“I know you do. Thank you.”
He nodded, put on his sunglasses, and roared through as the light turned green.
—
I felt more centered after my talk with Gabriel. It was like sweeping away the last of the cobwebs, the stage clear to start again. It helped that he was in a rare truly good mood. We went to dinner at my favorite steak house—he’d made a reservation.
As we ate, Gabriel regaled me with the story of a past case, one he knew would amuse me. Compared with other diners deep in conversation, his gestures were restrained, his affect muted, his tone even, but for Gabriel he was positively animated. Possibly even a little drunk, having finished almost an entire glass of wine. His blue eyes glowed with a warmth I’d never seen, even at his most engaged, and I wanted to lean back and bask in it. But every time I relaxed, a little voice reminded me I needed to discuss something with him while he was in a good mood.
When we moved on to dessert, I worked up the nerve. I took a bite of my cheesecake, then said, as casually as I could manage, “Earlier, being at the station, it reminded me of something.”
He sipped his coffee, brows arching, waiting for me to continue.
“Have you identified those photos yet?”
As soon as I said the words, I regretted them. He froze, coffee mug at his lips. He’d been having a good night, something he probably hadn’t had in a very long time, something he deserved, and with six words I’d completely fucked it up.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “This isn’t the time. I just—So, about the Meade case—”
“I haven’t had a chance to see the photos,” he said, lowering his mug. “I need to, obviously, and I will.”
“I’ll go with you,” I said. “Whenever you’re ready.”
At that, he met my gaze and he smiled. It wasn’t more than a wry twist of the lips, but it reached his eyes, warming them, as if I’d just volunteered to do a year’s worth of research free of charge. Even when the look vanished, the smile lingered as he nodded.
“It’s simply a matter of finding time.” He leaned back in his seat. “I should make time, I suppose. It’s not going to magically manufacture itself. Let me know when you’re ready and we’ll go.”
“Whenever you are.”
“What’s your shift tomorrow? Yes, I know, it’s Sunday, but if you’re free . . .”
He’d decided to do this thing, and if we didn’t arrange a time, he’d find an excuse to postpone.
“I have tomorrow off,” I said. “I can meet you anytime.”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“No, that’s fine. I—”
“You’re doing this for me. I’ll pick you up. I might even let you drive.”
He smiled then, a real smile, and I couldn’t do anything but agree . . . to a time late enough for me to get my ass home from Ricky’s.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I drove Gabriel back to his office. I’m sure there was no way in hell a few ounces of wine could legally intoxicate a guy over two hundred pounds, but it was definitely more than he was used to. Besides, I was happy for any excuse to get into the driver’s seat. I took the long way and told myself I was just making sure he was sober, windows down, fresh air rushing in. He wasn’t in any hurry, either, and we sat outside his office talking for almost an hour before I remembered he really needed his sleep. For once, he seemed relaxed enough to actually get it. So I said goodbye, grabbed the key Ricky had left behind my tire, and headed for his place.
Ricky’s apartment was in a graduate housing complex on East Hyde Park. He lived with his dad, but he wanted a place for when he had classes. Technically, being a part-time student, I suspect he shouldn’t have gotten into graduate housing at all, but I wasn’t surprised that he’d managed it. Between Ricky’s charm and persuasion and Gabriel’s lock picking and sleight of hand, if I took enough lessons, I could become a first-rate private eye. Or a master criminal.
The building was quiet. Not a lot of students around in June. The floor layout was an odd C shape, with the elevator depositing me on the far side. I had to round a corner, then another—
I stopped. Ricky’s apartment was two doors down. I could see the number. But someone was trying the doorknob. My hand went to my purse, sliding inside to where my gun rested. Even as I reacted, I chastised myself. Going for my gun because a drunk student had the wrong apartment? But my gut told me it wasn’t a drunk student, and when I caught a glimpse of his profile, I jerked back around the corner, heart pounding.
It was the guy from the motel a month ago. The guy whose attack made me flee to Cainsville. A random motel clerk obsessed with my parents. And now he was here? Breaking into Ricky’s apartment? How did that make sense?
I peeked around the corner and realized it wasn’t the same man. He had a similar build—tall and wiry—but this guy was younger, had lighter hair, and bore only a passing resemblance to my attacker. Yet I couldn’t seem to shake the association. I moved my gun into my jacket pocket before I rounded the corner.
“Can I help you?” I said.
He was taking something long and silver from his pocket. A lock pick? When I spoke, he jumped and turned, dropping the object back into his coat.
I double-checked the number on the door, confirming it was Ricky’s.
“Are you looking for someone?” I said.
He paused. “Rick Gallagher,” he said finally. “Is this his place?”
“Is he expecting you?” I asked.
“Olivia Taylor-Jones,” he said, snapping his fingers. “I knew I recognized you. So you’re coming to see Rick?”
“How do you know him?”
“Are you expecting him back soon?”
I sized him up. A reporter? From a school paper or blog? I’d been worried about that when the picture hit the Post. Ricky hadn’t. While he didn’t advertise who he was, he didn’t hide it, either. Professors and students who knew his background presumed he was trying to “break the cycle.” He didn’t disillusion them.
“You should leave now,” I said.
A brief smile. “Should I?”
I met his gaze. “Yes.”
“When do you expect Rick back?”
“Do you want to leave a name and number? I’ll tell him you dropped by.”
