Chapter 8
Twenty minutes later, Zach lay in bed.
In the darkness.
He stared up at the ceiling, just as Patricia had been doing. But he wasn’t holding the brush.
Maybe he was a little bit different in his talents or ways than Skye.
To stay sane, to keep working, he had to take the time to shake off what others were seeing and feeling.
He’d rid himself of the night wherever Patricia lay trying to sleep, and he even told himself he couldn’t feel desperate—desperate that they solve it all immediately.
Things like this were seldom solved immediately.
Whatever was going on was a plan—a well-developed plan.
One that considered the terrain surrounding them, the location of streets, roads, even cities, in the area. Law enforcement, DNA, fingerprints …
Security cameras.
Yep. It was hard to identify someone in their regular appearance when they painted themselves green.
Were they using something to do with real and tragic history? Or was it nothing more than a disguise, and there was something entirely different at stake?
And why choose those who had been kidnapped?
If they had just been looking for children, they might have taken Patricia to help with Jeremy, and Jane because she was Sophie’s mother.
He gave himself a mental shake. Sleep. Then he could look at everything with fresh eyes in the morning. Sleep, think of anything but …
Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea, either.
He found himself thinking about Skye, wishing that he’d met her …
well, doing anything other than what they were doing.
At a party, a bar, a bowling alley … even online.
There had been that initial standoffishness between them.
Natural. They had just been called into this.
No way out of the fact that in a way, they were on trial.
They had been chosen for this, and he knew that Jackson Crow was hoping for more, but …
So there were defensive walls up at first, and then more defensive walls, but with admiration and wondering if he could be as useful.
Then there had been the first laughter between them, her understanding that he didn’t doubt her in the least, that he believed in her, and her strange ability; and he truly hoped it wasn’t as painful for her as it could be.
She’d been attractive from the get-go, of course. But he’d worked with dozens of women in the office and in the field who had been young and attractive. Maybe not quite this attractive.
And he hadn’t felt anything more than simple desire, and relationships that were totally uncomplicated since …
He gave himself another mental shake. He’d been so young when Melanie had been killed. They had just entered their twenties, but they’d been old enough and wise enough to know that they wanted a life together after college.
Then there had been that awful night … tragic and terrible beyond belief.
He tossed over, no longer wanting to stare at the ceiling. And he almost smiled at himself, and perhaps bizarrely whispered a little prayer that Melanie might forgive him. Because in life, there was sex. Simple biology.
And if he wasn’t looking at the world through other eyes or reliving his past, he was thinking about Skye.
There were different ways of feeling in life; there was the desire that went along with biology; then there was the different thing—feeling, sense, whatever—that went along with regarding someone when they began to touch the soul with laughter, understanding, respect; and there was simply liking someone and everything about their personality, their integrity, work ethic, and so much more.
And …
Great. They were sleeping in the same house.
He groaned and tossed around again.
Exhaustion had to help. Their days were exhausting, not so much physically as mentally, but they were on it every hour when they were awake.
He twisted, turned, and tried every position known to man. And eventually, he did sleep.
And once he fell asleep, he slept soundly, not waking until his alarm went off at seven.
He hurriedly showered and dressed and headed out to the kitchen. Skye was already there, dressed and ready in business attire, a handsome pantsuit, her hair in a queue at her nape, almost rigidly pulled back.
The severe mode of style only enhanced the beauty of her face and hair.
She smiled at him.
“Omelets. Tomorrow I’m going to change it up. I make a mean French toast, the secret being that before you drench the bread in egg, you heat olive oil in your pan. Then, of course, when it’s cooked, you add butter and syrup to taste,” she told him.
“Hey, I’m on the receiving end here. Grateful for whatever you create!” he assured her.
She smiled. “Thanks. But tell me if you don’t like something—I won’t waste time on it, though it keeps me moving, which is good.”
“So they paired me with a galloping gourmet.”
“One armed with more than a spatula,” she said, indicating the place beneath her jacket with her holster and her Glock.“Not exactly. I do a few things well,” she added.
“When this is over, I’m going to grill for you!” he promised, nodding and indicating his own weapon beneath his jacket.
“Grill me or grill for me?” she teased. “I will be delighted if you’re good with a grill!”
