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Silence.

Fuck.

Beckett slowly smiles, then whistles.

“Don't.”

“Ohhh.”

“Bowman.”

“You like her.”

“I don't know her.”

“You just defended her.”

“I corrected you.”

“What's her name?”

I don't answer.

“You know her name.”

Finally, I murmur, “Callie.”

“Callie what?”

My jaw tightens. “Quinn.”

Beckett's grin grows.

Fuck my life.

Beckett’s smile fades. “You know this is serious.”

“Of course I fucking know that.”

“Did you call Bishop?”

I shake my head.

Beck tenses. “Let me get this straight. You didn’t call Bishop. The scene needs to be cleaned up. You’re injured. A witness saw you, and you killed him. Then some random woman found you covered in blood and stitched you up?”

I don’t say a word.

I violated protocol. Big time. And I’m going to pay for it.

“Does she really know what you do?”

“She thought I was a hitman.”

He swerves again.

Before I can bitch at him, he’s back on the road, his hands tightening around the steering wheel.

“Roman.”