Chapter 9 #2
But I step back enough to breathe, shoving the emotion down, rebuilding the armor she keeps breaking through.
“I’m trying to do the right thing here, Sheridan.
” And pulling away is what I have to do because I know what’s happening.
Rose is trying to distract herself from the pain and uncertainty of the real reason we are here.
Her mom.
And it’s pretty obvious she is using me as that distraction. Granted, under different circumstances, this attention from her would send me over the edge.
Hell, it is now. But I have a job to do.
“Maybe I get to decide what’s right for me,” she says with conviction.
I sigh and ignore her, turning back to the search, each movement sharper, harsher.
Don’t stop searching.
Don’t stop searching.
Don’t stop searching.
We stay silent. Her eyes drill into my back as I check the closet, the nightstand, the edges of the carpet, under the bed.
Nothing.
Nothing but the echo of what we aren’t saying.
Finally, she breaks. “You’re doing it again. Pushing me away. And what? Do you think that makes you noble, Cal? A gentleman? You think keeping me at arm’s length will keep me safe from you? Your job?”
I hate hearing the tremor in her question. It strips away all my excuses.
I straighten and face her. “Fine, you want the truth.” She doesn’t break contact as once again, I step to be closer to her.
“If I let myself get distracted, I’ll miss something that matters.
And your mother doesn’t have the luxury of my losing focus.
” She’s now studying the patterned carpet beneath her feet.
I lift her chin, and our eyes lock and seize.
“Because trust me, I want to get distracted.”
She gasps.
My pulse is pounding in my ears as my whole body coils tight with restraint. “It’s about both of us,” I say, quieter now. “Because if I give in, I won’t be able to stop.”
Her breath stumbles, and the charged silence around us practically vibrates.
I swear under my breath, and every instinct inside of me is fighting itself.
The pull to kiss her is so real and strong. But if I do, it’s over. Each line I drew would disappear. And there’d be no coming back.
So I retreat back again, dropping my hand, trying not to sound rough. “We can’t do this. Not now. Not while your mother’s life might depend on us keeping our heads straight.”
Her lips press into a thin line. She turns away, shoulders stiff. Yep … too rough. “You’re right,” she admits. “I hate saying that. But you are.”
Both of us stand there, not speaking. Only feeling. Knowing acting would destroy us. The silence is worse this time.
Thick.
Final.
I go back to searching the room with hands that won’t stop shaking, telling myself over and over it was the right choice.
But I’m lying.
Her back is to me now, arms wrapped around her body.
She sniffles.
Damn it. She’s crying.
“You’re upset,” I say, softer, trying to understand.
“You’re scared for your mom, and I don’t blame you.
But that’s all this is. That’s why you’re looking at me like that.
I’ve seen it before. You’re trying to push down the fear you have about your mom by pulling in a different emotion.
One that makes you forget and feel good. ”
She turns, eyes flashing. “How do I keep looking at you?”
“Like you want me to cross a line I can’t return from.” I hate that I’m falling apart at the seams. “I won’t do that, Sheridan. Not when you’re hurting. I won’t take advantage of you.”
She looks at me, intently, breathing hard. Out of nowhere, she stomps her foot, and her gaze burns hotter. “Stop it!”
“Stop what?” I chuckle at the sudden change in her mood. God, I love her sass. My pulse hammers.
“Stop being right.” She’s steadier as she continues. “But just because you’re right, doesn’t mean I don’t want this.”
Frustration (both mine and hers) courses through us.
The seconds tick away.
I feel.
I feel so damn much when I’m with her.
We don’t smile.
We don’t blink.
We only stand and stare.
She on one side of the room. I on the other.
If she was trying to strip me down with her words, it was working. My jaw locks as every muscle turns to stone.
Every part of me aches to go to her, but I force myself to hold back. I have to. “I want it too,” I admit, the words dragging out of me. A piece of her hair falls, and all I want to do is tuck it behind her ear. “But wanting this and acting on it are two very different things.”
Her lips curve, faint but knowing. “For now.”
I smirk as thoughts of where this hopefully will go in the future play on a loop in my mind. “For now.”
