“Luke…” She breathed his name against his lips. Pushing him back against the cheap cabinets.
His fingers tightened against her hips. In one, smooth move he lifted her until she was sitting on the countertop, her back to the cupboard, her legs wrapped around his waist, her arms around his neck. His hands were under her top, touching the warmth of her skin.
“Wait.” She cupped her hands on his cheeks, gently lifting his face, so she could look into his eyes. “We can’t,” she said. “Sarah.”
He flinched at her name. There was a long pause. And then he said, “I know.”
Still, neither of them pulled away.
“What is it with us?” His voice was low and bewildered. “I’ve tried everything to let you go. But I keep coming back.”
Harper thought of Dells. Of kissing him by her car. It had been a good kiss. But it hadn’t felt like it did with Luke. Luke felt like home.
She could feel his heart, beating as fast as hers. “You’re the only one I want,” she said, simply. “I try to date other men but I keep coming back to you. I don’t know why. I know it’s impossible. Except, then I see you and I forget what impossible is. But I can’t have you. Can I?”
He hesitated. “The only thing that matters right now,” he said finally, “is that you survive.”
It was the wrong answer. She twisted to get away, but he held her tight. “Wait, Harper. Dammit.” His face flushed. “Let me finish what I’m trying to say.”
Reluctantly, she stilled.
“You need to live first,” he said evenly. “And then we have to figure this out. If we keep finding ourselves here, there has to be a reason, right? So whatever I thought I was doing with Sarah to put you behind me, it’s not working.”
Harper could think of a whole lot of arguments against almost everything he was saying, but she couldn’t bring herself to say them now. Besides, what good would it do? Things were what they were. He wasn’t wrong.
Besides, she’d tried to put him behind her as well. And failed.
“Okay,” she said. “I accept that.”
He watched her for a second, and then moved back. She slid down from the counter, feet thumping on the floor. Picking up the whiskey he’d set down a few minutes ago, she finished the shot and then lifted her head.
“Now. Let’s talk about Martin Dowell.”
31
Luke stayed another hour. He would have stayed all night, but everything between them was confusing enough. Sex would have made it worse.
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he insisted. “I don’t like you being alone.”
“I’m guarded up to my eyeballs,” she said, gesturing in the direction of the patrol car in the driveway. “You can save me again tomorrow. Right now, go home and get some sleep.”
Still, he lingered in the doorway, darkness and rain behind him.
“That thing we talked about,” he told her. “I was serious.”
“Me too,” she said.
When he was gone, she tried to get some rest. But the rain lashing against the windows and the wind roaring off the sea were the perfect formula for insomnia.
The next morning, she prowled the apartment restlessly, exhausted and hyperalert, listening to rain batter the roof, while fielding occasional calls from Baxter, who knew the basics, and DJ, who didn’t, but still felt bad about the way she’d learned of Lee Howard’s death. Even Lieutenant Blazer called. He had nothing new on Dowell, but insisted that she notify police dispatch when she was heading into Savannah.
Baxter told her not to come in to work. “If you’re safer out there, stay out there.”
The idea of not working sent panic rising in Harper’s throat.
“It’s not safe anywhere,” she insisted. “And I’ve got work to do.”
She showered and dressed for work, and then paused in front of the closet.
The shoulder holster was right where she’d shoved it the other day, on the top shelf. Slowly, she took it down, and pulled it on. She lifted the pistol from her bag, and snapped the clip into place. The metallic click was strangely satisfying.
After checking the chamber, she slid the gun into the holster under her arm and secured it. She pulled a light jacket on over the top.
“I can do this,” she told herself.
There was no way Martin Dowell could stay on the loose for long. Luke was right: This wasn’t his territory. He didn’t have the same contacts here he did in Atlanta, and half the law enforcement in the state was searching for him. Eventually, they’d find him. All she had to do was keep her head down. And live through this.
For some reason the lyrics to “Revolver Road” went through her mind, sung in Allegra’s pure voice. Now the night grows dark and the hour grows cold. Meet me on Revolver Road.
She thought again about last night—the conversation in the bar. She was convinced she knew who the killer was, but it seemed less important than it had last night. Still, she’d have a word with Baxter.
She headed for the door, dialing the number the lieutenant had given her for police dispatch as she walked.
A woman’s voice answered, “Traffic investigations.”
“This is Harper McClain. I’m heading in now.”
“Come in via Abercorn Street,” the woman told her crisply. “A patrol unit will be waiting there.”
Outside, the rain was still falling hard. The weather system seemed to be settling in over the coast. Flooding was predicted. She dashed across the muddy drive to the Camaro, feet splashing as she waved at the patrol car.
Over the drumming of water against metal, she faintly heard the deputy start his engine. She backed in a half circle and pulled up behind the patrol car. The county deputy led her across Tybee’s quiet streets, escorting her all the way to the far edge of the rain-soaked marshes, watercolor gray in the misty light. He peeled off a mile or two before she reached the city and turned back, leaving her alone.
As the dispatcher had instructed, she headed for Abercorn. Right as she reached it, a police motorcycle unit pulled out in front of her, gesturing for her follow.
On the dash, the scanner crackled into life, “Traffic unit one-five-seven.”
“TU one-five-seven go ahead,” the dispatcher said.
“Package collected. En route to agreed location.”
“Copy that,” the dispatcher said.
The package gripped the wheel, following the motorcycle as it splashed through streets that were beginning to flood.
The rain was starting to take its toll in other ways, too. Some tree branches bent so low from the weight of water that the long fronds of Spanish moss touched the ground. The motorcycle cop nimbly avoided the worst streets, leading her to Bay, where traffic was moving quicker.
Normally, she parked in the lot behind the newspaper building during the day—the street meters out front were cripplingly expensive—but the cop gestured for her to pull over directly in front of the main entrance. A guard stood waiting outside, water dripping from his hood.
The traffic cop stopped, his engine growling, and waited while she emerged from the car and hurried inside with the guard. As she walked, Harper cast quick glances down the street but spotted no barrel-chested, gray-haired men.