He stares at me. This is it: the moment of my salvation if he gives it to me. It’s a contract, but not the sort he was offering when he started to date me. He wanted to manipulate me, twist me until I sobbed a little story on his shoulder. He could be strong and kind, and I would give him my pain to turn into a book to pay his bills.
“Everyone thinks that it was a single thing, a memory, the one you saw last night, but that’s not true.”
Michael wavers.
“You liked that taste, didn’t you, Michael? Liked the dark thing that stretched out inside you. You wanted to hit me, but you didn’t.”
Even now, he stares at me, eyes dropping to my bloodied skin and darting back to my face.
“Reid taught me to survive. He made me who I am now.”
“How?” Michael asks.
“Get your pen.” When he doesn’t move, I add, “He killed people. Sometimes it was bad.”
“He . . .”
I want to laugh. Even now, even having seen me when my shadows were rolling all over me, Michael seems shocked. I don’t understand how he thinks to write darkness if he finds murder shocking. It’s not the murders that are the story.
“Get your pen,” I say for the third time.
31
Juliana
Last night, Henry had escorted me to the rental where I was staying, and this morning, he’d met me there to walk to breakfast with me. The area around my short-term rental isn’t bad, not by Durham standards, but it certainly isn’t elegant. The part of Esplanade Avenue were I’m staying is a border of sorts, dividing the French Quarter and the Marigny. I’m not forgetting what I’m there to do, but having the company of a man I trust goes far to ease the anxiety that my nightmares had brought.
“Sleep poorly?”
I sip my coffee and ignore the question for a moment. We’re in one of the tourist-friendly restaurants in the French Quarter enjoying chicory flavored coffee. There really is nothing quite like it. I’d already bought a bag of it to take home with me. Good coffee, a good conversation, a charming man: it’s almost enough to erase the lingering worries from my nightmares.
“My boyfriend is being illegally investigated by my co-worker, and a serial killer sent me a letter.” I shake my head. “Right now, I understand the allure of staying here. I don’t want to go back to North Carolina.”
“So, stay here,” Henry suggests. “Micky has things under control at home. I can ask the locals to keep an eye on you.”
Something about the way he says it tells me that he’s leaving out a detail, but I need to be sure. “That’s why you didn’t ask to sleep on my floor last night. You already asked them to up patrols there.”
Henry grins.
“Isn’t that abuse of your authority, Detective Revill?” I say it teasingly, but there’s no mistaking the edge of irritation.
“I flew on a last-minute flight to track your ass down, Miss Campbell. You are a person of interest, a potential target or witness, in a serial homicide investigation that crosses state lines.” Henry has no lightness in his voice now. “Even if I didn’t have a romantic interest in you, I’d ask them to watch out for you—just as I asked them to find Teresa Morris and take her into protective custody. You’re lucky you aren’t in protective custody right now.”
I sigh and pointedly ignore the romantic interest remark. Instead, I ask, “Protective custody? Really? That’s where we are, Henry?”
For the first time since he arrived, Henry obviously decides to ignore all of the very reasonable objections and requests I’ve put in his way for years. He reaches out and takes both of my hands in his. “Even if you never spoke to me again, I’d make that call if I thought it would keep you safe.”
I bow my head. Knowing he means well—hell, knowing he’s likely right—doesn’t change the way it feels to think about being trapped, being in anyone’s custody. I don’t want to be trapped, not even for my own safety.
“Are you heading home?”
“Eager to get rid of me?”
“No.” I’m not sure which of us is more surprised by the admission. “I like being here with you . . . despite everything. No one watching. No one judging. Away from work. It’s easier than I remember. I wouldn't have imagined this would feel so . . . natural.”
Henry stares at me as if I’m a puzzle that suddenly became less confusing. Maybe he realizes that this is about as much intimacy as I can rightly handle, though, because he grins suddenly. “You imagined it, then?”
I flip him off.
“Maybe kissing is easier, too. Should we try that? Just to check?"
“Don’t overstep, Henry.” I’m smiling, maybe because I know he’s half-joking. Henry wouldn’t kiss me while I’m still dating someone else. "Kissing wasn't the problem for us."
“True. I don't think I had any problems."
I open my mouth to reply, but Henry holds up a hand.
"I know. Forbidden to discuss by order of Juliana Campbell."
"I'm sorry."
"And I'm patient, Jules. I’m still here. I still . . . I’m not giving up on us."
After a moment that's more charged than I know what to do with, we relax and enjoy our meal. It’s something I need more than I’d like right now. A few bites of food, even at an average place in New Orleans, makes it very clear that this is a city for the sensory in every way. The music of at least a dozen artists rises and falls in the streets. The scents and sounds of the city are no less impressive than the sights. And there is nothing quite like the savory dishes that are staple foods at every restaurant.
I’ve known Henry in some way or another most of my life. He’s only a couple of years older than me, but as kids, a few years is the same as decades sometimes. We’d met when I’d been in North Carolina to visit Uncle Micky, but even as a kid, Henry was serious and silent. Our first encounter was when he saw me punch a boy. My “mind yourself or I’ll deck you too” wasn’t the response he’d expected to his chastisement that “girls don’t need to do that.” Thirteen-year-old me was confused that he thought I needed protection. Thirty-two year me is still a little baffled.
“Why are we doing this?” I ask after the drinks and food are ordered.
“Eating?”
“No. Dredging up the past.”
“Don’t overthink it, Jules,” he says lightly. “I liked you when you were a kid, and I like you now. It’s not that complicated. You’re smart, funny, and not hard to look at . . . even with those purple crime scene gloves.”
I flip him off again.
“I learned to cook because you were lousy at it, you know.” He glances at me briefly, and I know he’s not joking.
“I make coffee. I know how to order take-out. What else do you need?”
“Next time we have breakfast, I’ll show you.” Henry, the police officer I know and respect, is briefly replaced with the man I cannot help but want. There is something inherently sexy about men who respect your strength but still want to take care of you. However, there is still reality to face, and the reality is that I am not looking to be a wife. A woman who dates Henry Revill has to accept that there is either a time limit or a trap in the end.