“Tell me why you don’t eat dairy and don’t buy from grocery stores and eat mostly what you grow.”
Heat crept up his neck. He didn’t want to have this conversation. “I’m extremely picky about where my food comes from. I can’t stand it when other people touch my food or its packaging.” Truth. Not the whole truth. So help me God.
Her eyes darted to the platter of peanut butter sandwiches.
“You’re okay though.” He grabbed one of the sandwiches, handed it to her, and then got one for himself. He took a bite. Honey exploded across his taste buds. He closed his eyes for a second to savor the flavor. It tasted like a kiss. “You can touch my food anytime.”
He thought maybe he heard her giggle before she started eating.
Surprise flared across her face. “Wow. This is good. I can actually taste it.”
“Why wouldn’t you be able to taste it?”
“I can’t taste food. Haven’t been able to for years.”
He almost asked why but knew it had to do with Junior. Didn’t need to know more. “How about your sense of smell?”
“I can smell some things, but not others.”
“If your nose doesn’t work right, food doesn’t taste right.” Did that explain why he never got SMs from her? No. She should have some SMs from before she lost the ability to smell. “My sense of smell is extremely sensitive. That’s part of why I eat this way.” He hadn’t told her how acute his nose was, but he’d taken the first step.
“So you wear gloves because you don’t like to touch things other people have touched?”
To him, wearing the gloves was akin to wearing clothes. Until she mentioned it, he hadn’t thought about an explanation. What she said sounded like a logical leap, so he nodded.
She gestured with her half-eaten sandwich. “What is this place?”
“My office.”
“Dr. Stone said you were distinguished in your field, and I felt stupid not knowing what your field was.”
“I’m a special skills consultant to the FBI.” Other than his parents, he’d never told anyone about his job.
“That sounds important. What’s it mean?”
Hmmm…how to explain without explaining. “My job is similar to a profiler, but different.”
“As in serial killer profiler?” She leaned forward in her seat.
“Exactly. But I mostly work cold cases. Until recently.”
“You got a promotion?”
“Not exactly. A number of my cold cases were all committed by the same killer. The Strategist. And we’ve”—he gestured between them—“just linked two very recent murders to him.”
“We?”
“Hold on to your seat. I’m about to blow your mind. The eye, the hair and tooth—I’ve confirmed they’re all from victims of the Strategist. Because of the lead you gave Gill about Guadalupe Mountains National Park—and after preliminary DNA confirmation—a team was sent there to search for the body of Juanita Valdez. She went missing from her home in Salt Flats, Texas, the night you dreamed about her.”
Evanee set her mostly finished sandwich on the platter. Her hand was shaking.
“For all his threats about Quantico, Gill knows you weren’t anywhere near Salt Flats, Texas. He was here all night and knows no one gave you the hair or tooth. He’s at least trying to understand what’s happening. Even if he is acting like the King of Anuses.”
Confusion nestled in the wrinkle between her brows. “The Strategist. A serial killer. My dreams were about his victims?”
“Yeah. I’ve found thirty-eight murders. You’ve given evidence of two more, and there probably are more out there we haven’t discovered yet. The things you’ve brought back from the dreams have given us leads.”
She slouched down in the chair. “Two weeks ago, all I had to worry about was earning enough money to get out of town. Now I’ve got Junior and the Strategist in my world.”
Lathan smelled the faint garlic of anxiety. “You don’t have to worry about either of them. You’re here so I can keep you safe. Your safety is my priority.”
Her face crinkled up all wrong. “I’m here so you can protect me. It’s your priority.”
Was she asking a question or making a statement? He smelled lavender—sadness. Why was she suddenly feeling sad? “You’re providing us with priceless information on the Strategist. But that puts you too close to him. So of course I want you here, where I know I can keep you safe.” He thought his words would sooth her, but the scent of sadness only got stronger.
“I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.” She stood. “But I need to be alone for a while.” Without a backward glance, she left.
He stared after her. Lavender. Why was she sad? Because Junior and the Strategist were in her life? No, she’d been anxious while talking about them, but then she’d gotten sad when he talked about protecting her. He replayed their conversation in his mind, but couldn’t pinpoint an explanation for her sadness.
Something was wrong, and he wasn’t going to let her close off and not tell him. He couldn’t fix what he didn’t understand.
He followed her, but by the time he got the door secured behind him, she was nearly out of sight—running. “Wait!” He knew he yelled the word, but she continued.
He didn’t catch up to her until he found her upstairs, curled in on herself on the far side of the bed. Sadness heavy in the air. He sat next to her and stroked her hair.
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
Her lips moved, but from the angle of her head, he couldn’t read the words. “Can you look at me and say that again?”
She faced him, her bottom lip pushed out in an adorable pout. “Nothing.” Her eyes shimmered beautifully in the gray afternoon light.
“You’re lying.” The itchy pepper scent of it tickled his nose. “Try again.” He caressed her face. His bare fingers grazed over the skin of her cheek, then down her neck to the delicate skin just behind her ear. Her honeyed scent intensified, mingling with the lavender in one heady, sweet blend.