I look away, forcing myself back into motion, checking the nightstand again, though I know it’s empty. Anything to keep my hands busy. Anything to keep from grabbing her, pulling her in, and giving her what she is asking for.
The silence stretches again, but it’s not cold this time.
It’s alive.
A hot current we both desire, no matter how much I try to ignore it.
And God help me, I didn’t know how much longer I’d be able to.
Because the truth is, the case isn’t the only thing on the line. If I slip and gave in, I wouldn’t just lose focus. I could lose her. And I wasn’t sure I could survive that.
Not again.
After the room search proved fruitless, we leave and meet the nighttime manager in the lobby, Mr. Hawkins still in tow. The manager’s expression tightens, hands clasped like he wants nothing more than to be anywhere else.
I don’t care. This is ultimately all their fault, anyway.
As soon as we approach him, he starts. “Housekeeping has already processed the room,” he says, apologetic but clipped.
Tell us something we don’t already know.
“Personal items were logged and secured, per policy.” He pauses, waiting for me to reply.
I don’t. He clears his throat. “Please accept my apologize for the mix-up about the cleaning of the room.”
I grunt, ready to respond, but Mr. Hawkins beats me to it. “Well, I will hold you personally responsible if this mistake costs this investigation time and evidence.”
This Mr. Hawkins has my vote. The manager lowers his head and nods.
Rose stiffens beside me. Anger rolls off of her in waves. “Where?”
The manager hesitates, knowing they royally screwed up. “In storage. We keep guests’ belongings for thirty days unless instructed otherwise.”
“Let’s go,” I blurt out, my tone leaving no room for negotiation. And before Rose explodes.
The manager nods quickly. “Right this way, sir. Mr. Hawkins, I got it from here.” The security manager, whom I actually like now, has to leave.
I extend my hand to the man. “Mr. Hawkins, thank you for your time.”
He takes it, smiling. “You’re welcome.” Then he directs his next words to Rose. “Ms. Sheridan, I truly hope your mother is found alive.”
Well, hell, now I like him even more.
She nods, smiling. “Thank you.”
Don’t you worry, Rose. I will find your mom.
After exiting the busy lobby, we enter elevator one and endure a painfully uncomfortable ride to the twentieth floor. The very top of this massive place. He leads us down a service corridor, away from the ballrooms and restaurants that I’m sure offer an amazing view of the city skyline.
However, this part of the hotel is cold and unfeeling. The walls here are bare, the air chiller, the hum of fluorescent lights harsh against the silence. Rose walks close, her hand brushes against mine once, accidentally. Or maybe not.
We reach the end of the hallway as the manager unlocks a steel door and ushers us inside. The storage room is nothing glamorous. There are rows of shelves. Each with neatly tagged bags, boxes, and suitcases, waiting for their owners.
“This section.” He points to the middle shelf. A black plastic tub rests on the wire shelf, sealed and labeled with her mother’s name.
Diane Sheridan.
Rose moves first, stretching up on her toes toward the box like it holds a piece of her heart.
As if her mother might somehow be waiting inside.
Before I can stop myself, I reach over her head, standing behind her, my arm brushing hers.
The soft contact sends a jolt through me.
“Let me get it,” I murmur, lower than intended.
She turns, her face just inches from mine.
For a breath, neither of us moves. Her eyes meet mine, raw and tangled with grief and something unspoken.
The weight of it hits me square in the chest. “I’ll process and catalog everything first,” I say gently, forcing my voice steady.
“Inspect it all. Then, when I’m done … you can look. ”
“Okay,” she whimpers out and steps back.
Then, I address the hotel manager. “Leave us.”
“Yes, sir.” He scurries away. Normally, I’m not this gruff, but these people royally screwed up with the room. Who knows what could have gotten thrown away or swept up. So, my desire to be nice is over.
Heaving the large bin from the shelf, I place it on the steel table behind us. Rose rounds the other side, watching me intently.
“We’ll go through everything,” I say firmly.
“Piece by piece. If there’s something here, we’ll find it.
