Kylie lowered her fork, but she didn’t shy away from the question. “Because. As scary as those memories are, I lived through that part of my life, and it got me where I am now. Don’t get me wrong”—she paused, her wide-open expression growing slightly sharp around the edges—“I’m glad Burton got caught and that he’ll be punished for telling Fagan where I was. But I didn’t say anything to you when Isabella told me because I want all that behind me. I don’t want to be scared to live my life, or have a great new career, or be in love with Devon. I can’t let the emotions of what happened in the past keep me from acting now. I want to look forward, not back.”
Kellan’s breath abandoned his lungs. Holy hell. He’d spent so much time stuffing back every emotion, good, bad, or indifferent, that it had never occurred to him that he could feel some while keeping the others in check. The boxes had always been all or nothing, like a dam holding water at bay. Letting go of one meant all the others would rush out, and if that happened, surely Kellan would break.
Except…
Kylie hadn’t. Fagan had put her through hell. She’d witnessed a murder and nearly been murdered herself. She’d been chased and shot at and genuinely feared for her life. Yet she’d also moved across the country, embarked on a brand-new career path, and fallen in love with her bodyguard, all things Kellan would have counted as impulsive. Dangerous.
Only maybe they weren’t. Maybe they were just part of living.
And maybe he hadn’t been living for far too long.
“I don’t know,” Kylie said, filling the silence Kellan just now recognized as having gone on for half a minute with a nervous laugh. “I guess that sounds a little new-agey and weird. You probably think I’m crazy.”
“No.” He shook his head and let out the unvarnished truth. “I don’t think you’re crazy at all. In fact, I know exactly how you feel.”
Because dangerous or not, he wanted to move forward with Isabella Moreno.
23
Isabella took the steps to the Thirty-Third precinct two at a time, her arms overloaded with case files and her chest chock-full of determination. Okay, so it was a little early by intelligence standards. After all, big and bad tended to favor the middle of the night over eight o’clock on a Monday morning. But she still had a metric ton of case details to catch up on from the day and a half she’d missed, an update to grab from the crime scene techs who were processing her apartment, security footage to review, reports from the fire marshal to check on, and damn, she needed to find a cup of—
“Chamomile?” Hollister asked, lifting a to-go cup with a tea tag dangling over the edge from the blotter on his desk.
Isabella blinked past all the whoa bouncing around in her chest. “What are you doing here?” she asked, hearing the sheer gracelessness of the question only after it had crossed her lips.
But her partner just broke into a knowing grin. “Good morning to you, too.” He crossed the otherwise empty office space, trading the cup of tea for half the files in her grasp.
“Sorry. And thanks.” Her cheeks prickled with the full force of her chagrin, and yeah, time for take two. “I guess what I meant was, you’re here awfully early all things considered.” He’d been at her apartment until ten last night, talking to her landlord and helping Maxwell and Hale canvas the building.
A fact which didn’t seem to faze him in the least. “Eh.” He lifted a shoulder and let it fall beneath his holster and gray Henley shirt. “Sleep is overrated. You okay?”
The stare that accompanied the question said Hollister wasn’t asking as a pleasantry. “Yeah,” Isabella said, making sure her return expression backed up the sentiment. “Eager to nail this guy, but otherwise I’m fine.”
One corner of Hollister’s mouth lifted. “Good to see your short time off hasn’t affected that bulletproof work ethic of yours.”
Ah, busted. Still, a girl had to save face. “I’m behind the rest of you guys by a day and a half, so I wanted to catch up. Especially since the Feds are letting us take lead.”
“Letting us? Please.” Hollister huffed out a sound that was half laughter, all sarcasm. “Sinclair all but told Peterson that if he didn’t let intelligence break this case, he’d never get a willing assist from anyone in this precinct again.”
Isabella’s lips fell open in shock. “He did?”
“Yeah,” Hollister said, as if she’d just asked for clarification that two plus two did indeed equal four. “You said you were sure, so Sinclair went to bat for you. Plus, this guy broke into your apartment, Moreno. We take care of our own.”
She lowered the stack of file folders from her hip to her desktop, letting his words sink in. Hollister had always been a solid partner, one she’d been proud to work with. Just because she’d always thought so didn’t mean he knew so, and Sinclair was right. Her unit had to know she trusted them.
“Listen,” she said, waiting for him to look up from the desk across from hers before she continued. “I know I’m not really a share-all kind of person, but this job is important to me. This team is important to me.”
Hollister’s brows lifted in what had to be surprise, although he had a better poker face than most people when he decided to trot it out. “The team is important to me too.”