Page 88 of Fatal Pattern

The door clicked shut, leaving Tori staring at polished wood and wondering what had gotten into Harlee. First the wise-old-man-type advice, then the hug. Physical affection wasn’t Harlee’s usual speed.

But it was the other phrase that suddenly blazed through her consciousness like a lightning strike.

The man who saved your life that night at the pier.

“The man who saved Tori can find it.”

Damien’s riddle. The message from prison that had sent them chasing shadows, assuming he’d meant Stryker.

But Stryker had found her after.

The man who had physically saved her life, the man who had pulled her from the darkness that night—

She didn’t walk. She ran. Across the living room to Blade’s bedroom. She burst through the door without knocking.

Blade stood beside his bed, struggling to pull a fresh T-shirt over his head, movements stiff with pain from his wounds. The fabric caught on his bandaged bicep, and his mouth pinched.

“The pier. The message from Damien.” The words spilled out of her, breathless and ragged. “It wasn’t about Stryker. It was you.”

She took a step closer.

“You’re the man who saved me.”

25

Blade straightened his shirt and turned, the fabric settling against his bandaged wounds. The pull forced a sharp flinch through him.

“I’m the man who . . .”

The realization struck him with stupid, blinding clarity. Of course. Why hadn’t he seen it? Fourteen years old, running toward screams on a pier. A girl with terrified eyes and a man with a knife. The moment that had defined everything that came after.

He had been the one to save Tori that night.

The bag. Damien’s message.

“It has to be in the evidence bag from that night,” he said.

He started moving toward the living room, looking for his keys, his phone. Action was escape. Movement meant he didn’t have to think about how Harlee’s assumption had been right. He’d almost kissed Tori. Almost ruined everything.

“Blade. Stop.” Tori’s hand caught his gently. “Look at me.”

He froze, turning back to her.

“We’re not going to talk about the case. Not for five minutes,” she said. “We’re going to sit down and talk about what just happened here. We can’t move forward until we do.”

“What are you talking about?” The denial was a half-hearted defensive block.

“Something Harlee said. About that night at the pier saving you as much as me. That’s why you do this, isn’t it? Why you risk everything to save people around you. It’s always been about that night at the pier.”

He wasn’t sure what Tori was talking about, but he eased onto the couch. The knife wounds pulled against the bandages with each movement, and grit from the beach still scratched behind his eyelids every time he blinked.

He was exhausted. This week had stretched him past his limits. Every time he thought he had a lead on a case, a bigger lead erupted on a different one. Answer one question only to end up with three more. The pattern never broke, just shifted, multiplied, demanded more than he could give.

And now they were digging up the past he’d buried and tried to forget.

He lifted his head to look at Tori. The cut at her neck had healed to a half-moon scab, dark as a dirty fingernail. She’d kept the gash on her forearm wrapped in flesh-colored gauze, but he’d seen the knife wound. He’d seen the blood. And he’d felt like a failure.

“That night . . . it changed everything,” he said. “I saw what that guy did to you. How he’d thrown you on the sand and straddled you with a knife to your throat. I made a promise to myself then. Never again. Never on my watch.”