He nods and steps back. Some of the intensity leaches from the moment, and I can breathe again.
Bending, he brushes his mouth against mine. “Careful with that headboard.” He walks to the door and turns to face me. “Get some rest, Chief, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
I stand there vibrating and breathless for a full minute after he closes the door, not sure if I’m relieved he’s gone or disappointed I let him go.
Finally, I turn on the television, find the local news, and listen with half an ear as I unpack my clothes and put them away. I try to focus on the case as I set up my laptop and log onto my e-mail account. But the encounter with Tomasetti has left me unsettled. Combined with thirty-six hours without sleep, I can’t concentrate and I’m too tired to be productive. I answer a few e-mails and head for the shower.
The truth of the matter is, I don’t know where our relationship is heading. I enjoy being with him, working with him. My trust in him is absolute. I respect him on every level, and I believe those sentiments run both ways.
The long-distance aspect of our relationship has worked for both of us. We’re too independent for anything too cozy. But I know that no matter how hard we try to keep things simple, relationships have a way of becoming complicated.
There are times when I think I love him. I want to be with him when I’m not. He’s constantly in the periphery of my thoughts. When something amazing happens, he’s the one I want to share it with. I honestly don’t know if that’s good or bad. Truth be told, it scares me. I can’t seem to get past that little voice in my head that tells me what we have is too good to last.
I know my own heart, but so much of Tomasetti remains a mystery. Three years ago, he was married and had children. I don’t know if he was happy or discontent or, like the rest of us, somewhere in between. He rarely speaks of his past. But I know he loved them. I know he loved another woman and had children with her. And I know the loss of them nearly killed him.
Sometimes, when he’s untouchable, when I can’t reach him, I wonder if she’s the one he wants to be with. I wonder if he’s still in love with her. I wonder if I’m with him because she isn’t, if I’m competing with a dead woman.
*
The sound of my cell phone drags me from a deep and dreamless sleep. I fumble for it on the night table, flip it open, put it to my ear. “Burkholder,” I rasp.
Even before I hear Tomasetti’s voice, I know it’s bad. When a cop is awakened in the middle of the night, it’s never good news.
“We’ve got a body,” he says without preamble.
I sit bolt upright, disoriented, my heart pounding. The room is pitch-black, and for an instant, I can’t remember where I am. Then the case rushes into my brain, the missing Amish teens, the blood on the road, and I’m out of bed and reaching for my clothes.
“Is it Annie?” I ask as I jam my legs into my slacks.
“I don’t know.”
“Give me five minutes.”
CHAPTER 10
The glowing red numbers of the alarm clock tell me it’s 3:53 A.M. when I go through the door. Tomasetti has already pulled the Tahoe up to the gravel area outside my cabin and is leaning against the passenger side’s front fender, talking on his cell phone. The night is humid and still, and I smell rain in the air.
He cuts his call short as I climb in. A moment later, he’s behind the wheel and we’re idling across the parking lot. “Hell of a way to start the day,” he growls.
“Tell me what you know,” I say.
“Not much. There’s no positive ID yet. But apparently, the victim is a young female.”
I think of a young life cut short, the parents who will be notified in the coming hours, the family that will be shattered by the news. I feel the familiar rise of outrage in my chest.
The tires spew gravel as we pull onto the highway. Beside me, Tomasetti scans the darkened storefronts and black shadows of the foliage as we cross a bridge and head toward town. He’s in cop mode, I realize, already hunting for the perpetrator.
“Where’s the body?” I ask.
“In a creek, evidently. Guy out fishing found her.”
I cringe at the thought. Murder is always horrific, but water somehow always makes it worse. In terms of evidence, it has just made our jobs exponentially more difficult. “Anyone on-scene?”
“Goddard’s en route.” He tosses me a grim look. “We’re closer.”
“Coroner?”
“There’s a team from Youngstown on the way.”
I glance at him. He looks grim and tired and not quite friendly. He’s not a good sleeper, and I suspect last night wasn’t any different.