop. Not until my fingers slip clean off the bar and my feet hit the floor with enough force, I feel it in my jaw.
I should stop. Eat. Finish the damn blanket.
But I know if I do, I’ll start thinking. Even with This Old House on as background noise, I’ll spend the whole night with her voice in my head. Not the professional one from earlier today. Or the seductive one as she agreed to dinner.
The horrified tone of Parker Elmore realizing exactly what I keep hidden under long sleeved shirts even in the heat of the summer.
“Oh my God, Eliot. What happened?”
Or worse. She’ll be so disgusted, she won’t want to touch me.
Either way, it’ll be the end of whatever we might’ve been building.
I grab a set of heavy dumbbells, swing them up to my shoulders, and start pressing. Twelve reps. Grab a bottle of water.
“Shit, Eliot. How did this happen?”
Another twelve reps. My shirt clings to my back, dragging over the old scars. The sensation’s muted. Not numb, but wrong.
“You’re…that’s…how?”
I don’t stop between the second and third set. Don’t care about the pull of the t-shirt, the sweat dripping into my eyes.
If she asks, the night’s over. We’re over. Because my only options are to shut her down—and I don’t think Parker stands for anyone shutting her down—or tell her everything.
And what woman would want to be with someone who let a twenty-two-year-old kid die on his watch?
This was a mistake. All of it. Coffee. Driving her home from Urgent Care. Showing up at the Ranger station today.
Asking her out for dinner.
Shoulders burning, I give the dumbbells a rest. My body doesn’t get the same reprieve.
Pushups are a bad fucking idea. They force me to engage muscles buried under too much scar tissue to behave properly. But this is my penance. Zack isn’t here to feel pain. I have to feel it for both of us.
Ten. Twenty.
Stop.
No.
Twenty-five. Twenty-six.
The skin along the left side of my ribs pulls tight. My triceps are shaking. My core gives out. Everything gives out.
I collapse, cheek scraping against the exercise mat. The faint, rubbery scent has defied years of sweat and disinfectant.
My phone vibrates on the dresser. I can’t look at it. I don’t want to know if we’re over before we even begin. Not yet.
I make it through a shower, a bowl of leftover pasta salad, and three rows of the blanket before I can’t stand it anymore. Setting the knitting aside, I trudge into the bedroom and reach for the phone. My muscles are shaking as much from fear as the workout.
Officially moved girls’ night to Friday this week. I’m all yours tomorrow.
Ten minutes later, she sent another message.
I hope the yarn didn’t permanently blind you.
The last gray bubble cuts me open.
Turning in. I can pick up coffee in the morning if you’re coming to the station. I owe you that much. Let me know.
I sink down onto the mattress, the phone cradled in my hands, and stare at the tiny notification at the bottom of the screen.
Parker Elmore has silenced notifications.
I didn’t respond for three hours. I let her think I didn’t want this.
You’re a goddamn idjit. And a coward.
I type and erase half a dozen different messages before I settle on a response.
I’ll be at the station first thing, with donuts and a dinner reservation.
The little whoosh sends my heart rate into the stratosphere. But one more day with Parker in my life—even if that day ends in disaster—is better than the alternative. I won’t let her think I don’t want her. Not again.