He nodded, put on his sunglasses, and roared through as the light turned green.
—
I felt more centered after my talk with Gabriel. It was like sweeping away the last of the cobwebs, the stage clear to start again. It helped that he was in a rare truly good mood. We went to dinner at my favorite steak house—he’d made a reservation.
As we ate, Gabriel regaled me with the story of a past case, one he knew would amuse me. Compared with other diners deep in conversation, his gestures were restrained, his affect muted, his tone even, but for Gabriel he was positively animated. Possibly even a little drunk, having finished almost an entire glass of wine. His blue eyes glowed with a warmth I’d never seen, even at his most engaged, and I wanted to lean back and bask in it. But every time I relaxed, a little voice reminded me I needed to discuss something with him while he was in a good mood.
When we moved on to dessert, I worked up the nerve. I took a bite of my cheesecake, then said, as casually as I could manage, “Earlier, being at the station, it reminded me of something.”
He sipped his coffee, brows arching, waiting for me to continue.
“Have you identified those photos yet?”
As soon as I said the words, I regretted them. He froze, coffee mug at his lips. He’d been having a good night, something he probably hadn’t had in a very long time, something he deserved, and with six words I’d completely fucked it up.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “This isn’t the time. I just—So, about the Meade case—”
“I haven’t had a chance to see the photos,” he said, lowering his mug. “I need to, obviously, and I will.”
“I’ll go with you,” I said. “Whenever you’re ready.”
At that, he met my gaze and he smiled. It wasn’t more than a wry twist of the lips, but it reached his eyes, warming them, as if I’d just volunteered to do a year’s worth of research free of charge. Even when the look vanished, the smile lingered as he nodded.
“It’s simply a matter of finding time.” He leaned back in his seat. “I should make time, I suppose. It’s not going to magically manufacture itself. Let me know when you’re ready and we’ll go.”
“Whenever you are.”
“What’s your shift tomorrow? Yes, I know, it’s Sunday, but if you’re free . . .”
He’d decided to do this thing, and if we didn’t arrange a time, he’d find an excuse to postpone.
“I have tomorrow off,” I said. “I can meet you anytime.”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“No, that’s fine. I—”
“You’re doing this for me. I’ll pick you up. I might even let you drive.”
He smiled then, a real smile, and I couldn’t do anything but agree . . . to a time late enough for me to get my ass home from Ricky’s.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I drove Gabriel back to his office. I’m sure there was no way in hell a few ounces of wine could legally intoxicate a guy over two hundred pounds, but it was definitely more than he was used to. Besides, I was happy for any excuse to get into the driver’s seat. I took the long way and told myself I was just making sure he was sober, windows down, fresh air rushing in. He wasn’t in any hurry, either, and we sat outside his office talking for almost an hour before I remembered he really needed his sleep. For once, he seemed relaxed enough to actually get it. So I said goodbye, grabbed the key Ricky had left behind my tire, and headed for his place.
Ricky’s apartment was in a graduate housing complex on East Hyde Park. He lived with his dad, but he wanted a place for when he had classes. Technically, being a part-time student, I suspect he shouldn’t have gotten into graduate housing at all, but I wasn’t surprised that he’d managed it. Between Ricky’s charm and persuasion and Gabriel’s lock picking and sleight of hand, if I took enough lessons, I could become a first-rate private eye. Or a master criminal.
The building was quiet. Not a lot of students around in June. The floor layout was an odd C shape, with the elevator depositing me on the far side. I had to round a corner, then another—
I stopped. Ricky’s apartment was two doors down. I could see the number. But someone was trying the doorknob. My hand went to my purse, sliding inside to where my gun rested. Even as I reacted, I chastised myself. Going for my gun because a drunk student had the wrong apartment? But my gut told me it wasn’t a drunk student, and when I caught a glimpse of his profile, I jerked back around the corner, heart pounding.
It was the guy from the motel a month ago. The guy whose attack made me flee to Cainsville. A random motel clerk obsessed with my parents. And now he was here? Breaking into Ricky’s apartment? How did that make sense?
I peeked around the corner and realized it wasn’t the same man. He had a similar build—tall and wiry—but this guy was younger, had lighter hair, and bore only a passing resemblance to my attacker. Yet I couldn’t seem to shake the association. I moved my gun into my jacket pocket before I rounded the corner.
“Can I help you?” I said.
He was taking something long and silver from his pocket. A lock pick? When I spoke, he jumped and turned, dropping the object back into his coat.
I double-checked the number on the door, confirming it was Ricky’s.
“Are you looking for someone?” I said.
He paused. “Rick Gallagher,” he said finally. “Is this his place?”
“Is he expecting you?” I asked.
“Olivia Taylor-Jones,” he said, snapping his fingers. “I knew I recognized you. So you’re coming to see Rick?”
“How do you know him?”
“Are you expecting him back soon?”
I sized him up. A reporter? From a school paper or blog? I’d been worried about that when the picture hit the Post. Ricky hadn’t. While he didn’t advertise who he was, he didn’t hide it, either. Professors and students who knew his background presumed he was trying to “break the cycle.” He didn’t disillusion them.
“You should leave now,” I said.
A brief smile. “Should I?”
I met his gaze. “Yes.”
“When do you expect Rick back?”
“Do you want to leave a name and number? I’ll tell him you dropped by.”
