Chapter 2
Chapter two
Rose
With shaking hands, I bring the phone up to my ear. My fingers are clammy from the nerves coursing through me.
“Hello?” The greeting wobbles as I climb out of bed.
“Hello, Ms. Sheridan. Richard Dennison here.”
“I was just getting ready to call you.”
“Yes, I’m sure you were.” Sarcasm drips from those five words. He’s so sick of me.
I hold my breath and pace my bedroom, biting my thumbnail.
Juno’s curious gaze drags back and forth, watching me.
I’m trying hard to sound in control, and I’m anything but.
My stomach flips-flops, waiting to hear what news, if any, this detective has to share.
It could be anything. Possible scenarios race through my mind like a train barreling down tracks.
She’s dead.
They know nothing.
They found her!
And she’s alive!
They have a possible lead.
Maybe they discovered some sort of clue.
“Ms. Sheridan. Are you there?”
Crap, he was talking, and I totally zoned out.
“Yep. Still here. Could you repeat that? I’m so sorry.
I guess I’m just a little stressed. And for good reason.
I’ve been waiting for you guys to call me.
” A smear of red catches my attention. A cuticle, split and bleeding.
Perfect. Another casualty of anxiety. With a sharp exhale, I head into the adjoining bathroom in search of a Band-Aid.
“Understandable.” His voice on the other end is low and steady, worn around the edges like someone who’s seen too much in life.
In his line of work, that isn’t surprising.
There’s a roughness there like maybe from years of smoking.
Yet underneath it, there’s a gentleness.
Something about it makes me breathe easier.
He continues. “I apologize. Just know that we are working around the clock on this.”
Yeah, okay.
I gotta admit; he has always sounded sincere, which is helping my anger.
Adhering the bandage to my thumb, my impatience wins out, and I blurt out the one question I want the answer to most of all.
“Did you find her?” I climb back into my bed, back against the headboard, and grab Juno for support and comfort.
I swallow hard and brace myself, anticipating whatever news he has.
He exhales, then pauses. “No, Ms. Sheridan. I really wish I were calling to tell you that. However …” He trails off. “I understand it’s late afternoon, but we found something in the parking garage—well, a few somethings—and we need you to identify them. Are you able to come down to the precinct?”
My breath catches, with no means of escape. As I sit dumbfounded, he continues. “Cal Masters will be here as well. We are working on the case together. If I recall, you shadowed him a year ago?”
His name throws me into a coughing fit.
The cop.
The one I just got done thinking about while on the phone with Maggie. If I’m being honest, I think about Cal … a lot. But right now, I have to throw these thoughts straight out the window because my mom deserves all my attention.
I clear my throat. “Yes, I did."
“I figured you might be more comfortable with him there. Since you are familiar with each other.”
I scoff. Familiar with each other? Sure. If familiar means we kissed, and he stopped it, sending me drowning in my humiliation … then yeah, sure. I guess we are familiar with each other.
The truth of the matter is, I was in the thick of writing my current thriller novel, Fear Will Become You, and I had to research the day in the life of a cop. I contacted the precinct, and they agreed as long as I signed a contract and an NDA.
I happily did both.
The first time I saw Cal, the world just …
stopped. He’s thirty-seven, tall, broad-shouldered, and built in a quiet, effortless way that doesn’t need to prove itself.
His smooth, light-brown skin caught the light like polished bronze.
And then there are his eyes. God, those green eyes nearly knocked me backward.
If Jackson Avery had the body of Thor … that was Cal.
You see where I’m coming from?
We got along wonderfully for the first few days. Sparks were flying all over the place. When he looked at me … immediate somersault in my gut. I had never felt that before. For anyone. Not even Niko.
Then, after his shift one night, we went to get a drink.
There was flirting, light touches, hair flipping, and a hand on my knee.
All the signals that he was interested were there.
God knows, I threw out my own. But then outside the bar, we lingered, his hand squeezed my waist, we leaned in, our mutual breath danced, and I thought, ‘This is it!’
He pulled away.
After that, he apologized, got back on his bike, and left me on the curb, embarrassed and confused. The next day, his entire personality changed. We went from friendly and flirty to enemies in the blink of an eye. It was total emotional whiplash.
It ended up being the longest month of my life.
Being around him, gawking at him, smelling him (because, God, he smelled divine), was torture.
And knowing that I wanted more, and he didn’t, obviously irritated the crap out of me and caused my sarcastic combativeness to come out.
So we were at each other’s throats. I could tell my being there bothered him. And he let me know it.
Which is going to make what I say next sound completely insane. But I don’t care. It needs to happen.
“Actually,” I start, squaring my shoulders, “I have an idea.”
There’s a pause on the other end and his sigh practically hums through the phone. “All right. Let’s hear it.”
“If I recall correctly, my contract hasn’t expired yet.”
He exhales again, the sound laced with suspicion. “I believe you still have a few weeks left, yes.”
“Perfect.” I sit up straighter, adrenaline kicking in. “Then, I want to be there in person to help. I know my mom better than anyone else. I could be a real asset to the investigation.”
“Ms. Sheridan, I don’t think—”
“This isn’t up for debate,” I cut in. “You can use the same excuse as before. I’m shadowing for my book. It’s a perfect cover.”
I chew on my thumbnail, waiting for him to respond, my pulse thudding in my ears.
The idea hit me like lightning during an unavoidable call with my publisher earlier today (that I got nothing out of), and it’s been burning a hole in my chest ever since.
Sitting at home, pacing, harassing the station for updates—none of that is helping.
I need to do something.
I need to be there.
And if that means working side by side with Cal again, so be it. I’ll deal with him. For my mom.
I reach down to scratch behind Juno’s ears. “So,” I say, forcing brightness into my voice, “when do you want me there?”
He hesitates, then chuckles in defeat. “You’re not going to take no for an answer, are you?”
“No, sir. I’m really not.”
“Well then,” he says, resigned, “the sooner the better. How about one hour?”
I glance down at my clothes—jeans, a one-shouldered sweater, hair barely brushed. The bare minimum. But at least I’m not in pajamas. “One hour works.”
“Good. We’ll see you soon, Ms. Sheridan.” The line clicks dead.
Juno tilts his little head, brown eyes blinking up at me full of nothing but loyalty and love.
“How is this happening, little man?” I whisper.
He just stares, unbothered as usual.
I scoop him into my arms, swing my legs off the bed, and take a deep breath. My entire body feels tight, coiled like a spring ready to snap.
Two reasons.
All the unanswered questions about my mom.
And the one man I’m not sure I’m ready to face again.