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McCallister glanced her way and turned up the heater.
“It’s not that,” she said.
He nodded slowly. “You’re realizing how vulnerable you are,” he said. “I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you there was something I could do, but for now, we have to wait and see. ”
“I thought having a gun would make me feel better, but if you order me to put it away, I have to do that, don’t I?” Her voice sounded soft, but bitter. “I have to do anything you want. Boss. ”
“I’m not going to take advantage of that. ”
“But you could. ” She turned her face toward the passing dark streets. “Some would. ”
He was silent for a moment, and then said quietly, “Yes. Some would. ” That was it. He didn’t race to reassure her again, or to argue that he wasn’t like that. He just let it go.
And strangely, that made her trust him, just a little bit. If he didn’t need to defend his character, there was a lot better chance he actually had one. “Why did you bring me back?” She’d asked it before, but somehow, she didn’t feel he’d really answered.
“Would you rather we hadn’t?”
“Yes. I think I’d be better off dead. Don’t you?”
“No,” he said. “And if you want a real answer to that question …” He stopped, as if he were weighing his answer carefully. “You must have fallen next to the far wall, and a table tipped over and covered you. We had no idea you were suffocating until Joe realized you weren’t where he thought you were, and started looking for you. We were right there, and we let you die while we screwed around securing the scene. I was the one who moved the table and found you. I was too late. You were gone. When it came down to a choice, I really didn’t have one. ”
There was so much going on in his voice, although he was trying to keep it bland and even. She could imagine how that had felt, to find someone like that—someone you might have been in time to save. Someone whose chance had slipped away while you were only feet away.
“So it’s guilt,” she said. “You did it out of guilt. ”
He looked at her and said, “Would it make you feel better if I said yes?”
Obscurely, it did. A little. “Would you do it again?”
“Yes,” he said. “And I wouldn’t even think about it. Not now that I know you. And it wouldn’t be guilt if I made the choice now. ”
“No?” She smiled a little, intrigued despite her weariness. “What would it be?”
He avoided that question neatly. “We’re here,” he said. “Home. ”
The apartment complex looked shabbier than ever; the wind had blown some trash out of the overflowing bins, and it lay heaped against parked cars like dirty snow. McCallister found a parking space, and Bryn led the way up to her door.
He took her keys and edged her out of the way. “Let me check it first,” he said.
“It’s fine. Mr. French is on guard inside. ”
He gave her a slightly baffled look, but eased the door open and hit the light switch. The bulldog inside stood up on the couch, growling, staring at McCallister with murderous beady eyes.
“Mr. French, I presume,” McCallister said. He sounded amused. “Call him off, please. ”
Bryn whistled, and Mr. French’s ears perked. He stopped growling and sat down, but he still looked concerned until Bryn pushed past McCallister and came over to pet him. “Good boy,” she said, and scratched him behind the ears. “You just stay on guard against all the bad men. ”
“Me included?” McCallister shut the door and locked the dead bolt.
“I have to walk him, you know. ”
“Not until I check the other rooms. ”
“There’s no need. Mr. French—”
“I’m not doubting his abilities. I’m just double-checking. ”
It didn’t take long, really—the kitchen was tiny, the bedroom disorderly and almost as small. Closets held no surprises, and neither did corners or the dust bunnies beneath the bed. McCallister was methodical; she had to give him that: he not only checked every conceivable hiding place, including the bathtub, but made sure every window was firmly secured. She was vaguely worried about what he thought of her housekeeping.
