14. The Date That Smells Wrong #2
Kelly’s jaw tightens. “Detective Wolfe.”
Not Dorian.
Not good.
But she does not tell me to leave. That matters too.
I keep my focus on her date. “Name.”
His eyes dart to Kelly, then back to my badge. “Niall.”
“Full name.”
“Niall Fraser.”
Scottish surname.
The chain at his throat fits that, old silver links disappearing beneath his sweater.
“I didn’t do anything,” he says.
“I haven’t accused you.”
“You’re police.”
“Observant.”
Kelly makes a sound that promises consequences later, assuming I survive the next five minutes.
I crouch and look at the bag without touching it. Prescription label. Partially torn. St. Brigid’s Veil pharmacy mark. The name is smeared by rain, but the last name is clear.
Fraser.
Not contraband. Medication. Prescribed. But strangely, by St. Brigid’s Veil.
My gaze lifts to Niall.
He is trembling. Not because he got caught making a move on my partner. That is apparent.
Because something about this medication scares him more than my badge.
“Are you sick?” I ask.
His face closes. “What? No.”
Lie.
Small. Reflexive.
Kelly hears the shift in my voice and goes still. “Niall?”
“I’m fine.”
“Everyone needs to retire that phrase,” I mutter.
Niall’s hand goes to the chain at his throat. The movement pulls it free of his collar completely.
A silver knot inside a ring. Worn smooth with age. Not expensive. Important.
Family crest?
Different.
“Why did you bring Kelly here?” I ask.
His eyes widen. “I didn’t. She asked me to pull over.”
Kelly exhales through her nose. “I asked him to stop because he got dizzy at the light and almost drifted into the curb.”
That lands.
Hard.
I glance at her.
Her face is pale with anger, yes, but also something else.
Relief.
I was right that something was wrong.
Creepy as hell that I was there to see it.
Both can be true.
Niall bends and grabs the bag. His eyes never leave mine.
“Leave it,” I say.
He freezes.
Kelly’s eyes narrow. “Dorian.”
“I need to know what medication he dropped. What is he hiding?”
“Haven’t you heard about patient privacy?” Niall says quickly.
Too quickly.
“Whose is it?”
He clamps his mouth shut.
Rain runs down his face, into his collar. He looks younger than mid-thirties now. Not innocent. Not harmless exactly. But cornered.
“Niall,” Kelly says carefully, “if someone is in trouble, you can tell us.”
His gaze snaps to her.
For one second, shame cuts through the panic. Then he looks past me again, toward the park entrance, as if expecting someone to be there. “I should go.”
“No,” I say. “You should answer.”
His breathing turns shallow. One hand presses to his stomach again.
“I didn’t hurt you,” he tells Kelly, voice breaking. “I swear. I wasn’t going to.”
Kelly’s face softens, then tightens again because compassion is not the same as trust. “I know.”
His relief is visible. So is his fear.
“Then why are you scared?” I ask.
He looks at my badge. At Kelly. At the bag on the ground. Then at the empty road. “Because no one can know I talked to you.”
“Who?” Kelly asks.
He shakes his head.
The scent of illness spikes. He sways once, catches himself on the car door, then yanks it open.
I step forward.
Kelly’s hand lands on my arm. “Let him go.”
Her voice is quiet. Firm.
I look at her.
She does not look away.
This is not fear speaking. Not weakness. Not denial.
Choice.
I stop.
I pick up the bag from the ground and hand it to him.
Niall grabs it and scrambles into the driver’s seat, slams the door, and starts the engine with shaking hands.
The tires spit gravel as he backs out too fast, then shoots toward the park exit.
For three seconds, only the rain speaks.
Kelly stands beside me, soaked, furious, and breathing too carefully.
“I hope he makes it home safely.”
“Should we follow him?”
“No,” she spits out too fast. “I think you’ve scared him enough for one night.”
Her eyes flash. “And since I no longer have a ride back to my car…”
She heads toward my car.
“Kelly—”
“No.” She turns on me in the rain, soaked, furious, and still shaken. “You followed me on a date, which is creepy enough that I need several minutes to invent new profanity. But he was sick, scared, and lying, and I’m not too proud to admit I was glad you were there.”
She opens the passenger door, then points at me. “But if you ever park like a guilty rhinoceros outside my personal life again, I will shoot out your tires.”
