Page 6 of Fatal Pattern

“Hey, I have a girlfriend. Unlike some perpetually single profilers I know.”

The jab was meant to be easy. Another shot in a game they’d been playing for years. But he watched the comeback die on her lips. For a half second, the light in her eyes just . . . went out.

“I’m a behavioral analyst.” She turned her head, giving him nothing but the sharp line of her jaw.

The “perpetually single” crack must’ve hit a nerve. He was about to apologize when she let out a short huff and turned back, her expression all familiar armor.

“And please. Give it a month, and you’ll have found something wrong with poor Kiara just like all the others.”

There it was. Same old Tori.

“Hey, five months is a new record. Cut me some slack.”

Her eyes flicked up, and he caught the flash of—what? Disappointment? Relief? Gone before he could pin it down.

She went back to typing. The quiet click of the keys was the only sound in the car, each one a tick on a clock measuring the distance she’d just put between them.

But Tori had punched back with the very thing he’d been avoiding.

Five months with the pretty records administrator. Longer than any relationship since high school. He hadn’t told Tori how serious things were getting with Kiara. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because saying it out loud would make it too real. Or because he might be the one left behind when Kiara realized she could do better than a swamp rat with a badge. For once, he found himself dating a woman who offered a future he wasn’t sure he deserved.

Sure, he couldn’t needle Kiara the way he did Tori and expect her to dish it right back. Kiara didn’t snap back with quips that could slice through steel or roll her eyes when he cracked jokes that fell flat. But Kiara listened, and her calm, earnest nature was the kind of gentleness he’d never experienced in a relationship.

Tori’s fingers paused over the keyboard. “What time did you pull up at the gym? I need it for the report.”

“Four thirty-seven.” At least she’d document the stalker properly instead of pretending a knife to the throat was just another Tuesday morning.

He heard her sucking air between her teeth as she peeled the bandage off her neck. “Ay, that hurts worse than the knife did.”

“Wimp.”

She angled her phone’s camera at him and snapped a photo. “That fairy princess filter suits you. I’m sure Luna and Harlee will love it.”

Luna King would have a field day with that photo. The former CIA operative had married Corbin six months ago, but she still found time to roast Blade at every opportunity. And Harlee Bay, the ATF intelligence specialist with tattoo sleeves and a stare that could freeze lava, would probably print it out and tape it to his locker at Kingdom.

“Delete that.” He swiped for the phone, but she pulled it out of reach.

Tori tapped her phone. “Too late. Already sent.”

“You know they’re going to make that my contact photo.”

Tori grinned. “That’s the plan.”

The smile dissolved as she flipped the camera around and tilted her chin up, exposing the thin red line across her throat. The phone clicked. She studied the screen, adjusted the angle, took another shot.

The laptop keys clicked in rapid succession.

She snapped the laptop shut. “There. Happy now?”

“That wasn’t so bad.”

Tori fished a fresh Band-Aid from her bag and pressed it over the cut. She crumpled the wrapper and stuffed it into her bag.

“Says the man who’s never had to photograph his own wounds.”

“That’s not true. Remember that time in college when I had to put myself between you and your psych professor?”

“That wasn’t a knife, it was Professor Bernstein’s nails.”