Bethany clutched her robe to her neck. She bit her lip without even feeling it.
“You live in a garden, don’t you?” His voice became almost sing-song. “That’s it, my love, you live on Garden Street.”
She yanked her headset off, grabbed the phone off the table, and threw it against the wall. Then she flopped back against the pillows and covered her face with her hands.
They both heard the noise behind her.
“Turn around,” Max whispered. Bethany only shivered.
“Turn around,” Max shouted, the darkness closing in on them. Bethany shuddered.
“Turn around,” Max screamed.
The most Bethany could do was put her hands up to ward off the next blow. Her fingers touched a smooth cold surface. She tried to grab, to hold on, maybe even save herself, but her grip slid off.
Max opened her eyes before she died again.
She hadn’t seen a face, hadn’t heard a voice, and didn’t know a thing she hadn’t known before.
“You touched it, Max”
She shook her head. “What?”
“You touched it,” Cameron repeated. “You touched the murder weapon.”
“Oh my God.” She had.
“What was it?”
She closed her eyes, anchored herself in the smooth cool feel of it. Her fingers slid across it, slipping onto a shaft of some kind, a shaft that rolled in her fingers ...
“It was a rolling pin.”
*
She sensed him in her room before she was even awake, incorporating his male scent, the rustle of his clothing, and the exhale of his breath into her dreams. When she was on the edge of consciousness, his stare brought her fully awake.
Max opened one eye. In the early morning semi-darkness, Witt hunkered down beside her, a hand resting on his thigh, an elbow on his raised knee. His blond hair, wet and slicked back as if he’d sluiced water over his head, looked almost black, his blue eyes intense as he watched her.
“I won’t even ask this time because I know I locked that door before I went to bed last night.”
He said nothing, merely glanced above and beyond her hip as she lay on her side.
“I locked the window, too, even though I hate sleeping with it shut. Like a good little girl.” She faked a smile, all teeth and ire.
She was half pissed that he’d violated her space again, half dazzled by the proprietary nature of it. She thanked God she’d put on a decent nightshirt this time.
“What are you doing here?” she asked when he still remained silent.
“Wanted to make sure you’re safe.”
His soft words and the idea of them warmed her, turned her to mush, in fact. A debilitating weakness. She sniffed. “You stink.”
“Took a shower and changed clothes at the station.” His lips barely moved.
“You still stink.”
“Some things soap and water can’t wash off.” She finally heard the lethargy in his voice. His eyes were heavy-lidded with fatigue.
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Yeah.” The word came out on a heavily exhaled breath. He rose as if he were a hundred and six instead of thirty-six, his knees creaking and elbows popping. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, his hip cradled by her thighs as she lay on her side.
She wanted to touch him with her hands, but didn’t. The feel of him against her legs was enough. “I’m sorry.”
He looked at her. His jaw clenched with subtle movement as he ground his teeth together. He took a deep breath, let it out, his shoulders sagging with it, then rubbed both eyes with the heels of his hands.
“You should have gone home to bed,” she told him.
“Didn’t trust you to stay put the way I told you to.”
“Remember not to tell me what to do, and we won’t have a problem.” She patted the bed behind her. “Lay down before you fall over.” She couldn’t quite believe she’d offered, but liked the idea once the words were out.
He apparently couldn’t believe it either. He looked at her, then rotated his head on his neck, side to side, backward and forward. More cracking and popping.
She raised the covers in invitation.
Finally, after one more wondering look, he toed his shoes off, threw his jacket ... somewhere. He hoisted himself over her, swinging a leg, then lay with his chest and thighs pressed to her back.
She settled the blanket and spread it over them. His head on her pillow, he rubbed his face against her neck, her hair. “You have no idea how good you smell.”
As compared to a garbage dump, yeah, she probably did. Is that what cops wanted, to come home to sweet smelling wives and babies, to a place where there were no dead bodies, no murdered children, no guns, no danger, and no brutal reality. “I lied, Witt, you don’t stink.”
She felt his chuckle against her back. “Didn’t hurt my feelings, honest.”