“That would be destruction of town property.”
“I’ll aim emotionally.”
She gets in and slams the door.
I look toward the road where Niall disappeared.
He is not the threat.
Not directly.
But someone has made him afraid enough to run from help, guard medication, and look over his shoulder like the dark itself has teeth. And that is troubling.
I get behind the wheel.
For a few seconds, rain is the only sound.
Then Kelly says, “It would have been nice to confiscate the bag.”
I glance at her.
She stares out the windshield, arms folded, rain dripping from her hair onto my upholstery.
“You scared the hell out of him.”
“I know.”
“Was that the goal?”
I look toward the empty road.
“Maybe.”
“And now?”
“Now I think someone beat me to it.”
Silence settles hard between us.
I exhale. “He lied.”
“He was scared.”
“Both can be true.”
Her jaw tightens. “And you think that makes this better?”
“No. But it makes it important.”
I turn down the street back towards the restaurant.
“I should not have approached him that aggressively,” I say.
Her mouth opens, then closes. Apparently, she expected more resistance.
“No,” she says carefully. “You should not have.”
“I handled it like I didn’t trust you.”
Her expression shifts.
“I do trust you,” I add. “But I let fear make the decision first. That is on me.”
Kelly looks out the window. “I wanted one normal date. Even a mediocre one. He talked too much about chowder. It was almost relaxing.”
Despite everything, my mouth almost curves. “Chowder can be a warning sign.”
She shoots me a look.
“Bad timing,” I say.
“Terrible timing.”
Another silence.
Then she says, softer, “I don’t want protection that proves I’m broken.”
The words go through me clean.
I think of Fate hearing rejection where I meant caution. I think of every good intention I have turned into a blade because I did not trust the person I wanted to protect to stand beside me.
“You are not broken,” I say. “You’re adapting to information no human should have had to absorb this quickly. Fear is going to lie to you. Shame will too.”
She glances at me.
“Fear says every shadow is a threat. Shame says noticing shadows makes you weak. Both are liars. Instinct is different. Instinct gives you information. It does not insult you while doing it.”
Her eyes shine, but she does not cry.
“I hate that that was helpful,” she mutters.
“I’m surprised it was.”
A small breath escapes her. Not quite a laugh.
Progress.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I should have asked before acting. I should have treated you like my partner, not my responsibility.”
She studies me for a long moment, then nods once.
Imperfect forgiveness.
Accepted.
“For my next dream date,” she says, “you wait for my call.”
“Yes.”
“No lurking.”
I hesitate.
She turns her head slowly.
“No lurking,” I say.
“Good.”
A beat passes.
“And if the next man talks about chowder,” she adds, “I’m arresting myself.”
For the first time all evening, I laugh.
We drive two blocks before reaching the Brass Gull. Her table has already been reset. The evidence of her normal evening is gone. And I helped erase it.
“You’re doing the basement-under-the-basement face again,” she says.
“I want to run him.”
Her shoulders stiffen.
“With your consent,” I add.
That brings her head around. “You’re serious.”
“Yes. But…you were on the date. You observed him before I interfered. If you tell me to stand down tonight, I will.”
She studies my profile. “You really think there’s something there?”
“Maybe. But not necessarily guilt.”
Her fingers tighten around her seat belt. “He didn’t feel like a predator.”
“No. He felt medically vulnerable. Stressed. Afraid.”
“He said he was tired,” she says quietly. “And made some joke about everyone with family obligations being tired.”
“Family obligations.”
“Maybe. Or maybe small talk.” Her mouth twists. “See? Now every sentence feels like evidence.”
“Sometimes it is.”
“Unhelpful.”
“But not always evidence of guilt.”
She stares at her table through the restaurant window. “Quiet background first. Public records. Employment. Family. No showing up at his door tonight. No surveillance gargoyle behavior.”
“Agreed.”
“The secret is not always the threat,” I add. “Niall is hiding something. That does not mean he is the danger. It may mean danger found him.”
Kelly absorbs that slowly. She swallows. “Then yes. Run him.”
The word costs her.
I understand.
“This time,” I say, “we run him together.”
And this time, I mean it.
Kelly and I take over the conference room because the bullpen has too many ears.
Human ears, mostly.
I am no longer arrogant enough, however, to assume those are the only kind that matter.