” I yank rubber gloves from my pants pocket and slide them on.
I open the lid and peer inside. It’s only her suitcase.
Rose stands craning her neck to get a better look.
“When I pull out the suitcase, can you put the bin on the floor, please?” She nods, doing as instructed.
Slowly, I pull at the zipper. Zzzttt. The sound echoes throughout the small space. Inside are the ordinary scraps of a person’s life. Clothes. A book. A pair of reading glasses. A phone charger coiled neatly. All the things that should have felt familiar but here feel hollow.
One by one, I photograph each piece with my phone and search the items, hoping, for Rose, that I find some kind of clue.
But there’s nothing.
After about twenty minutes of work, I step back. “Okay, you can look if you want.”
Rose’s eyes meet mine, silently asking permission. I nod. “Go ahead.” Slowly, she pulls out a silk scarf, touching it, smoothing it along her fingers. She tries to hide the sharp inhale. But I caught it.
When it comes to Rose, I see it all.
“They just packed her stuff away like this.” Her voice breaks, and I hate the helplessness clawing at me. “Like she’s … gone.”
She glances at me, searching. And for a split second, the fight from earlier in the room is gone. All that’s left is trust.
Fragile, dangerous trust.
Rose lifts the silk scarf again, pressing it to her face as if it might still hold her mother’s scent. Her shoulders tremor.
“I hate this,” she mumbles.
I swallow hard; the words caught. “She’s not gone. We don’t know that yet. And besides, they were only doing their job. These things don’t mean anything to them.”
Her eyes dart up, sharp and wet all at once. “Then why does it feel like it?”
It’s true; this is Rose, which makes this more personal, but it’s also like any other case.
And the same emotions and questions always come to the surface regarding to victims who are left behind.
I don’t have an answer. Not one that wouldn’t sound rehearsed.
So instead, I reach into the suitcase, pulling out a paperback with a cracked spine, and hand it to her.
“Because you care. Because it matters. That’s why it’s so heavy. ”
Her fingers brush mine as she takes the book. The contact is small, fleeting—but it burns through me all the same. She doesn’t pull away immediately.
“You always do that. Even before,” she murmurs.
“Do what?”
“Make it sound like you’re giving me logic when, really, you’re giving me comfort.”
My jaw clenches as I look away, attempting to build that wall back up. “I’m not here to comfort you, Rose. I’m here to help you find your mom.”
“It’s possible to do both, you know,” she retorts softly, almost tender.
I don’t respond. My chest aches with the truth. She isn’t wrong.
After setting the book down, she reaches for her mother’s glasses, the lenses reflecting the light. Her hand trembles. “She can’t see without these.”
Her words break apart, tearing me in two. “We’ll find her,” I promise, steady and certain, though a small piece of me fears making promises like that to families. It’s a promise that sometimes is impossible to keep.
And I want to keep all the promises I make to Rose. At all costs.
She looks at me, eyes shining, and right now, the room feels too small. The shelves, the dim light overhead, the weight of the case—it all fades. It’s her and me, tethered by something we shouldn’t touch but can’t seem to cut away from.
I want so badly to pull her against me and kiss her until the world outside this storage room stops spinning.
I’m completely lost.
Lost in her magic. Her words. Her way.
Just her.
I inhale a breath full of nothing but Rose. But I have to let go. For today, this is as close as I would get to her.
She blinks, looking down at the suitcase again, and I force myself to remain steady. “Let’s pack this all back up. There’s nothing here, unfortunately.”
But the truth is, my mind isn’t on the evidence anymore. It’s on her. Always on her. And I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep pretending otherwise.
“Do you have to take her stuff, or can I?” she asks, small and delicate.
I stare at her a moment too long before checking myself. “Let’s leave it here for now, and I’ll text Denny to have someone come and pick it up.”
She nods, her arm brushing mine as we reach for the zipper. That tiny spark of contact lingers longer than it should, a reminder of everything we haven’t confessed in the hotel room.
I shove the feeling down. The case comes first. It has to.
With my resolve firmly intact, Rose’s butt starts to ring.