apartment, a block away, and took her left hand in his, then hooked his index finger under her chin, and turned her face to his. “You okay?”
Shaken, cold, numb, she couldn’t seem to move or speak.
“As many times as I’ve witnessed death, I’ve never gotten used to it,” he said.
Dear God, he sensed her devastation, and he was attempting to keep her from feeling like a wimp.
He leaned into her.
And kissed her.
Not the wild explosion she’d expected their kiss would be, but a soft reassuring touch of his warm lips against hers.
A celebration of life.
She shouldn’t read anything into it.
But when he withdrew, and their lips separated, a guttural sound vibrated from his throat. A livewire of current zapped between them, the jolt tempering the desperate cold feeling inside of her. Even when he pulled back, she sensed the electricity. A dangerous, barely contained flash fire, waiting to combust. Lord in heaven, if that ever ignited, it’d be a five–alarm blaze. And there’d be hell to pay.
Shaken, she grabbed the door handle and jumped out. She needed to be alone, to process the data thrumming through her mind.
“Hey… wait,” Blade called.
“Thanks, Blade, for…” In the dwindling rain, she ran, jogging toward the Tour d’Alene building. The Tahoe tagged along behind her and followed her into the back parking lot. Blade jumped out and walked up the stairs with her, waited while she unlocked the door. She hurried inside and closed him out.
She stood at the door for several long minutes, watching until the headlights glistening through the rivulets on the window started to move. She stared as the beams blurred when the vehicle turned around and the pattern on the glass glowed red from the taillights. She was still shaking after all signs of the squad car had faded from view.
It took another ten minutes of standing quietly in the darkness before her breathing evened out. Untold minutes for her heart’s rhythm to settle to a normal beat.
Once she grounded herself, she strode to the bedroom, changed into dry clothes, and forced herself to do something. She had to occupy her mind, and it had been days since she’d communicated with Attorney Rosenberg. The mountains played heck with cell phone reception. Most of the time she could forget about checking her email on her phone, which was a hassle. Tonight, she didn’t mind returning to the office. She marched to the door, let herself out, and ran down the steps.
Inside the sheriff’s department building, she ditched the raincoat, went straight to her desk, and logged in on her computer. While she waited to get into her email, a visual of dead eyes set in a swollen face hovered on the edge of her consciousness.
She concentrated on the computer screen and directed her thoughts to the most pleasant thing she could think of, the taste of Blade’s kiss, which clung to her lips and ruined her concentration in yet another way. The kiss. A single act of kindness. It didn’t mean anything. He hadn’t intended it to be sensuous, but… it had stirred fire inside her.
Her emails came up, and a message from Attorney Rosenberg grabbed her attention.
I talked with Joey Secada briefly via telephone earlier this week. For the time being, he has put off meeting with me in person. He hasn’t changed his story. Still says he was with Skip Coogan the night of the murder. His nervousness was palpable, but that doesn’t prove he’s lying. Brandy, I hesitate to keep taking your money and furthering this investigation. We need to talk.
For the first time since the trial, doubt crept in. Could she be wrong about Skip? Uncertainty hit like a landslide. She thought about Blade and his perception of her stepfather, which was the exact opposite of hers. What if she was wrong?
She glanced at her watch. Too late to call Rosenberg.
If Secada wouldn’t change his story and discredit Skip Coogan’s alibi, they’d be right back where they’d been ten years ago.