“I’ll get coffee and juice and set the table.”
“Oh, and will you push the button for the toast, too, please,” Skye said.
He did so. In a matter of minutes, they were at the table. She grinned at him, watching him as they settled into seats across from one another at the table.
“What?” he asked.
“It just seems so odd. I feel that I’ve known you a long time, but it’s been just a few days. Then again, sometimes when you know people, even for a long time, you only see them now and then, or for a few hours here and there, but we’ve had—Well, lots of hours of together time.”
“That we have. And yeah, it’s strange. I feel like I know you really well, too. And you’re right—hours and hours. And this, too,” he added quietly, “being able to see not just what an incredible talent you have, but how you’ve chosen to use it.”
“You too,” she said quietly.
“We should eat these!”
“Yes, indeed.”
They ate quietly for a minute. “I do think, however, that when you have something like this … For me, it was a lot of the reason I wanted to go into law enforcement. We’ve been incredibly lucky to be noted—well, by Jackson Crow and not the people who would lock us up or dissect us.
I couldn’t imagine going through life not being able to speak with anyone, to share what I’m seeing.
” She laughed. “All through school, as you can imagine, I excelled in local history.”
“I can well imagine!” He laughed. “People seldom let you hold historical treasures, so I might not have excelled so much.”
“You didn’t sneak a few touches in at museums when you were growing up?” Skye asked.
“Cameras. Cameras are everywhere. I tried not to get kicked out of museums on school trips and the like.”
“Never cheated?”
He shrugged. “Define ‘cheating’?”
“Wondered about something in the Smithsonian or—”
“I held the skirt of a dress once from the 1790s at the National Museum of American History at the Smithsonian,” he admitted.
“And?”
“It belonged to a very sweet young woman who was at a dance, and she wore the dress when she became engaged. It was a nice vision.”
“But you never shared your visions with friends. Or a girlfriend? I know you’re not married, because I read your company bio, but I don’t know what else is going on in your life. I mean, you could be engaged—”
“I’m not.”
“But there could have been someone—”
He shook his head. “Once. Long over.”
He wasn’t sure if he snapped the words; she frowned and quickly apologized. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to pry into your life.”
He shook his head and let out a soft sigh. “No, no, I’m the one who should be sorry. I was almost engaged once, over a decade ago now.”
“And what happened?” she asked, quickly adding, “I’m sorry; it’s none of my business.”
He gave her a weak smile. “It is your business. We’re partners in an unusual way.
We didn’t break up; no one left anyone. She was caught up in a random shooting.
Single bullet to the back of her head. We were on the street.
I wasn’t hit; she pitched forward in my arms, killed instantly by the force and trajectory of the shot. ”
“Oh, my God! Zach, I am so, so sorry!” she whispered. “So very, very sorry!”
“It was over a decade ago,” he told her.
“I’m sorry because a beautiful life was lost. Melanie was an amazing person filled with kindness for everyone.
But please, that’s why I don’t like saying anything.
I don’t want people to be sorry for me. Time has gone by; I’ve had my share of flings. I’m fine; and yes, I went to therapy.”
“I’m glad. I hope it helped you,” she said gently. “Your share of flings—”
He winced. “Okay, a lot of one-night stands. But always with complete honesty with women who weren’t looking for involvement. I like to believe that I’ve never been a jerk.”
She grinned. “Hopefully not!”
“All right. Tit for tat. What about you? Is there Mr. Perfect out there somewhere?”
She laughed. “There might be a Mr. Perfect out there somewhere, but not in my life. I dated a guy named Elijah in high school. We had fun together. He went off to become an archaeologist, and I went off into criminology.”
“And after high school?”
She shrugged and then winced. “Okay, well, there was Clive for a bit in college. I guess we were a thing for a while. A friend of my cousin, about three years ago, and not much of anything since.”
“Bad breakups?”
She shook her head. “I, uh, had to get out. I was never really honest; I never believed that I could be really honest, and I would back away if things started getting too serious.”
He nodded. “I get that. And that’s why all this is so …”
“Amazing?”
“Yep. And oh, believe it or not, it’s getting late. Gavin Bruns will be here soon. Let’s—”