Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 52447 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52447 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
We’re not talking about what happened to me tonight.
I’m not ready.
Because I’m bothered by more than the blood of that memory back in LA. I’m bothered by the fact that I no longer feel that flutter in my belly anymore before I see a dead body.
But death does whisper my name, and it’s far more intimate than it was back then.
And yet, I have a phobia.
I need to know what all of this says about me.
Considering he sleeps next to me, Kane does as well.
Chapter Nineteen
Kane exits opposite me, no doubt hoping to hold a powwow with Kit. I exit the vehicle near the apartment entrance door and sure enough, Jay is standing there waiting for me.
“I know you’re angry but—”
“What did you say to Kane?”
“That it was bad.”
“And he said?”
“Nothing.”
At the sound of Kane’s voice from behind, I shift to place them on either side of me. “And you said what else, Jay?” I ask. “Because that wasn’t enough to make Kane run to me.”
Jay swallows hard. “That it was bad for everyone, even you?”
“Even me?” I challenge. “And you’re surprised Kane came running?”
“No,” he admits, far quicker than I expect. “I’m sorry if that upset you, but you can’t believe that what I did is a betrayal or me being loyal to Kane over you. I was worried about you. I still am. And damn it, Lilah, I’d do it again. And if that’s what makes you want to fire me, then fire me.”
The direction of my anger points one way and then the other, both directions away from me, but that’s me deflecting what I should own. He didn’t do anything wrong. I did.
“I’m not mad at you, Jay. I’m mad at myself for putting you in this position. I won’t do it again.” With that, I walk toward the building. Kane falls into step beside me, but he doesn’t say a word, and that works for me. Kane knows me, I tell myself. That’s why he’s silent. That’s why he isn’t pushing me. There are no surprises between us. And yet, there are, I think.
There is something about me that the crime scene is trying to tell me and I need to know what it is, if for no other reason other than I don’t like the idea of the unknown. And it feels as if I’m swimming in a bloody swamp of the unknown.
I’m also not sure if I want to know the truth—I mean, I want to know—but some subconscious part of me doesn’t. If that weren’t the case, I’d know the side of myself that was at that crime scene tonight, at least in that apartment, which is illogical. I don’t run from things.
We step into the elevator and the doors shut, the scent of Kane’s spicy, familiar cologne filling the air, and doing so in a damning way. As if the scent itself wants to point out what should be obvious. I did run and I ended up in LA, where Kane was not.
My cellphone buzzes with another message that I ignore. I need in my own head right now, not battling political windfall and egos. I’ll deal with it all, just not right this second. Not when I want to crawl out of my own skin but I will settle for a shower. The remainder of the ride is eternal, the silence ticking by as if it’s the silent execution of the FBI agent formerly known as Lilah Love, now Lilah Love-Mendez.
When we finally arrive at our apartment and make it through the two levels of security, I need that shower more than ever, as if I can wash any of this off of me. The desire to do so is not even a normal feeling for me. I don’t try to escape a crime scene. I try to live inside it in the mind of both the killer and the victim.
I stride toward the steps that lead to our bedroom.
Kane catches my hand and pulls me in front of him. Before he can even speak, I say, “I don’t know what is going on with me, Kane. That’s the problem. I mean, the guy used a chainsaw, and the person was in pieces, but I’ve seen as bad before.”
His cellphone buzzes and his jaw flexes. “You know—”
“I do know,” I say. “Take the call. I need a shower like I have never needed a shower.”
He studies me for a period of time that defies his ringing phone before he seems to understand that I am not okay and I will not be okay without that shower. It’s not like him the other night, when he showered, to get me inside with him and naked. I need to be clean. Now. He releases me and says, “I’ll be up in a few minutes.” It’s that statement that tells me he’s read me right. He knows what I know and that what I need is just a minute. I don’t need his assent from this picture. I just need a minute alone.