Gasping, Larry slumped back in his chair.
“Prove to him that I can find Dr. Fear.”
Larry stopped breathing altogether, his eyes locked on Carter.
“That I gave Dr. Fear another target besides Barry and Trudy Cousins, because I know Lincoln and I are strong enough to face our fears together and survive.”
Larry’s wide eyes narrowed, and his face hardened once more. The rapid transformation lifted the hairs on the back of Carter’s neck. Larry had become Chief Petticoat right before his eyes. Possibly also Dr. Fear. “Get out,” he barked.
“Not denying it?”
“You came into my home and accused me of being a serial killer, of kidnapping my own brother and his wife. You think you know me. You don’t know a damn thing about me. Just like I clearly don’t know a damn thing about you.”
Carter stood. “Guessing that course gig is off the table?”
Larry tossed his badge at him. “That’s the only guess you got right this entire conversation.”
Seventeen
Lincoln came to as pressure dug into either side of his neck, pinching the muscles and holding him face down against the table. His heart leaped, his pulse raced, and tension arced through him. Fight or flight? Both? If he lifted his head and upper body off the table with enough force, pushed back the chair hard enough, maybe he could escape.
“It’s just me, L. Relax.” Rumbly, soft, and not the Georgia accent Carter affected for the townspeople. Nor the unaccented voice he used for FBI interactions. Nor the Jersey he teased Lincoln with from time to time. This voice was a slow, sexy drawl, and the way Carter said the last syllable of relax reminded Lincoln of his college roommate, a Texan.
Texas. Was it just another accent or was it where Carter had spent his childhood? Bounced around foster homes in the Lone Star State until he’d enlisted? Except, from the hours of research Lincoln was definitely not doing each night, it looked more and more like the accident that had made Carter an orphan had occurred here in Apex. So how had he wound up in the Texas foster care system and not Virginia’s?
Lincoln’s curiosity peaked, then waned, as Carter dug his fingers into tight, aching muscle. Lincoln’s mind and body noodled. “Not the smartest move,” he said, covering the threatening moan. “Sneaking up on an FBI agent.”
“Unless you are an FBI agent. And it’s still probably not the stupidest move I’ve made today.” Carter’s fingers kneaded higher, ruffling the ends of Lincoln’s hair, before he removed his magic hand and sank into the chair beside Lincoln.
Lincoln did groan then, in protest, and Carter chuckled. He hauled him upright by the back of the shirt, and Lincoln scrubbed his hands over his face, chasing away the sleep. “I thought I made a stupid move today too,” he admitted. “But it wasn’t. Maybe yours wasn’t either.”
“You tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine.”
“I asked Jeremiah for help.”
Carter lurched forward in his seat, a hand on the back of Lincoln’s chair, the other grasping the edge of the table. “You what?”
Lincoln reared back, as much as Carter’s boxing-in allowed. “He’s not a suspect.”
“The fewer people who?—”
“Know the better, yes, I remember, but he knows where everything is in here.” Lincoln swept an arm toward the rows and rows of archives outside their workroom, boxes and file cabinets full that Jeremiah had expertly raided. “He knows what to look for and where to find it.”
Carter’s knuckles went white. “And I don’t?”
That stung and took Lincoln’s observation completely out of context. “That’s not what I said.”
“So you just picked the first person who came down here?”
And stung some more. Lincoln angled to meet him head-on, his own anger rising. “Earlier you said you realized how hard this was for me. Do you have any idea how hard it was telling Jeremiah the truth? How disappointed he was when I told him we’d be leaving? That I wasn’t here to help him? The poor kid is drowning, and I took away his fucking life raft. So no, I didn’t just pick the first person who came down here. I picked the person most likely to help us, even though he was the hardest person to tell.”
The stiffness in Carter’s arms gave way, his elbows collapsing, and he dropped his chin to his chest. “Fuck, L, I’m sorry.”
“We’re tired and on edge, I get it, but don’t take it out on me.”
“I’m sorry.”
Lincoln reached out and loosened Carter’s fingers, one by one, from the death grip they still had on the table. “Don’t take it out on the furniture either.”
