Page 73 of Lock ’N’ Load

“Don’t shut me out,” she said, her voice still gentle, yet now firm with conviction. “Apparently you can make love one minute, then shut out everyone around you. I don’t operate like that. If you can’t accept whatever it is I feel for you, or you don’t want it, I’ll ask for another officer to protect me.”

Anger boiled inside him, and he turned on her. “Forget it. That’s not gonna happen.” She was his to protect, and he’d see this thing through to the end. That, and there was no way in hell he’d ever turn her over to someone else’s care. She’s mine.

The thought had him wondering exactly what he meant. Was she his to protect? Or just plain his.

“It will happen if I want it to. I can’t make love with you one minute, then be cast aside the next.” Her voice was choked with emotion, telling him how badly he’d hurt her. “If you want to walk away, then do it. Maybe I was stupid, thinking one night with a man meant something, but I can see by your complete lack of response, it doesn’t. You’ve taught me a good lesson. Now that I’ve had sex, I want more. I’d rather have it with you, but if you don’t want me, then I’ll find someone else.”

“Over my dead body!” He slammed the inside of the door with his fist, welcoming the pain shooting up his arm. Jealousy pounded his brain at the thought of another man touching her. He’d been her first, and the idea of not being her last filled him with an unexpected surge of rage for whoever that nameless, faceless son of a bitch would be.

“Then talk to me, dammit.” Now it was her turn to punch something, although she wisely chose the considerably softer seat cushion. “What the hell is going on with you?”

Unable to look at her, he let his head fall back against the headrest. He paused a moment longer until his pulse slowed and he stopped feeling like he wanted to murder all of Trista’s future lovers. He wasn’t prepared to tell her everything. Yet. But he could be honest about what had been bothering him lately.

“There’s a banquet in a couple months,” he said quietly. “It’s a fundraiser Jerry’s parents hold every year, partly to honor their son’s memory and partly to raise funds, which they later donate to a worthy charity in his name. They always send me an invitation, but I’ve never gone. I haven’t seen his parents since the funeral. Hell, I’ve barely seen my own parents since I got back from the Middle East.”

“Why don’t you go this year?” she asked. “Maybe it’s time. It might help you.”

He raked his fingers through his hair. “I don’t think I can. Aside from the funeral, I’ve never been able to face them.” When he glanced at her, the sympathetic look in her eyes bothered him. “I’m not telling you this because I want your pity. I’m telling you because thinking about Jerry still tears me up inside. Whenever this time of year rolls around, it fucks with my head and I can’t think straight.”

“And this morning when you woke up, you thought of Jerry. You couldn’t stand being in bed with me enjoying yourself, so you bolted.”

Bingo. And that was about all he was prepared to divulge at the moment.

“We need to go.” He cranked the gearshift and slammed his foot on the accelerator as he headed the truck back onto the highway.

“You need to get help, Matt. Professional help.”

“Cops don’t talk to shrinks.” Although he’d thought about it a few times over the years.

“Why not?”

“It just isn’t done.” Archaic though it was, consulting a shrink was considered a stigma in the world of law enforcement. A weakness that could call into question his abilities to carry a firearm.

For a long moment, she didn’t respond. When she did, her words were low and gentle. “You’re killing yourself from the inside out.”

He’d known that for years. He didn’t need a psychiatrist to psychoanalyze that out of him. What was different now was the rising futility of it all. Of his whole life and what was left of it. If he didn’t do something soon, he feared the worst would happen.

He’d be completely dead inside.

Chapter Twenty-One

Four hours later, they were seated in Sheriff Tulane Underwood’s office at the Berkeley County Sheriff’s Department in West Virginia. Trista was amazed at the speed with which everyone jumped to Matt’s command once he flashed his CIA badge and requested to see the sheriff. Despite the emotional chasm that he’d erected between them, she liked how he’d introduced her as “my colleague.”

“My secretary should have the file you’re looking for in a few minutes,” Sheriff Underwood smiled, revealing a number of crooked teeth.

Even though he was seated behind a ginormous wooden desk, in an oversize, squeaky antique leather chair that had seen better days, the man made an obvious effort to straighten to his full height. Still, he was nowhere near as tall or big as Matt, and that probably annoyed him, considering they were on his turf.

“Thank you, Sheriff.” Matt gave the other man a deferential nod. “We surely do appreciate your assistance with this. We’re hoping with your knowledge and extensive experience in this community, you’ll be able to shed some light on this murder.”

Trista stifled a laugh at how quickly Sheriff Underwood puffed up his chest, clearly drowning in Matt’s flattery. Matt sure knew how to work the man.

“Always happy to help out the CIA any way I can.” He leaned his forearms on the desk, clasping his hands.

“Always?” she asked. “Have there been others inquiring about matters within your jurisdiction?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded. “Quite a few. First, there was a reporter from the Sentinel who FOIA’d the file, then wanted the redacted parts, which we refused to provide. This case may be old, but since there’s no statute of limitations on murder, it’s still an open case, and we treat it as such. No critical evidence will be provided to the public, even under FOIA rules.”

“You said a few.” Matt narrowed his eyes. “Who else was asking about this case lately?”