I look up at him. Moving into his shadow to block the setting sun, I lean against the car door. “Why do you assume I think it is?”
“I’ve worked more cases than I know how to count, London. And almost always, in this type of circumstance, the victim believes they should’ve known. They go over the details of their past, trying to understand how they could’ve been so blind, when the horrid truth is suddenly so clear.”
I shake my head. “That’s not what I’m doing.” Not entirely. On some level, I knew—I had to have known. What I’m trying to understand is why I waited so long to do anything about it.
Could I have saved Lydia before it was too late?
Nelson brushes my hair over my shoulder. He uses this move often. Then he usually leaves, but not today. Maybe it’s being isolated so far away from civilization, or the fact that we’re so near the place of my turmoil, but he grasps my neck. Runs his thumb across my bottom lip, his gaze following the slow perusal over my mouth.
Then he leans in.
“Agent,” I say, my tone severe as I call him by title to trigger his professionalism.
I turn my head just as he makes an attempt to kiss me, and I glimpse the flash of hurt on his face before I’m again staring at the house.
He exhales audibly as he releases me and steps away. “That was inappropriate.” He acknowledges his action, but doesn’t apologize for it.
“Yes, it was,” I agree. This charade can only go so far.
I’m supposed to be gathering information from him, using his resources to discover the identity of the copycat killer. Instead, I’ve gotten derailed, lost. Wrapped up in my own side story and pain.
If Nelson proves to be of no use for my objective, then it’s time to foster a new connection with someone more valuable.
His eyes nail me with an incensed glare. Nelson—like most men—doesn’t take rejection well. Within seconds, hurt morphs into anger. I’ve wounded him.
“I should go,” I say, but he doesn’t move. He continues to barricade me from the car.
“So I’ve been imagining it,” he says. He works open his suit button, mounting his hands on his hips. “I’m perceptive, being it’s part of my job. And I’ve perceived your interest, London. Or is that just your way of diverting me?”
When his adrenaline drops, and he’s had time to reflect, he’ll feel remorse for his actions—or at least he should. That remorse will transform into guilt, and guilt will further cloud his observations of me. Saying or doing anything in this moment to further provoke him will only make him feel justified later.
I say nothing and dig out my keys from my pocket. I try to move around him. His hands form steely bands around my biceps, holding me in place.
Alarm flares within me. “Let me go.”
After a brief standoff, he removes his hands. He turns around and pushes a hand into his hair. “I’m sorry. I thought… I don’t know.”
I loosen my grip on the keys. I had fisted the key ring, three keys braced between the slats of my fingers to form a weapon. If Nelson noticed, he doesn’t let on. I insert the one for the car and open the door. “This has been a strenuous case,” I say. “With the recent murders in Maine, I can’t imagine the pressure you’re under. I apologize if I’ve misled you in any way.”
His light chuckle forces my spine straight.
“Don’t shrink me.” He refastens his suit jacket. “I’m a man, too. Not just a federal agent.”
I get inside the car, safely removing myself from his proximity. “Your fixation with me is a direct result of your obsession to catch Grayson.”
I start to pull the door shut, but he catches it before it latches. “What did you say?”
My pulse thunders in my ears. “Your perceived feelings for me are a correlation of?—”
“You called him Grayson.”
I did, and there’s no backpedalling. I stare into Agent Nelson’s sharp gaze and wonder whom has been deceiving whom. Was his advance a moment ago true desire, or a rehearsed method to lower my defenses? Either way, the damage is done.
“He was my patient,” I clarify. “And I was shaken…just now.” The explanation is weak, resorting to demure, skittish female versus oppressive male. But it seems to work.
Nelson’s expression softens. “I’m sorry,” he says again, then sighs heavily. “You’re right. It’s the case. And that fucking Foster.” He frowns. “Sorry.”
“No need,” I say, allowing him to use the excuse I provided to restore his ego.
